Written in the Stars: A Contemporary Hollywood Romance
Page 4
"Multiple passengers on the Pittsburgh to LAX flight state that the Hollywood heartthrob, Lachlan Sinclair, came to the aid of an unknown woman after another passenger's belligerent outburst, giving up his seat in first class to sit by the woman. Could there be a new lady in the actor's life?"
On the inside, there were several pictures of us embracing during our goodbye. They did a spectacular job of making our innocent meeting into something salacious. I remembered Lachlan's words – "It will be over in a few days. They will be on to something else."
At the end of the article, there was a call for information about my identity. They didn't know who I was. In the photos, it was hard to see my face based on the angles and who the photographer had focused on, but Lachlan's expressions were clear and touching. This was a different story than I remembered. Like most romance, the story in the magazine was fiction. The snapshots weren't real. Why had he held me?
His words echoed back. "I might have encouraged you." Every second replayed in my mind, forcing me to stare back at the story in my hand. One I didn't write. One I couldn't end. One that now sent my mind whirling with endless possibilities.
4
Correspondence
Stumbling through the door, I dragged my bags behind me. Home. Shower. Bed. The only thoughts my mind could form. Exhaustion from the trip and the ever-circling what-ifs surrounding my encounter with Lachlan Sinclair had tapped what little brain power I had left. Tossing the tabloid onto the table, I stopped resisting the siren call of my creature comforts.
Hours later, fresh coffee brewing, lounge pants on, and the laptop fired up, it was time to get to work and settle back into my routine and leave LA behind. So an agent wasn't in the cards, but I had a steady and loyal force of readers who brought warmth to my heart. I might not have the validation of the industry, but was that so important? All I could do was plug away and hope for the best. After all, it was the stories that satisfied me. If they didn't make it to the page, it was like my heart and mind backed up and would all but stop until I flushed my system and let the muses have their say. Only then was I at peace. So, the need to purge my stories would be my motivation if the universe decided recognition wasn't to be.
Before I began making love to the page, business called. Unfortunately, writing was a double-edged sword. My muses wished to be heard, so bookkeeping and marketing were necessary evils. The muses, however, had little appreciation for delaying gratification.
As I opened the tab and typed the word "Facebook" into the browser, I prepared myself for the usual onslaught of trivial details, misguided political posts, and the head-scratching, which came with conspiracy theories presented as fact by otherwise logical people. The new friend request button with a red twelve beside it caught my attention. Every day was a day to decline fake accounts. Did people actually believe they'd find love with a fake photo and blank profile, let alone on Facebook? The first few were easy. Impersonated servicemen, the man with only flowers and love poem posts in languages I didn't know, the surgeon who had worked as an ambassador of peace and was not only the CEO of Apple but also a rock star.
The next one gave me pause. Lachlan Sinclair, no profile photo. Had someone figured out who I was from the tabloid? Coincidence, perhaps? Either way, I hit decline and block.
I scrolled through my timeline, looking for updates from friends and family when a notification stole my attention. "You have a new friend request." I clicked the indicator. L. Sinclair with one of Lachlan's headshots as the profile photo popped up on my screen. Do they seriously think it's going to be that easy? For all I knew, it could have been the tabloid trying to confirm who I was: decline and block.
After responding to several messages from friends and readers, I dared to open my dreaded email, or as I called it, the abyss of stifling work. It was where the demanding and least pleasant aspects of authoring congregated. Where formality and heartbreak were roommates. Where rejection letters and bank statements plotted to be my undoing. I hated email. At least with social media, I often stumbled upon an inspiring mention from a reader or a heartwarming review, so there was a chance of reward, but when it came to email, rarely did I walk away without feeling troubled by something. Yet again, it was a necessary evil.
97,521 emails stared back at me. I was one of 'those' people, which was probably what contributed to my detest of the platform. Receipts, ads, bills, and various nonsense cluttered the screen, but one message stood out from the rest.
Subject: The Iron Heart.
From: thesandman8892@email.com
The Iron Heart was the title of my first book.
Dear Iris,
I've recently had the pleasure of reading your works. Though I've read several of your stories, I wanted to inquire first about The Iron Heart. Maggie's plight was heartfelt, and Christian's journey was one that's all too familiar. What struck me was the immediate intimacy between the two. Mind you, I am not questioning the author or her motivations but simply wanted to understand the characters better. Do you believe in love at first sight, is that the message here? Is that why he was taken with her? They obviously shared a physical connection, but the signs of something else were there long before coming together sexually. Was that intentional? Does he see it as love? Am I to believe that love is what fueled Maggie's decision to give Christian her body when, in the end, she leaves? How is that consistent with love? How does Maggie justify walking away? Additionally, dear author, aren't romances supposed to have happy endings?
I hope you don't mind my curiosity intruding on your time, but the lingering questions plague me. After all, your website does say you welcome all questions, so, if you'd so kindly indulge me, I would be most appreciative.
Sincerely,
S.M.
How bizarre. First, it was odd these days to get messages with complete sentences, let alone a formally written email. I wasn't even sure I knew the answers to his questions. I assumed it was a man based on the email address, but only a small portion of my readership were men. Perhaps that explained the unique nature of the correspondence. I loved hearing from my readers and always answered their correspondence, but this one was not as easy as questions like, "when is the next book releasing?" or "where will you be signing next?" I stared at the blinking cursor for a moment. Challenge accepted. I bit my lip. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I considered my response.
Dear S.M.,
Thank you for your correspondence. I do appreciate hearing from readers, especially a thoughtful and inquisitive message such as yours.
I decided it best to start with your last question first. Yes, romances are expected to have happy endings, and I suppose if The Iron Heart were a true romance, that's how it would have ended. There would be more to the story, a sequel maybe, but there's not. The industry considers this book erotica. Not every tale of love and sex ends with a white wedding and a picket fence.
It's apparent Maggie and Christian felt some kind of instant connection. Since you're experiencing only Maggie's side of the story as the reader, one can only speculate about Christian's feelings. His actions are consistent with love, but as the title suggests, the heartbreak Maggie has endured protects her from succumbing to what she feels. She is overwhelmed by the love within, and unable to let herself share it with anyone, nor can she receive Christian's love in return, so she leaves before the torment becomes too great.
Maggie feels the love she's capable of giving and receiving doesn't allow for a happily ever after. I'm sorry if this disappoints. Sometimes, that's just the story. There is nothing else. After all, I'm merely the scribe; it's the muse that supplies the motivation.
I wish I could provide more fulfilling answers, but sometimes it just is what it is.
Humbly,
Iris
It had been ages since I wrote that story, and I had to admit, psychoanalyzing the characters was…entertaining. It wasn't often I had the luxury of diving into their mindset beyond what I'm compelled to write. I pressed send then opene
d my word processor. Maybe a new story was in order since my trip was nothing but a whirlwind tour of disappointment. But first, coffee.
I opened the cupboard and frowned. I was down to my last pod. I'd need to go to the store later.
The glossy cover of the tabloid I'd tossed on the counter the night before gleamed under a recessed light. Lachlan Sinclair's arm around me, my head nestled under his chin, the serene expression on his face. No wonder our moment was newsworthy. The intimacy could have easily been mistaken for love when viewed from the cameraman's lens. Is that what it would look like?
My mystery reader asked if I believed in love at first sight. I didn't. I loved Daniel more than words could say, but he and I had met many times before our relationship progressed. Insta-love was the stuff of fiction.
Grabbing my last cup of coffee in the place, I took a sip and headed back to my computer. A knock sounded at the door, startling me. I jumped, spilling a few drops of my precious caffeine down my blouse. "Damn," I grumbled, setting the mug on the counter. Swiping at the droplets on my chest, I opened the door. "Hey, Kelly, come on in."
"What are you up to?" She sauntered past me and wandered into the kitchen.
"I was just about to start writing. What are you doing here?"
She glanced at my cup. "Nothing, just figured I'd check on you. You sounded kind of down earlier."
"I'm good. I'm out of coffee, but can I get you something else?"
She smiled. "No, thanks. Do you have plans this weekend?"
"Nothing other than living in my fantasy worlds as you like to call it."
She peered out the sliding glass doors into the backyard, doing her best to avoid eye contact. "Don't get upset, but..."
"You know, nothing good ever comes after those four words."
Hopping onto the stool beside me, she glared at me. "Well, not this time. Remember that new hottie at work I told you about?"
I rolled my eyes, already knowing where this was going. "The sexy one in the trench coat?"
"Yep, that's the one. He's single, and I've been talking about you. You both like the same Thai place. So what do you say? Should I hook you up with Mr. McHottie?"
"Kelly, I've told you, I'm not interested in dating. I tried it. I'm not compatible with dating."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Come on, Katherine, it's been seven years. How about a little romance in your life?"
"I gave it a shot once. Twice, actually, if you remember. It didn't work out so well."
"Right, OK. Not romance. How about some hard fucking and shenanigans? If you can't have one, why not try the other?"
"Kelly, we've been over this a thousand times. I'm the furthest thing from a prude, but there has to be trust, and that takes time. I have no desire to have the only reason for coming together with someone to be his need to cross "widow" off his hook-up culture bingo card. Been there, done that too."
She stood, huffing an exaggerated breath. "Fine. So the movies?"
"Maybe."
She laughed, knowing I wouldn't follow through. Giving up, she reached across the counter and pulled the magazine toward her. "Since when do you read tabloids?"
Oh hell. I didn't want to lie, but I didn't want to talk about it either. My curiosity about whether or not she recognized me warranted prolonging the conversation. "I don't. Someone gave it to me at the airport."
Picking it up, she studied at the cover. "Holy hell, that man… Isn't he just the most delicious thing you've ever seen? The Purple Mask. I nearly killed Mark after watching that movie. Had to replace two vibrators."
I was suddenly very uncomfortable and committed to the lie. "You know me; I'm not one for movies."
"I'm telling you. If you want some inspiration for those smutty books you write, you should watch it. If only other men fucked like him."
I inhaled sharply. "Well… you know, fiction."
"Oh, it's not just fiction. I'd believe it if he wasn't sex on a stick in everything he's in."
I picked up my mug and dusted some crumbs off the counter with my hand, trying not to think about how good Lachlan likely was in bed. "I'll have to take your word for it."
She held up the magazine, darting her gaze from the cover to me, then back again. "This chick he's with looks a lot like you. Can you imagine?"
The sip of coffee stuck in my throat. On a rasping cough, I managed, "No, I can't." The truth was, I didn't have to.
She set the magazine on the counter. "Let me know about this weekend. Maybe Vicky and I can kidnap you since you won't go willingly." Kelly hopped off the stool and strolled to the door.
"We'll see," I said, chuckling as I followed her.
"Alright, I'll call you."
"Thanks for checking on me."
"Of course." She wrapped her arms around me in a big hug and left.
I inhaled a deep sigh of relief. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why wouldn't I tell my best friend the truth? I was too discombobulated to write, so I grabbed my purse, slipped on my flats, and ventured to the store before my cup was empty.
Aisle after aisle of things I didn't need welcomed me. After managing to gather my supplies for the week, I waited in line at the register. They were busier than usual and seemed a bit short-staffed.
My eyes gravitated to an end cap filled with DVDs. In the middle of the assorted titles, the purple motif stood out like a beacon. Lachlan Sinclair's naked back was the silhouette behind The Purple Mask on the cover. It probably wasn't a good idea, but I blamed the devil on my shoulder in the form of Kelly's words repeating in my head, "if only other men fucked like him." My curiosity got the better of me, and as the man in front of me moved up in line, I grabbed the movie and tossed it into the cart, hoping nobody saw. I was a healthy, adult woman in touch with her sexuality. There was no shame in my purchase, so why was I hesitant to buy it? Even though I managed to overcome my reluctance, something in the back of my mind still nagged me, and I couldn't explain it.
5
Critic
The next morning, I finished putting away the non-perishable items from my trip the night before. The copy of The Purple Mask lay on the counter, taunting me. Why did I feel so bad for buying it? I mean, the man starred in movies so they'd be watched. So, what was wrong with me? He didn't seem the least bit embarrassed by the content of his films. Why did I feel so strange about it?
I picked up the plastic case, along with its receipt, and sat them on the dresser in my bedroom. One day I'd either decide to watch the DVD or I'd return it.
I powered on the laptop and opened my email.
My mystery reader was back.
Subject: RE: The Iron Heart
From: thesandman8892@email.com
Dearest Iris,
Thank you for the pleasure of your response. It was more than I'd hoped for, but if you'll forgive me, your answers sparked more questions.
If Maggie is worried that Christian will become her torment, why does she allow herself a taste? Wouldn't it have been easier for her to simply resist and deny their connection? Why not walk away before she offers herself to him? I'm still trying to reconcile how she could just end their relationship, and be OK with it, after all they shared. Is it possible this truly isn't the end of their story? That there is a happily ever after for them, somewhere inside you, dear author?
Additionally, I noticed you didn't answer one of the questions. Was love at first sight what you were going for? I'm curious.
With appreciation,
S.M.
I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. In all my years, I don't remember giving any work outside of college assignments, this much scrutiny. This was a relatively simple story, and he was taking it to the brink of analysis paralysis. But he bought my books and read them; indulging him was the least I could do.
Dear S.M.,
Sometimes "easier" and "desire" are at odds. Yes, it would undoubtedly be easier had she never tasted the forbidden fruit, but she still has desires like
anyone else. She can embrace their connection through the physical because it doesn't require her vulnerability. She leaves him because she feels it makes her stronger. She is in control of love instead of being at its mercy. Unfortunately, this is her story. She didn't request a happy ending, perhaps as another means of control. This was all we're meant to know. I made peace with that, and maybe you should as well. In life, we rarely get the entire picture, but rather, fragments we have to find solace in.
As for love at first sight… No, I can't say I believe in it. I do believe that people are sometimes placed in our paths for a purpose, but not for love. I don't believe love would be so simple as to be an impulse or destiny. Love is complicated. It's irrational, never making much sense. It's likely that's the crux of the problem. You're expecting a predictable response to an utterly unpredictable condition.
Do you really think everyone deserves a happily ever after?
Thoughtfully,
Iris
I hit send and hoped I didn't sound too dismissive. It was funny, sometimes, what people took away from my stories. The romance-types had a hard time coping with an ending that didn't drown the reader in a sea of happiness. Life wasn't always happy, but that didn't mean existence needed to be miserable. There was a certain beauty in the neutrality of it all.
The next week was pretty uneventful. I finally settled back into my routine—no more pesky hopes of securing an agent. I moved on. No more fantasies of hunky actors. All was right with the world again until I opened my email six days later. I thought for sure I had scared him off.
Dearest Iris,
I've been thinking about your question over the last few days, and the answer is no. I don't believe everyone deserves a happily ever after. The world is rife with fools who barely deserve the air they breathe. But someone like me or you, I believe we have the right to choose a happily ever after when presented the opportunity. I think that's the thing I'm struggling with most. I've now finished all your stories. Your characters always choose to walk away. They never wonder what's next, never hope for the future. Their sex is scorching and passionate, and there is more than lust between your characters. Their love is deep and beautiful yet never matures—never evolves. Why won't you give them a chance? Why won't you allow at least one of them to choose a different path? The results might surprise you. Is it because you follow the old tenant, "write what you know?" Is it the characters who are really in control, or is it you, dear author? Perhaps, it's you who can't stomach the idea? Maybe, you don't feel you're deserving of more, and therefore, can't abide giving your characters the opportunities you deny yourself? Consider this a little food for thought; if any woman ever worshiped my cock the way Elsie did Henry's in The Loudest Whisper, I'd never let her get away, no matter how stubborn she might be. Surely, one of these men could be tenacious enough to keep their woman from walking away. What kind of man doesn't even try?