Page 59 of Room for Us

“Your customer service voice freaked me out. ‘If there’s any way I can make your stay more memorable, don’t hesitate to reach out.’” He shudders comically.

I laugh harder, lifting my face to see his. “That bad, huh?”

He grins. “It was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Although I’ll admit it was pretty funny watching you struggle to be nice when you wanted to punch me in the face. Oh, and tripping over your words when I got here—very charming.”

I groan. “I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

“I notice everything.” His features soften. “About you, at least. I can’t help it. You fascinate me.”

It’s hard to accept his words. I feel the buck of insecurity inside me. Why? I’m nothing special. My whole childhood, I felt like an outsider in my small town. The angry teen with a chip on her shoulder; dad who split under a cloud of shame and drama; daughter of a psychologist; niece of the town’s resident eccentric… All these labels I used to set myself apart were just mechanisms to protect myself from being close to anyone. When really I was just lonely and afraid.

In my husband’s world, it was both better and worse. There, at least, no one knew my past. I could pretend to be someone else. For a while, it worked. I tagged along on weekend shopping trips and brunches. Educated myself about designers, fine wines, and kept up with the gossip. But those women weren’t my friends. Not one of them reached out to me when I stopped showing up, consumed by my struggles with getting pregnant. Not one of them called to make sure I was okay after Chris filed for divorce. I disappeared from that world as though I’d never been in it.

And now I’m back in the world that, I’m coming to realize, always held a place open for me. Deciding I didn’t belong was my doing, not Sun River’s.

Turning my attention to the man whose legs are entwined with mine, I ask, “So what’s this new book about?”

He makes a pained sound. “Nothing. I haven’t actually started it. The notes I do have are crap.”

I jolt upright, staring at him in shock. “What? Really? What do you do all day?”

He shrugs, a slow smile spreading. “Fantasize about you.”

I slap him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m being serious. Do you have a deadline?”

He winces. “Several, all of them passed and a final one looming. I’ve been dangling on the career-suicide rope for a while now. I’m used to it.” He trails a hand over my back, sneaking fingers beneath my T-shirt. “I’m not really worried about it right now.”

My jaw unhinges.

He squeezes my hip. “Don’t think about it. Works for me. Besides, the worst thing that could happen is the publisher drops me. I have enough money—I don’t need more. I could not write another day in my life and I’d be fine. Daphne’s set.”

“That sounds like a bunch of excuses you’ve force-fed yourself.”

His eyebrows arch, lips curving. “I love it when you don’t pull punches.”

“I’m sorry.” But I don’t mean it, and he only smiles wider.

Eventually, the smile fades, his eyes dimming. “I actually thought coming here would start the engine, so to speak. On the flight out, I had this vision, or daydream, whatever, of leaving a piece of myself behind. Some part of me dying. Sounds dramatic, I know, but it felt liberating. And I really did think I’d write here.” His thumb grazes my lower lip, eyes catching mine. “Turns out I found something better.”

My heart melts even as my spine straightens. “You have writer’s block. That’s normal, right?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve always been of the mind that writer’s block gets a bad rap. It’s part of the process, you know? The rumination period where the ideas are seeds. Rush the process and those seeds never grow. The real problem? I don’t want to write the book. I’m not inspired. These kids—as you called them—have been with me for almost ten years. They’ve aged from fifteen to their mid-twenties in the books. And they’ve been through a lot. Why should I mess with their happy endings?”

“Because life doesn’t have happy endings.” The words pop out unbidden. Seeing his surprise, I backtrack. “What I mean is, life keeps happening whether we want it to or not. We don’t have the option of freezing time. All we can do is hang on to the memory of happiness when obstacles come.”

Surprisingly, I think of my dad, whose calloused hands I can still feel over mine on the handlebars of my training bike. But mostly I think of my aunt, the suddenness of her passing. The jolt of tragedy that outshone my failed marriage, my infertility—that outshone everything—and how her death has become a catalyst of change in my life and the lives around me.

“Why don’t you kill the main character?” I ask, only half in jest.

Ethan barks a laugh. “What? No way. There’d be riots.”

My stomach growls loudly, ending the moment. We both laugh. “We missed breakfast,” I note.

He glances at the clock. “And lunch.” He sits up and stretches his arms over his head. “What should we do today? Oh wait, didn’t your mom say something about a barbecue?”

I grin. “I have a better idea.”

I take him fishing, which I readily admit is more for my entertainment than his. Ethan is a city boy through and through and looks ridiculous in waders. I do my best to demonstrate basic fly fishing technique, but he’s hopeless.

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