Page 41 of Love is an Open Book
“For your information, I tried that.” My claim is less effectiveconsidering I’m dressed in a mismatched lounge set and there are no less than six half-finished beverages of varying alcohol and caffeine content on the coffee table.
Kim must interpret this evidence of my writing binge incorrectly—in her defense, wallowing and deadline mode look very similar—because she gives me a pitying look that I’m sure is meant to appear empathetic. “Did you get ghosted? Or go on an awful date?”
The image of Gavin, sleeves cuffed, grinning at me across a candlelit table, beckons, but I slam the memory shut. I won’t be able to prove I’ve been following her advice without mentioning him, and I won’t be able to mention him without her jumping to conclusions. Conclusions I’ve been trying not to jump to myself after what happened between us at the mall. The tender way he touched me, eyes full of longing...
“I absolutely cannot focus on a relationship right now.” I grab two of the water glasses off the table and water the gardenia with one, then pour the other into Frank’s pot. The monstera’s uppermost leaves are taller than I am. Poor thing has witnessed me try and fail at keeping many of his plant brethren alive over the years before I gave up and realized Frank is special, immune to my utter lack of a green thumb. Secretly, I think it’s because Gavin raised him to start, but I’m not about to tell him because it would go straight to his head.
“Why do you make relationships sound so stressful?” my sister asks.
For me, they have been, but it’s not just that. “I have a book to finish and a lot of people counting on me.” I can’t help but picture the cast and crew I’ve met while visiting the set. I want to live up to their faith in me. “But I did try some new things. Got out of my comfort zone, and it’s working.” To a point.
“So I was half right?” Kim will take that win and run with it.
“Half wrong.” I gesture at the in-progress scene on my laptop. “I need more than just interest and attraction.”
“True. But for years you’ve been saying there’s no way to invent chemistry between these two.” She gives up on sitting normally and reclines on the bolster. “Sounds like a good start at least.”
“But according to my schedule, I’m supposed to be nearly done with the first draft, and I’ve barely made it into act two,” I say. “Last week, I found out my deadline is firm because Rob’s filming some blockbuster movie next summer, and even though the characters are finally starting to feel each other, I’m worried I can’t make them fall in love.”
Confessing this erases all the good vibes of my momentum, or maybe my rising sense of overwhelm is a side effect of sitting in the same spot all day. Either way, I sink down onto the living room rug and let gravity take hold until I’m flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.
Kim’s face appears, blocking out the skylight. “Now might be a good time to mention I brought cake?”
The knot in my chest eases a notch. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
She disappears from view. “Okay, but you’re gonna have to get up off the floor. No feeding the ants on my watch.”
“I do not have ants.”
“Not yet,” she says, singsong.
I stay put for another ten seconds out of an urge to prove my independence, realize that’s the definition ofchildish, and am taking out silverware by the time my sister’s washed her hands.
I grab two plates and a serving knife, which she takes from me, cutting two huge slices from the Bundt cake. “Have you eaten?” she asks.
“I’m about to.” I use my fork to carve off a bite.
“Fruit. Vegetables. Protein?”
“Bar,” I reply around a mouthful of delectable cake.
She slides my plate out of reach. “I brought real food, too, let’s start there.”
“Dessert first,” I argue, and she gives up, mostly because my slice of cake has already been reduced to crumbs.
“Tell me what the cool single people are doing these days.” Since Kim hasn’t been single since college, she always says she feels out of the loop. “Did you sign up for one of those groups where you go on excursions?”
That’s what she would do in my position. She was president of at least half a dozen clubs during high school and college, and head of countless committees at the schools where she taught. She’s been training for a leadership role since middle school, and I bet she won’t stay assistant principal for long.
“Nothing that fancy.” Hoping to distract her, I root around in the bags and pull out a bunch of carrots with the greens attached, like she bought them at a farmers market, which is probably the case.
She starts taking spices out of my cupboard, most of which are probably expired. “Got a big pot?”
I squat down and pull out the Dutch oven I bought last year on impulse. Gavin and I had been trying to one-up each other with elaborate descriptions of eye colors like in romance novels, one of my favorite elements of the genre. He’d pointed at the pot and asked me to describe it.The shade of waves darkened by an oncoming storm, I’d quipped, but the color appealed to me, and I wound up buying it.
I’ve only used the pot a handful of times, and it isn’t until I set it on the stove that I realize the slate-blue glaze is a near-perfect match for Gavin’s eyes. Great, I’ve officially lost my head over him and we haven’t even kissed.Won’tkiss. I click on the burner with unsteady hands.
Oblivious to my worries, Kim says, “There’s a pottery studio near our new house that offers classes, and I was thinking of going.” She sets a cutting board on the wide marble island. “You could join me if you’re tired of doing excursions on your own.”
