by Lizzy Ford
I meant yes. Hell yes, even.
I can’t think of anything else to say. What else is there? He caught me off guard, and I unintentionally shot him straight out of the sky. There’s no going back now. I’ve made my decision. I’m going down with this ship.
I am the worst with people. The. Worst.
Should I thank him for coming? Or would that sound contradictory, seeing as how I didn’t answer his question about my writing and refused to go out for coffee with him?
I walk by him. He smells good, like caramel spiked with bourbon. Sweet and spicy with a hint of danger.
I’m going to regret turning him down for the rest of my life.
“Tomorrow?” he asks.
Thank god. This time, I take a second to respond. Facing him, I’m about to say yes when I find myself caught up in his direct look once more. Did he come to the library just to meet me? Because I’ve never seen him here before.
“Yes,” I pronounce the word very carefully. “Today I’m busy. I have to … water my plants and … feed the dog. I have a lot. Of plants. Just one dog.”
“You need to wash your hair, too?”
“Oh, no, I did that yesterday.”
He smiles.
My face grows even warmer. “That was a joke,” I mutter. I’m late to the draw, as usual. “I guess I could wash it again.”
Strike two. Or is it three? Probably close to twenty by now. For the next ten years, I’ll relive how stupid this comeback was every time I’m in the shower.
He laughs quietly. Some of his intensity melts away.
“I’ve done enough to embarrass myself today,” I say and turn away. “Gotta go.”
“Where should we meet?”
The hits keep coming. Can’t exactly meet for coffee with a complete stranger without planning where and when.
“We can meet here in the parking lot and go from there,” he offers. “Nine o’clock?”
“Perfect,” I reply.
I flee the library. I manage to dig my keys out of my bags and climb into my car. Once the door is closed, I close my eyes and sigh. How did he see some crazy writer sitting there, reading to herself, giggling at her own jokes and think – this is someone I want to have coffee with?
Good-looking, dresses nice, smells good, likes books. On the surface, he’s perfect. I’m betting he’s deeply dysfunctional or maybe his emotional IQ is negative, like my ex’s.
Or … he’s a serial killer. Maybe I remind him of an ex-girlfriend who rejected him, and after coffee tomorrow, he’s going to murder me.
“Better wear nice underwear,” I murmur and start the car. I don’t want to go down in his serial killer scrapbook as Holey Underwear Girl.
I drive home and retreat in absolute defeat back to my apartment. I tell Wookie everything over a cup of tea and ice cream. And then I spend ten minutes reliving my terrible attempts at communicating with the most incredible man I’ve ever met, before I shake my head and go to my laptop.
After seeing my ex yesterday, and humiliating myself in front of a handsome stranger this morning, I’m ready to lose myself in a different world.
The Red Knight of White Tree Sound had been many people and lived many lives. A warrior, a demon, a womanizer, a thief, a man with a curse, among many others. His journeys had taken him into different worlds and places and to meet hundreds of different people.
It wasn’t until the last few adventures that he began to understand he did not randomly end up in these worlds. He was placed there, just as, when all seemed lost, he found a way out. An unseen hand had guided his life from the very beginning, protecting him from the worst-case scenarios, returning all he lost, redeeming him when he lost his path, helping him save the lives of those he cared about when life seemed impossible. He had somehow evaded death dozens of times.
The memories of each life initially had the substance of dreams. But the more he experienced, the better he recalled the last adventure, the one before it, and the dozen before that. He did not choose these journeys, and he could eventually recall all of them except for the only one that mattered: the original journey. How he came to be. His home. His family. Everyone came from somewhere, and he couldn’t recall anything about that somewhere.
Naia of Black Moon Draw had confirmed his suspicions of there being a guide and taken one step further, helped him reach the world where his guide lived. This world was as large as any of those he’d traversed. It had taken him some time to adjust and understand that he’d not only entered his guide’s world, but he’d done so in a time and place that appeared random. He’d left Black Moon Draw and expected … he wasn’t certain. To come face to face with his guide.
Instead, he’d wound up dressed in his armor in the middle of a street, in the middle of a city during rush hour. It had taken him but a moment to assess his situation and that he wasn’t where he would have liked to be. In several of his many lives, he’d existed in a world very much like this one. It was the skills he learned in those experiences that helped him navigate this world.
It had taken him a year to find her, and it wasn’t instinct or any sort of connection to his guide that led him here.
It was shrewd persistence and some luck. The Internet, of all things, led him directly to her, when he found the novel Black Moon Draw pop up during one of his searches and realized he’d entered her world before she created his.
At last, after so many lifetimes, he was about to learn the secrets of his origins. His guide – creator? – hadn’t taken his interest seriously the day before, but perhaps, if she saw he was sincere, she’d open up and reveal the one piece of his life he couldn’t determine on his own: why he existed at all.
To my surprise, the handsome stranger shows up the next morning. His car is plain, just like his clothing. Nothing, however, is plain about his looks. I follow him to a nearby Starbucks. The morning rush is already over, and it’s quiet. He buys me coffee, and we sit down.
Seated across from one another, I’m finding it hard to concentrate. My insides are warm. I can’t deny he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. Up close, he’s even better looking.
He’s studying me again. Is he trying to figure out which body part he wants to add to his trophy chest? He seems … puzzled.
I clear my throat. I could stare at him for a lifetime, but it makes things weird.
“I want to tell you up front I’m really socially awkward,” I start. “If I say something odd, answer the wrong question or anything like that, I’m sorry in advance. My friends are used to me, but I get nervous around new people.”
“It’s not a problem,” he replies. “Believe it or not, I was really shy once. I’ve spent time in therapy learning how to express myself better.”
“I’ve been to therapy, too!” I exclaim.
Are we bonding over mutual emotional dysfunction?
He smiles. “Nothing wrong with improving ourselves.”
It’s a nice response. “Why on earth did you ask me for coffee?” I ask.
“I’ve read everything you’ve ever written. Why not?”
“Everything?”
“Your erotic titles are my favorites.” He winks.
At conferences, surrounded by women, I’m happy to talk erotic romance novels. But here? With him? I’m flummoxed, partially because I’ll fully admit I’m picturing him naked. My face has to be fire engine red.
I focus on my coffee. “That’s good.” Another stupid response.
“Do you have a favorite character you’ve written?” he asks.
“Hmm.” This is a safer topic. “I don’t know. I have a lot of favorites.”
“Bad boys?”
“You know, I used to prefer them.” My thoughts are on my ex. “There’s something exhilarating about the kind of rollercoaster romance with a bad boy. Tons of drama.” In books, drama works.
In real life? I don’t want to wonder if my significant other is sleeping with someone else, or if he’s going to leave the next day, or if
his emotional dysfunction is going to require me to rescue him every other day.
“But …?”
“Sometimes I think it’d be nice to be with someone who doesn’t need me to fix or babysit him,” I admit.
“Are we still talking about book characters?”
I look at him, surprised, and realize he’s right. I’m not sure why I admitted that to him. Something about him just throws me completely off.
His smile is warm. Even when he teases me, it’s not passive aggressive or facetious. It’s … gentle.
“I didn’t even ask your name,” I say.
“Guess.”
“Um, okay.” I consider him. “Are you named after a city?”
He grins. “No.”
“Irish?”
“No.”
“That narrows it down,” I say thoughtfully. “If I had to pick your name, I’d go with something classic. Not too common but not obscure. It has to sound stately but not stuck up. How about Xavier?”
“Jared.”
“I was close.” It fits in the category of names I was looking for. “Nice to meet you, Jared.”
“My pleasure.”
“I don’t recognize your accent. Is it French?” I ask.
“Farther away.”
“Russia?”
“Farther.”
My geography isn’t that great. I’m not sure what’s close to Russia, aside from China, and he doesn’t speak with a musical accent like the Chinese cashier at the grocery store.
“Do you have a favorite character of mine?” I ask.
Despite his occasional intensity, he’s easy to be around. He doesn’t seem like he’s judging me or my weird responses to his questions, and I’ve already warned him I’m good at embarrassing myself with new people. He doesn’t seem to mind that, either.
I’m kind of proud of myself for coming.
“Multiple but they’re facets of the same character,” he answers.
“Meaning …”
“You have one character who appears in many of your books. He’s a little different in each story.”
“Are you a literary scholar or something?” I joke.
“Just a fan,” he replies.
“If that’s the case, it’s unintentional,” I say.
“I would’ve thought the opposite.”
I shake my head. “Maybe I should say it’s not a conscious thing I’m doing. It’s cool that you noticed it, though.”
“I’ve wondered for a while if there’s meaning behind it.” He taps the table with his index finger. His fingernails are clean. I always notice people’s hands.
“Not that I know of.”
“On the contrary, the fact it’s subconscious tells me otherwise.”
“Well, then, Mr. Non-scholar Scholar, what do you think it means?” I ask.
He smiles.
I wait, but he doesn’t answer. Irritation spikes within me. “My ex didn’t like to express his thoughts, either,” I murmur. “Which is why he’s an ex. Well, that and he fell in love with someone else. But he definitely didn’t like to express his thoughts.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Jared responds. “I think, if it’s a subconscious undertaking, then you should discover for yourself what it might mean to have the same character appear in multiple books. It could mean something different to you than it does to me. It’s why I asked about your first book. I thought maybe he was one of your original characters you took with you on new adventures.”
“That’s a cute way of looking at it.” I smile and begin mentally reviewing my characters. I really don’t recall much about my first book or what characters I created.
“I’m sorry about your ex,” he adds more quietly. “You deserve better.”
“Thanks.” I look down at the table. “It’s getting easier by the day. He came to visit two days ago and brought his fiancée.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“You know, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be,” I reply. “I think there was some closure in it. He’s moved on, and in my own way, I have, too. I’m just working through what remains of those icky emotions.”
“Been there,” he says. “You make progress every day, but it doesn’t become evident until you take a step back at some point down the road, and realize how far you’ve come.”
“Exactly.” I gaze at him quizzically. Something about this guy makes it too easy to talk to him. There has to be a catch. “Are you a serial killer?”
“No,” Jared says and smiles. Nothing seems to catch him off guard.
“Did you lose a bet and have to ask me for coffee?”
“Nothing that nefarious. Or perhaps, more nefarious.” The teasing twinkle is back in his eyes.
“I have no idea what that means,” I reply. “Except that you asked me here for a reason.”
“I’ll tell you why later. I promise.”
I’m kind of bummed. I was hoping he asked me out because he loves my writing, thinks I’m fascinating, and wants to run away with me to live on the beach and run an animal sanctuary.
“What’s your story?” I ask.
“I’ve led a pretty interesting life. Here and there, all over the place. I’m not good at staying in one place for long.”
“Where’s home?”
“I don’t really have a home. I have no family living that I know of. Sometimes I find someone I connect with and stick around, but I always move on.”
“That sounds lonely,” I say.
He shrugs. “I’ve never felt lonely. I’m drawn to certain places and people and like I can always go back. I never leave on bad terms. I just … leave.”
“Why?”
“Why do I leave?” he asks. His expression becomes pensive. “It’s complicated. I just leave.”
“Fascinating.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Are you drawn to a place? I’ve always felt drawn to California.”
“Not a place. Well, it could be, but I don’t think it is.”
“A person?”
“I think it might be.” The skin around his eyes crinkles with his faint smile.
“A long lost relative or your true love?” I sigh. “How romantic. Are you ever scared you’ll never find whoever it is?”
“No,” he replies. “It feels too real not to be real.”
“You’re following your intuition.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s amazing. Not many people would do that.”
“I trust myself.”
Jared is unusual, but I like him more the longer we talk. I feel like he probably has a lot of stories, a lot of layers, and a lot of depth. Definitely enigmatic. He also seems secure and emotionally stable. He’s confident, which I like as well. I’m done with emo men who don’t know themselves. Jared is definitely not the kind of guy I’m used to.
He’s different in a good way.
I like collecting traits about people and using them to build characters for my books. Although, before I write another word, I’m going to pick up a few books to see what he’s talking about when he says the same character appears in multiple places. I have some of my original stories from childhood in a huge box in storage. Off the top of my head, I can’t begin to guess which character he’s talking about.
“You’re creating a new character out of me, aren’t you?” he asks as I study him in silence.
I blush. “Yeah. There are a lot of things about you that are different. I want to put you in a book.”
“What’s different about me?”
I hesitate.
“Honesty. One hundred percent, all the time,” he presses.
“Well, that for one,” I respond. “I can be brutally honest. It doesn’t usually go over well. But I like it when others are brutally honest, too.”
“I can handle it,” he says.
“Anyhoo, you’re confident and sure of yourself. Quiet, aware, and you have great presence. You don’t seem like an emotional train wreck, either, a
nd you have this intriguing air of mystery around you.”
“You see the good side of me.”
“Is there a bad side?”
“Everyone has a side they’re still working on,” he says. “I can be stubborn, direct and arrogant. I’m too much of an independent thinker for most people. I question everything. I like to be in control of my world. It rarely happens, but I try. I won’t back down from an argument or challenge. I don’t always play well with others.”
“If someone knocks at the door, and you’re in someone else’s house, do you still answer?” I ask, assessing him.
“Absolutely.”
“In a crisis, do you run or help others?”
“I walk away.”
I’m not expecting his answer or his honesty. “Really?”
“Why does it matter?” He laughs.
“I’m curious,” I say defensively. “I’ve never met anyone like you. Why wouldn’t I want to capture you?”
“You’re welcome to capture me any way you’d like.”
“I mean, in a book. As a character.” I roll my eyes. “Why would you walk away from someone who needs help?”
“Long ago, I would have reacted differently,” he says quietly. “I’ve gone through too much. I’m too hardened to the world.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is what it is. You’re different than what I expected, too, from reading your books,” he goes on.
I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to know. With anyone else, I don’t think I’d care. But I kind of want someone like him to think I’m cool, not a disappointment.
“Not as emotionally volatile as many of your characters.”
“That’s up for debate,” I reply. “I do have a temper and warm-cool modes. I’m stubborn and don’t back down from arguments, either. And never, ever play a board game with me. I hold grudges for weeks if I lose.”
“You’re also sweeter than I thought you’d be,” he says. “A little more vulnerable as well.”
I don’t like that. I want to be fierce and tough and to never let my ex – or anyone else – ever upset me again. If a complete stranger notices I’m vulnerable, then I’m not hiding my pain well enough.
“It’s a good thing,” he says when I make a face.
“Not really.”