She looked down her chin at him, gently shaking her head. “If that was a trick to get you close to me it has got to be the slickest set of lines ever delivered.”
He looked up at her. “That was no line. I’m telling you I know what I smelled.”
“Well, maybe if you kissed me again it’d come back to you.”
Brendan smiled. “Good idea.” He leaned in and kissed her softly. The apple smell flooded his senses but he decided to just keep it his little secret. There was no doubt in his mind.
It had to be her.
THE END
For more information please visit:
http://www.hallway11.com
http://www.writeonedge.blogspot.com
Coming Soon from Hallway 11!
truly.
By: Lynda Meyers
Chapter 1
My name is Truly. Why yes, it is my real name, thanks for asking. Truly. My mother’s name was Trudy and my full name is Trulane, but somehow it got shortened to Truly and that’s what stuck. It was a cutesy, Bobsy-twin existence for a while there. People would come up to meet us and say things like “Trudy and Truly – how adorable is that!” Some people are a little too easily amused.
I met Finn the night the Yankees swept the series. He dumped a Coke down the front of my shirt and I punched him in the nose. Not the most romantic way for two strangers to strike up a conversation, but he tried to dry me off with a napkin, and when his hand touched the front of my shirt I went ballistic. It was reflex, I swear. Came out of nowhere. I’ve never punched anyone before–not even in the third grade when Cindy Coughlin tripped me on purpose right in front of Steve Kaminski. I ended up with a face full of dirt and she laughed all the way to the jungle gym.
Anyway, back to Yankee Stadium. My friend Kate and I were threading our way through the throng trying to get out to the parking lot when suddenly I was wearing an ice-cold soda along with my eighty-dollar jeans. I stopped. Some guy was yelling in my right ear to keep moving and another voice in my left ear was apologizing profusely. I turned my head to the right and said to the a-hole with the attitude that I just got dumped on when I felt a hand on my breast. Bam. Just like that. My fist came up and socked him right in the face.
By this time a small crowd had gathered around us. What can I say? People in New York like a good fight. So I start yelling at this guy. I mean, what the heck was he thinking, touching me like that? He had one hand covering his nose and his other hand up to block my next hit all the while still apologizing. His friend was laughing hysterically but Kate was right there with me ripping this guy a new exit route.
The next second a rent-a-cop showed up, asking what the problem was, so I told him. “This a-hole grabbed my breast, that’s what the problem is!”
The guy was still halfway bent over, massaging his nose, insistent. “I did not! Someone ran into me and my drink went flying. I was merely trying to help. I was just trying to clean off your shirt. I did not mean to touch you inappropriately. Please. Don’t hit me again.” I hadn’t noticed his accent at first, but I couldn’t really place it either. Maybe Welsh? Irish? Somewhere on the other island, anyway.
So the cop says to me “You punched him?” and I say “Yeah. I did.” For all I knew he was going to take me down to the station and book me for assault, but at the moment I didn’t really care. To my surprise, the cop laughed and nodded his approval. “Good for you.” He shook his head in mock disgust and turned to the guy. “Schmuck! You shoulda known better” and just like that he walked away and left us all standing there.
That’s when Kate started laughing. I looked at her. She looked at my shirt. I looked at the guy still holding his nose. And pretty soon we were all laughing and the crowd had dispersed, leaving us in an awkward silence in the middle of chaos.
Still blinking, he stuck out his hand toward me. “I’m Finn, and I’m extremely sorry I’ve ruined your shirt. Please, let me buy you a new one.”
“After I’ve punched you in the face, you want to buy me a new shirt?”
“It’s the least I could do. Really. I’m dreadfully sorry.”
“No, it’s ok. Truly.” I stuck out my hand.
“If you’re sure.” He smiled weakly. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
We were still shaking hands. “Truly.”
“Oh I see. You’d rather not give your name.” He leaned slightly forward. “I completely understand. It’s not a problem.”
“Her name is Truly.” Kate piped in. “It’s short for Trulane.” My elbow hit her ribs. “She hates it when people call her that though, so if you don’t want to get punched again, I’d stick with Truly.”
I glared at Kate. “That is a bold-faced lie!” I directed my half-apology to Finn. “I don’t normally punch people either. I’m really sorry. Is your nose alright?”
He wrinkled it a few times “No harm done. But I must say, you’ve got quite the right hook for a girl. I’ve gotten less of a spin by some of the blokes I went to school with.”
“Yeah, well. I guess it was reflex. Let’s just call it good. We have to get going.”
His mouth said “yes, of course” but in his eyes, something pulled me back. Some niggling little worm of a feeling that if I walked away right now, I’d somehow regret it later. I took another look at his shaggy head of jet-black hair and his deep green eyes and there it was again. That feeling. And it was like the air shifted somehow and we were in a different atmosphere altogether.
“Unless you’d at least let me buy you a cup of coffee.” I stood there blinking while he threw out other options like “Or tea. Or …cocoa.” He smiled and ducked his head, embarrassed. “I obviously have no idea what you like to drink.”
“Well, I think I’ve had plenty of Coke, so something warm might be nice.” I looked over at Kate and she was staring at me with that ‘what the hell are you doing?’ look because, well, I never do things like that. I’d just as soon tell someone where to go as have a drink with them, but I swear–as I stood there weighing my options I couldn’t think of one good reason I shouldn’t grab some coffee with this guy.
It was one of the weirdest nights of my life. Ok, slight correction. It was the first night in a series of strange, sort of unexplainable things that have happened to me and my personality since I met Finn. I keep wondering if maybe that’s how it’s supposed to happen. Maybe you meet the person you’re supposed to be with and suddenly you start to change. Unfortunately for me, I don’t particularly like change. But I do like Finn. I actually think I like him a lot.
The four of us went out, but first we had to swing by my apartment so I could change my shirt. The guys waited in the cab but the minute we hit the steps Kate was grilling me.
“You know I’m always up for a challenge but you? I’ve known you three years and you’ve never done anything even remotely close to this! What’s going on with you?”
“I really couldn’t tell you.” The hard New York edge was off of my voice and I was suddenly pensive and almost shy. “There was something in his eyes.” I shrugged. “Something in my heart said yes.”
“Yes he’s a stalker? Yes you want to marry him? What does yes mean?”
“Yes, we should have coffee. Yes, I should forgive him. I don’t know Kate, ok? Let’s just see where this goes.”
She leaned against the door in the hallway as I fumbled with my keys, repeating my words. “Let’s just see where this goes?” Just inside the door she turned me to face the small mirror on the wall. “See this face? This girl?”
I looked. Really looked. “Yes. I see her.”
“This is not a girl who says things like “Let’s just see where this goes.” This is a girl who dots i’s and crosses t’s. A girl who makes lists and weighs pros and cons. She turned me back toward the door. “A girl with six different kinds of locks on her apartment to ward off stalkers and all but the sickest of thieves with death wishes. Who are you?!” She smiled at me then, and I knew she was just teasing. “Hey, I’m just sayin
g is all.”
I searched the left side of my closet, way back to nineteen ninety-five and found the perfect shirt. A pale pink, peasant number with some tiny polka dots in the piping.
“Pink?” Kate says to me. “In the whole time I’ve known you I have never once seen you in pink.”
“I know.” I winked at her. “Just trying to keep you on your toes.”
“Truly you are an enigma.”
“Thank you.” I nodded and held the door open. “Shall we?”
Down in the cab Finn had been lounging with his arm across the back bench but sat up straight and scooted right over when he realized we were at the window. His friend David jumped out and let the two of us in before squeezing in next to Kate. Four in the back of a cab is cozy at best. Kate and David were talking and laughing in no time. I, on the other hand, had no clue what I was doing there, so I figured we should start with the basics. I asked Finn what he did for a living.
“Well, when I’m not accidentally fondling perfect strangers, I run a company that develops new technology for film making. You know, CGI and what not. Dabble in some other ideas.”
Dabble? Who says dabble anymore? “Oh. Really?”
“Did you think maybe I was a contract killer or a serial rapist then?”
“You have a very dry sense of humor.”
“So I’ve been told. I don’t mean to put you off though. Do I somehow not look the part of a computer geek?”
He was ridiculously handsome, and when he smiled, only one side of his mouth hooked up, kind of like a lazy eye but farther south. “Maybe it’s the accent. I can’t really place it. English or Irish?”
“Both actually.” He grinned at me and laid it on extra thick, changing voices mid stream and then melding them together at the end. “Me mum is a brit and me da is an Irishman. I’m afraid I favor them both at times.”
“It’s a bit confusing but…charming nonetheless.” I smiled at him and could have sworn some sort of light twinkled in his eyes.
“And you? What is it you do?”
“Well, when I’m not being inappropriately fondled by half-breed Irishmen, I’m a writer.”
“Does that mean my less than gentlemanly conduct will be ensconced in the pages of a brilliant novel some day?”
“I’m not sure yet. Let’s see where this goes.”
Kate eyed me again. She was right of course. I kept saying that. Why on earth did I keep saying that? I’m not a fly by the seat of your pants girl–what was I even doing?
A sigh escaped my lips and Finn looked over at me. “Bored already?”
“No, just arguing with myself.”
His mouth curved up part way. “I hope you’re winning.”
“Always.” I smiled. “So, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Finn. Doesn’t that mean ‘fair headed’? Were your parents hoping for a blond?”
His eyebrows went up. “I had dark hair when I was born, but so did my brother. His fell out and came in a nice strawberry blond color. My parents assumed the same would happen to me, but by the time they realized their mistake I’d already been christened, so there was nothing to be done. The dark curls came in and, much to their disdain, never left.”
“Disdain, really? I hardly think hair color is enough to cause a ruckus.”
“Well, my father’s family is as blond and as red as a beautiful Irish sunset, so he got a little suspicious.”
It was my turn for surprise. “Scandalous!”
“Yeah well, they found an aunt on my mother’s side with hair exactly like mine so all was well again.”
His laugh was warm and real. I found myself noting its musical quality before kicking my own backside. Maybe accepting his offer wasn’t such a great idea after all. This guy was messing with my system.
I don’t even know why I’m telling this story, except that I seem to be going through a bit of an identity crisis lately. Could be the winter. I get a little stir crazy when I’m surrounded by slush for months on end. Finn says it doesn’t matter what season it is. He just looks out the window, checks the weather, and dresses appropriately. “Weather’s just another thing that happens to your day. Hot, cold, rain, snow, wind…it just is.” I don’t happen to see it that way. The weather also messes with my system. You can probably see where I’m going with this.
Chapter 2
Being a writer wasn’t something that dawned on me in high school after a particularly bubbly English teacher put a big red “A” on one of my creative writing assignments. I wrote because I had to. I wrote because I had no one else to talk to. I wrote to God. That’s how it started I think.
At first I wrote poetry because I always liked the lyrical nature of words. There was something about iambic pentameter that calmed me. Hell, for all I know now I could’ve had a touch of autism. All my early poems were like a game of hopscotch, and it made sense in a way that few other things did at the time.
But words written to no one in particular weren’t enough like conversation, and that was what I really needed. I needed someone to listen. The minister at the Episcopal Church at the top of our street said God was always listening, so I took him at his word and that’s how the relationship started.
My earliest journals were little more than letters scratched out to God and quickly crumpled and tossed in the garbage. Then came the little diaries with the lock and key. Those seemed safe enough, but with a little sister in the house there was also the distinct possibility of vital information falling into enemy hands, so it was safer to keep the thoughts locked in my head.
Then in the fourth grade we read the story of Mary Jemison, a young girl from Ireland who was captured by the Indians, watched her parents and brothers brutally murdered and scalped, was sold to the Seneca and then chose to stay with them when she could have been freed. She had settled in the very area where I was born, more than a hundred years earlier, and somehow I bonded to this girl in ways that made sense to no one but me. Her story captivated me. We were supposed to write our own story about it, so I used slang in my dialogue just like they did in the book, words like “injuns” and “shore enough”. When we read the stories aloud the other kids in my class laughed at me, but the teacher praised my writing voice and said my dialogue helped make the story seem more real. I was hooked on story. I was hooked on writing.
I was set along a path that would eventually derail my ability to hide, but at the time all I knew was that writing a story about a girl like Mary–a girl like me–unlocked something inside, and I got to let it out without too much pain or suffering on my part. Every time I wrote it liberated something, and I came to crave it, needing its release in a deep, visceral way. Even now, not writing is like constipation, a bloated fixation on all the shit that won’t come out any other way.
So I wrote. I wrote stories and poems and songs and journals upon journals. When the computer age dawned I learned how to lock them up in password-protected files, and that’s when the real fun began.
But for now let’s get back to Finn.
Finn came into my life right when I had things just about all sewn up. I was working on my first novel, had a regular stream of freelance gigs in multiple magazines with decent circulation. I’d even published a few special interest pieces in The Times. I had a good relationship with one of the editors over there and he was considering bringing me in on a more regular basis. He liked my no-nonsense way of looking at life, and said New Yorkers seemed to like it too. I mean, let’s face it–living in New York can be challenging. The only way to get through it is by the use of good planning and a regular routine.
I’d written a piece about organizing stuff in your closet, followed up with one on organizing your financial stuff, then spread out to include menu stuff, trip stuff, “social media and other time sucking stuff”. People were eating it up. They wanted to dub me “The Stuff Girl.” This worked for me. I liked having a place for everything and everything in its place.
It wasn’t u
ntil we were in the back of that cab and I was looking into a strangely twinkling set of green eyes that I’d even considered the idea of veering off the path. I actually don’t even think it was a conscious decision.
“Let’s go to a club” I announced.
Judging from the look on Kate’s face, I’d already lost sight of the cliff. She just shook her head and looked for all the world like I’d grown fur and an extra set of limbs.
Finn looked over at David with a raise of his eyebrows. “Who knew that unintentional abuse could bring about such sweet rewards.” I sat shaking my head and was about to give the cab driver an address when Finn scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it up. The driver read what was written on it and nodded with a smirk of approval on his face.
We pulled up in front of an unassuming door with a couple of Greek Gods for bouncers and a line around the block. I sighed audibly. I had neither the time nor the inclination to spend an extra couple of hours waiting in the freezing cold. And I definitely wasn’t dressed for it. Finn peeked at the line and smiled at me again.
“Shall we?”
This was turning out to be a colossal mistake. I tried to make eye contact with Kate but she was already getting out of the cab. She looked like we’d stepped into Saks. I knew that look. I followed her eyes, but didn’t see anything unusual. Just a lot of freezing cold, yet rather well-dressed posers waiting to become yet another sardine in the can. I stood by the curb but didn’t want to let go of the door. My instincts told me to just get back in the cab and say goodnight. Then suddenly a warm, gentle hand was on the small of my back, leading me toward the sidewalk.
Finn smiled at the Gods and they parted the waters. The ropes were unhooked and we walked through to the warmth of a techno-pop haze. The music was loud but not quite deafening. There was plenty of comfortable seating and the dance floor was spacious. Several bar areas spanned the two floors of converted warehouse and it actually seemed pretty well organized. Still a bar, but almost…civilized. Suddenly I had a new idea for a piece for The Times. I started scanning the layout, making mental notes and pulling out a pad and pen for good measure. I quickly sketched out a couple of the seating ideas and drew a rough layout of the main floor.
Letters From The Ledge Page 33