by T. K. Leigh
“I’d be more than happy to help you test that hypothesis again, Molly.”
He stepped toward me, our bodies nearly touching. I tilted my head back. It would have been so easy to raise myself onto my toes and press my lips against his. I couldn’t stop imagining how they would taste. I contemplated it, thinking it could help break through my block. I was supposed to be writing a forbidden romance. Pursuing something with Noah was certainly forbidden.
Then a pang of guilt formed in my chest at the idea of using him for a story. Could I really put his career in jeopardy just to help me get past my writer’s block? I had no problem using other men, but they were different. They were mostly twenty-somethings who were content with a casual fling. I didn’t know Noah well, but I knew enough to realize he was nothing like them.
“I should probably get going,” I said, breaking the tension. I stepped back before I pushed him to do something he’d instantly regret…and something I’d regret.
“Right.” He relaxed his stature. “And I have papers I need to look over.”
“I guess I’ll be seeing you then.” I hesitated, then reluctantly turned away from him.
“It was nice running into you today, Molly,” he called out.
I glanced over my shoulder and offered him a congenial smile as he kept his eyes trained on me, a breeze blowing my hair in front of my face.
“I hope I’ll have the pleasure of running into you again sometime very soon.”
Before I could respond, he flashed me his nearly perfect teeth, then ran back through the Common. I was unable to take my eyes off him as his tall frame grew smaller and smaller, disappearing from view when he turned a corner.
~~~~~~~~~~
AS I SAT IN my apartment that evening, I read message after message from guys who had stumbled across one of my online dating profiles, but none of them seemed to catch my interest. I should have been focused on finding an attractive, professional man who would ignite the spark I’d been missing lately, but I wasn’t.
With a permanent smile plastered on my face, I brought up my manuscript on my laptop, thoughts of ice cream, Anne Frank, and muscular legs dancing in my head. Despite insisting I needed a muse, I did something I didn’t think possible…I wrote.
Evening gave way to nighttime, yet I still wrote. The bars closed, yet I still wrote. My characters had completely taken over. It was magical, satisfying, and a bit frightening all at once. I hadn’t experienced anything like this since I began writing. When I wrote for myself and no one else. When no one knew who I was.
As the sun began to rise on Sunday morning, I sipped a coffee, rereading what I had written. It was nothing like the usual garbage I churned out. It had heart. It had soul. It had an actual story.
And I had a feeling my publisher would hate it.
CHAPTER TEN
I BIT MY FINGERNAILS as I sat on the couch, Pee Wee snuggled against me. Actually, it was more like on top of me. He was a small dog trapped in a big dog’s body and thought he could squeeze his eighty pounds onto my petite lap. Every few seconds, I glanced over at Brooklyn sitting on the reading chair opposite me, her eyes glued to the pages I had printed out for her.
Once I began putting words down, I couldn’t stop. A thousand ideas raced through my head, each fighting for my attention. My fingers couldn’t type fast enough to get them all down. I had no idea what direction this story was going, but it was no longer up to me. I’d given absolute control to my characters and allowed them to tell their story, which was both terrifying and fulfilling. I found myself completely obsessed with them. The few times I’d stepped away from my laptop, I thought about them, wondering how they were going to find the happily ever after I believed they deserved.
My eyes a bit droopy from having worked through the night, I waited with baited breath. Finally, Brooklyn lowered the last page, placing it on top of the pile on the coffee table. I bit my lip, praying she wouldn’t think I’d just wasted the last sixteen hours churning out absolute crap. I knew I hadn’t. I knew this was different from any of my other books, but I also knew it was good. In fact, I knew it was better than good. I’d taken a leap and written something different. It unnerved me and filled me with a unique sense of satisfaction at the same time.
For the first time in years, I wrote what I wanted. This story was tragic, real, and heartbreaking, but one I was desperate to tell. Life isn’t always fireworks and fairy tales. Life can be real. Life can trip us, rip us to shreds, and knock us out. Regardless of the punches life throws, we still manage to brush ourselves off and move forward. Life is hard, but refusing to live is even harder.
“Wow,” Brooklyn said, her jaw slack.
“You like it?” I looked at her, hopeful.
“Wow.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a hell yes!” She bounded off the chair, tackling me with a hug. Pee Wee licked both our faces, thinking Brooklyn had intended to hug him, too. Laughing, she pulled away. “This book is incredible. Poor Jackson. Oh, I just want to hug him and put together all his broken little pieces.” She clutched her hands together, deflating with a sigh. “It’s really touching that you’ve used your own life experiences with your father.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t do that. His mom—”
“It’s schizophrenia, right?” she interrupted.
“Yeah,” I replied. I’d added a complex layer to the story. Jackson’s mother was an actress who disappeared off the face of the earth decades ago. Now she didn’t know who her own son was, thinking he was some government spy out to get her. But schizophrenia was vastly different from Alzheimer’s. At least in my head, regardless of the parallels with my own father. “This isn’t about me.”
She rolled her eyes, turning her pinched lips up at the corner. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever you say, Molly.”
“It’s not.” My voice was firm. “Not even close. My dad isn’t schizophrenic.”
“I know, but there’s a very strong similarity between the dynamic of Jackson and his mom and you and your father. You can’t deny it.”
“I’m not—”
“Why does his mom think Jackson died? I need to know more about this accident.” Brooklyn settled into the couch beside me, throwing her arm over her head. “Gosh, my mind is just spinning with a thousand different scenarios.” She perked up, her eyes focused on me once more. “And who did you meet?”
“Meet?” I furrowed my brow.
“Yeah. Meet,” she urged. “How did you miraculously pump out over 10,000 words overnight without having met your very own Jackson Price?” She lowered her voice. “Did you call someone from speed dating? Or did someone respond to one of your online profiles?”
I shrugged. “None of the above.” My cheeks flamed when I recalled my rather pleasant run-in with Dr. FineLegs, as I had renamed Noah in my mind. Despite not wanting to admit it, he was the reason for my sudden burst of inspiration. It just went to prove I didn’t necessarily need a man in my life to write what I knew was going to be a heartbreakingly beautiful story. I just didn’t know how I was going to convince my editor this was worth publishing when they were known for steamy, sexy, and low drama. This was none of the above.
“Bullshit,” Brooklyn shot back, eyes wide. “You met someone. You’re glowing!”
“I’m not glowing! And I haven’t met anyone!” I argued, stretching the truth.
It wasn’t as if anything untoward had happened between Noah and me. I just didn’t want Brooklyn to make a big deal about it, which she most certainly would. It was simply a chance meeting between friends. We could never be anything more, not with him being my father’s neurologist and me being one of the parties allowed to make healthcare decisions for him. I may have researched that when I got back to my apartment yesterday.
“How could I have when I’ve been holed up in here for the past day writing?”
She studied me with narrowed eyes, her lips pinched. “Fine. I’ll let you keep your secrets…for now.”
“I’m not keeping any secrets, Brooklyn! I haven’t met anyone. In fact…” I got up from the couch and grabbed my laptop, finding an email I’d received earlier this morning.
I sat back on the couch, showing Brooklyn the profile Debra had sent me. “I have a date with him Thursday evening. One of my sorority sisters is a professional matchmaker, although she calls herself a ‘dating consultant’. She set it all up. It’ll actually be really good for research purposes. All the men she sets up are extremely wealthy. I think the minimum annual salary to use this service is somewhere in the seven figures. Jackson Price is a wealthy businessman, so this is a good thing.”
I found it a bit off-putting that the whole thing sounded more like a business transaction than a date, but I immediately reminded myself this wasn’t a typical dating service. High-powered, wealthy men used it to find the woman of their dreams…or at least a little eye candy to show off at whatever public events they had to attend.
She narrowed her gaze at me. “And since a character in your book is a wealthy businessman, you decided going on a date with this poor guy would be great ‘inspiration’?” she asked in a condescending tone, even adding air quotes.
There were three things I loathed in this world. The first was snakes. No explanation necessary. You couldn’t trust anything without arms and legs. The second was a man with a curly mustache. I was still traumatized after agreeing to a blind date a coworker at the magazine had set up. He sounded like a great guy…until he showed up with a huge bushy mustache that grew smaller and smaller toward the ends, curling into tiny little tips. I was pretty sure the 1860s called and needed him to go fight for the Union.
That brings us to the third, and most deadly, trespass in my book…air quotes. My roommate during my freshman year of college used them incessantly, most notably when she informed me she had “sex” with half the wrestling team for “research” purposes. I wondered if she put chlamydia in air quotes when she had to tell them she was the reason for the newly contracted infection that seemed to plague the team that season.
“It’s not fair to play with people’s emotions like you do.” Brooklyn got up from the couch and headed into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of water bottles from my refrigerator.
“I’m not playing with anyone’s emotions,” I countered.
“Maybe not right now, but I know you, Molly. You will. You always do. You meet a guy and make it so they can’t say no to you, then once you’re no longer inspired, you kick them to the curb.” Placing the bottles on the coffee table, she plopped back down on the couch. “I just…” She shook her head, then faced me, grabbing my hands in hers.
I’d been through a lot with Brooklyn. We’d been each other’s rock nearly all our lives. Whenever I looked back at the defining moments that made up my life, she was by my side. When the majority of my family decided to skip out on my college graduation, she was there with Aunt Gigi, regardless of the fact she was in the middle of studying for her own finals. She had witnessed my father’s slow decline and was at the table with Drew and me when we had to make the difficult decision to put him in a home. Brooklyn wasn’t merely a friend. She was family.
“I’m just worried about you, Molly. I want you to be happy. I want you to be able to experience everything a real relationship has to offer. You shun the idea, but I think you’re missing out on so much. If you left your mind and heart open to a real relationship, maybe you wouldn’t avoid it like the plague. I want you to go places with someone, have them hold your hand in public. Things real couples do.”
“I’ve done that kind of stuff. Kevin and I went to the movies a few times.” I wracked my brain, trying to think of other things we’d done outside the bedroom. “He took me to see U2 when they were in town.”
“But you never went anywhere you could just sit and talk.”
“Talking is overrated,” I insisted, ripping my hands away from hers. “Like you saw the other night at speed dating, all anyone ever wants to talk about is themselves. Trust me, no one there had anything interesting to say.”
“Plenty of them did. You just refused to listen.”
“Oh, I listened. Do you want to hear my assessment of the dentist or the accountant? Or, better yet, how about the unemployed welfare recipient who’s holding out for a spot on one of those stupid reality TV shows? Now there’s a real winner.” I feigned enthusiasm in an overly dramatic way. “Do you think I should call him? Do you think he’d want to sit and talk?”
Brooklyn huffed, clenching her fists. This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation, and I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last. “You’re missing the point,” she retorted, raising her voice as much as she ever would, which wasn’t any louder than slightly above a normal talking level.
“You’ve done everything you can to keep people at a distance, including me. Up until now, it’s been a good plan.” She took a breath through a tight jaw, then smiled. “All I’m asking is that you stop toying with people’s emotions in order to write a book you seem to be able to write without a muse.”
I turned my eyes from hers, gulping down my water.
“Do you really want to end up alone, like your father?” she asked when I remained silent.
“He’s not alone!” I argued back, my eyes boring into hers. “The only reason he’s in that home is for his own safety. I go see him every day!”
Brooklyn shook her head. “I don’t have kids, so I can’t talk from experience, but I’m sure there’s nothing like a parent’s love for a child. Still, it’s in our DNA to want to share our lives, our dreams, our triumphs, our failures with someone…someone we can’t wait to go home to each and every night.”
“That kind of love doesn’t exist in the real world.”
“I’m not talking about the picture-perfect kind of love you typically write about. I’m talking about the gritty kind of love. The love people have to work hard for. The love that fucking hurts and rips you in two, but you’re somehow able to put yourself back together in the hopes of finding that same love again. The love it appears you’re actually writing about this time…without a muse or source of inspiration, if you’re to be believed, which I’m not too sure about to begin with.”
I faced Brooklyn, opening my mouth, words evading me. It felt like the walls of my apartment were closing in on me, suffocating me. This woman was my best friend. I should have been able to tell her everything. How I’d spent the previous day with Dr. McAllister and had never felt so inspired before. How I didn’t feel like I needed a muse, but was still going to pursue finding one in the hopes it would help me forget about the way my heart skipped a beat every time Noah smiled, the way my skin tingled when he placed his hand on my back, the way my chest ached at the knowledge we could never pursue something more.
I’d dated my fair share of men. Not a single one had a pull on me the way Noah did, especially after only spending a few hours together.
Getting up, I headed into the kitchen, tossing my now empty water bottle into the recycling bin.
“I don’t know what happened between Friday night and today, but whatever it was has had a dramatic effect on your writing.” Brooklyn followed me into the kitchen. “It’s beautiful. It’s poignant. It’s so much more enthralling than anything you’ve ever written. I just read around forty pages and there wasn’t one mention of sex or even a kiss. The characters are so well developed, and part of me thinks it’s because…” She stopped short, her eyes glued to me, as if working through something in her head.
“Because why?” I pushed, my voice shaky.
“Because you’re Avery,” she whispered, realization washing over her.
My heart thumped in my chest at the prospect of anyone, even my best friend, figuring out what I was hiding. “I’m not—”
“You are.” She rushed into the living area and grabbed the manuscript off the table, flipping through it as she walked back to me. “Her character has changed from your previous drafts. She used to be
kind of a weak heroine who had just gotten out of a committed relationship. She was somewhat career driven, but had hoped to have a family one day.” She narrowed her eyes at me, holding up the manuscript. “That’s not the same Avery I just read about. This career-driven Avery prefers a short-term casual fling with a guy who understands her professional life comes first. If you ask me, Avery sounds a lot like someone we both know.”
I turned from her, not wanting her to see the truth in my eyes. “You write what you know. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She pinched her lips, studying me. “I can’t help but wonder who your Jackson is and whether you’re using the book as a way to finally get your true feelings off your chest.” She gave me a knowing look and pushed the final page toward me, pointing to the very last line.
I swallowed hard, reading my words once more.
Why was the one man who made me rethink my opinion on relationships the one man I could never have?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I HURRIED TOWARD THE simple brick building, slugging down the remnants of yet another cup of coffee. I’d lost count how many I’d consumed in the past twenty-four hours. I was running on fumes, having no idea how I’d made the drive to the nursing home without falling asleep.
Earlier, after Brooklyn left, I tried to take a short nap, but sleep evaded me. She was right. Something had changed in me since yesterday. Everything in my life had been exactly as I wanted it to be. Now, it was all different. I wasn’t sure about anything. All I knew was I should stay as far away as possible from Dr. Noah McAllister. He’d brought out feelings I never knew I had inside me. I needed to nip those in the bud so I could get on with a much more pressing issue…writing the story my publisher expected.
Stopping just outside the front doors, I hesitated, eyeing my faint reflection in the glass. I’d done what I could to make it look like I wasn’t an extra on Breaking Bad, but the tired eyes forced open by the copious amount of caffeine I had consumed made me look like a meth addict, with the exception of the bad teeth. As much as I dreaded going to the dentist, I went religiously. I was a strong believer in proper dental hygiene. I even flossed daily.