Page 65 of Love is an Open Book
Holding outforher, more like. All my past relationships pale in comparison to this. But I don’t voice the thought. Don’t want to give too much away, even though I can’t deny I’d give her everything, if only she asked. Instead, I press kisses to her lips, her neck, the soft notch of skin at her throat. Friendship is the last thing on my mind.
Twenty-One
Mia
I slide my laptop off the end table a few hours later. Sitting back on my heels, I cast a glance toward Gavin, dozing on the couch. Will the clack of the keys wake him? He’s a light sleeper. I discovered that one night at the cabin when the writing bug hit and he came out of his room for water, roused by the sound of me typing at the tiny kitchen table.
I don’t want to disturb him, but inspiration is knocking, spurred on by worries over the article Sera sent. The hooting of an owl pulls my attention to the sliding door to the backyard. My eyes are adjusted enough to see the gray-dark shape of the shed. Carefully tugging the blanket off the edge of the couch, I wrap it around my shoulders and ease out the back door. The grass is cool and damp under my bare feet, but the air is warm with a gentle breeze, like the night is breathing deep in slumber.
Notebook and pen clutched to my chest, I make my way across the lawn, ignoring the shadows. It’s not just that I’m afraid of the dark, it’s the unknown I don’t like. Without light, it’s impossible to see what lurks in corners or what’s ahead. ButI’m spurred on by purpose, and once I step inside the shed, I reach for the lantern Gavin keeps on the shelf by the door.
Instead of hanging it from the hook on the ceiling, I carry it with me to the back wall, where bags of soil are stacked in a neat heap. Hoping he won’t mind me disturbing the order of his sanctum, I set my stuff down and use both hands to pull a bag from atop the stack. My sore muscles protest and the bag hits the ground with a muffledwhomp. I dart a glance back at the house, as if Gavin could’ve heard from across the yard. But the windows stay dark and I relax.
Snuggled in the blanket, I settle in. The faint scent of moss and crumbled leaves permeates the small space. It smells like Gavin. Earthy and welcoming. Our relationship has shifted into something beyond friendship, and maybe I should be more worried about the ramifications. But it’s still night. This feels like stolen time. A liminal space.
The wonder of kissing him felt like joy unleashed, and I keep the feeling with me as I begin to write. I’ve reached the middle of the manuscript. Sydney and Victor are together, no more faking it. They’ve had “the talk” about their relationship and no longer need to hide behind the excuse of method acting. Things in their careers are going well, too. Confidence restored, he sends in samples for several high-profile books, and one of her clients just sold a book for seven figures at auction.
I want to let them linger here. Soon, I’ll have to ramp up the tension en route to the big confrontation that will force them to fight for their happy-ever-after. I’ll have to pull them apart enough to see how much they yearn to be together, despite the cost.
For now, I want them to enjoy their happiness, dawdle with breakfast in bed and tender kisses. But my characters have other ideas. Maybe because this is my thirteenth novel, and the arc of the story is part of me now. The characters rush out intothe world before I can stop them. They’re naive, and excited, ready to live their new reality as a couple, sure of their love. They started as friends, after all. They know how to coexist in the world, how to weather fights, and how to make each other happy.
So they go to an author event at Tiffany and Dylan’s bookstore. The former rivals from book one are now co-owners of a thriving bookshop. Sydney and Victor show up for the book signing together like they often do. Except this time, they’re holding hands. My fingers fly over the keyboard, but not fast enough to capture the image that plays out in my mind in real time.
What they don’t know is Dylan planned to propose, and the bookshop is full of friends and family. The shock of seeing Victor and Sydney together throws a wrench in his careful plans and things go topsy-turvy. Tiffany leaves and he chases after her. Meanwhile, their friends and family have questions. So many questions, overlapping, tumbling over each other, a stream of well-meaning worry and advice that forces the new couple apart, to opposite ends of the room.
It’s an interrogation, their loved ones poking and prodding for the roots of the relationship, for the reason for the change, and all of their questions are too much, too heavy, too soon. That’s what Victor asks when they’re finally alone again.Is this too soon?And at the same time, Sydney wonders if it’s far too late. If they were meant to be, wouldn’t they have been? Wouldn’t this move into something deeper have happened years ago?
The tap of keys is loud in the nighttime stillness, my own worries bleeding into the story. It’s inevitable for some of the author to escape onto the page. I see myself reflected a little in every narrative, but none of the stories are my life. They’re a composite of my dreams and wonderings and musings. They aren’t my essence. They’re made-up. They’re entertainment. Fiction.
But I started this book before I learned to draw a line between myself and my characters, when I poured my whole self out on the page without keeping anything back. That’s why this manuscript, the first of my stories, never worked.
I thought I could disentangle the pieces of the story from myself. I thought I was good enough to reopen the pages and remove all my fears and insecurities, replacing them with ones true to my characters, but I can’t. Or I haven’t yet, at least.
This isn’t what I had planned for their conflict, but the easy way they fell into a relationship left them overconfident, and now all I see for them is a fumbling breakup. Drifting apart. They’ve crossed the threshold into something more than friends and there’s no going back, but I can’t see a way forward. Frustrated, I close my laptop and gingerly pick up the lantern with fingertips, blistered palm stinging with the effort of typing.
No longer brave enough to cross the darkened yard without light, I bring it with me, fumbling with the door, my demons at my back. No matter how far I’ve come, I still can’t conquer this first attempt. My worries have resurfaced in the dark, and not just for the manuscript. Everything is wonderful here, in our bubble. But our relationship could have ripple effects on our friendships. In our families. And Gavin might be moving. A long-distance friendship is hard enough.
I rush inside, no longer worried about waking him. All of a sudden, I want him here with me to chase away the doubts.
But he’s not on the couch any longer. I shut off the lantern, comforted by the homey nighttime sounds: the soft rustling of the cat family and the hum of the refrigerator. Light warms the hallway, and I round the corner to find the laundry room door ajar, Gavin bare chested, seated cross-legged on the ground, mewling kittens crawling over his jean-clad lap.
He picks up the tuxedo kitten, Juniper, holding him up to his chin, and looks up at me with no trace of the worry curled around my insides like a stubborn case of food poisoning. “Writing?”
I nod, and he settles back against the wall, kitten to his chest. It’s irresistible, and I join him, the worn denim of his jeans soft and reassuring against my bare knee. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he says, surprising me. “Too busy being grateful. I knew you needed space to write.”
I lean over and lift the gray kitten he named Ash. Her springy ribs expand under my fingers, purring starting up like a motor. “Sometimes when I get in a good flow, I wake up with ideas and want to write them down right away.”
The mama cat is watching us with half-lidded eyes, feigning boredom, though I can’t help but feel like she’s fully invested in our conversation, making sure she’s entrusted her babies to people with their shit together. Last year, I would’ve said yes. I felt capable, in control. But I’ve careened into my thirties off-balance and unprepared. Trying to live up to the weight of other people’s expectations.
“So you’re not freaking out?”
I huff out a rueful chuckle. “Oh no, I am absolutely freaking out.” Though with him next to me and the purring kitten in my lap, the panic I’d succumbed to outside is nowhere in sight.
He tugs me against him, wrapping one arm around my shoulders. “Me, too.”
“Well, that’s helpful.”
