Page 8 of Love is an Open Book
“What hypothetical nights out?” She takes a doughnut topped with ganache and curls of chocolate. “It’s been forever since y’all went out in the city. Lately all I get from Mia are texts about what shows she’s bingeing. She’s spending too much time with fictional men.”
“Literally my job,” I tell her.
“Writing is a convenient excuse to stay at home,” she says.
I thought we’d moved on from this. “She doesn’t understand how much of a chore dating is,” I tell Gavin, who’s used to our bickering. “Pretty sure she wants me to start looking for a boyfriend again.”
He pauses mid-bite, his expression going blank. Not meeting my eyes, he chews carefully, staying quiet. Probably doesn’t want to get in the middle of it by siding with me.
“Maybe that’s why your inspiration is lacking,” Kim says, napkin held underneath her doughnut to catch the crumbs. “Getting out there might spark some ideas.” That’s the least logical conclusion ever.
I swallow a bite of strawberry-matcha doughnut before answering sarcastically, “Because real men are so inspirational.”
“Hey,” Gavin protests.
“I meant in the context of dating,” I tell him. “You’re exceptional.” I stand on tiptoes to ruffle the hair that flops over his forehead, enjoying how his nose scrunches up.
Kim jumps on the chance to get him on her side. “Don’t you think it’s weird she’s this meh about dating when she writes about love for a living?”
Before Gavin can answer, I say, “I’m not writing a relationship column or giving dating advice. I write about fictional love.”
“But your books speak on a lot of real-world issues,” Gavin says.
“They do, and I’m not lessening the impact of fiction.” I take another bite, grateful for the sweetness of the strawberry filling to balance out this unsavory talk of love outside the pages of a book. “But my imagination works just fine. I don’t need to subject myself to blind dates for source material.” Yet another stereotype about writing romance that’s totally false.
“Plus,” a voice says from behind me, “I’m pretty sure that’s unethical.” Dammit, why am I cursed by Ted’s terrible timing?
My sister doesn’t miss a beat, though. “I’m not saying you should model the book after a real-life relationship. But a good date or two might reignite your passion to write about the magic of romance.”
Ted spots the open box of doughnuts and makes a beeline for it. “You’ve got writer’s block?” As far as I’m concerned, he lost out on the right to ask me anything about my profession when he referred to the romance genre as “fluff fiction.”
With a sigh, I reply with the bare minimum. “My characters just aren’t cooperating at the moment.” An understatement. Pushing these fan-favorite best friend characters together feels like a doomed endeavor. All I see in their future is a broken friendship and loneliness. Real warm-and-gooey stuff.
“Does the show have a contingency plan?” Ted asks around a gruesome mouthful of red velvet fritter.
Sometimes, I cannot believe this man’s nerve. “To what, move on without me if I don’t deliver?” Of course they do; they’re money people. But I’m not clueing him in on how I’ll be cut out of the process if I can’t finish the book.
Gavin casually slides the box of doughnuts toward himself as Ted reaches for another, and my brother-in-law must get themessage because he says, “Not that you won’t finish on time, but surely they have writers on staff—”
“Screenwriters will adapt my work, yeah,” I say. They’ve done a phenomenal job staying true to the spirit of the books while adapting the pacing for TV. “But this is my series, and I’m not going to let someone else write the final chapter.”
If my favorite two characters are getting a happy ending, I want it to be my own vision. A vision with the clarity of swamp water at the moment.
“Mia always delivers,” Gavin says, with all the confidence I don’t feel. Gesturing toward the hallway filled with boxes, he asks Ted, “What’s going in my truck? I brought some tie-downs.”
They head out, and Kim bends to put her napkin into the black trash bag on the floor. “He’s a keeper.”
“Good thing, since you signed on for fifty years to life,” I say, grinning.
“Ted, too. But I was talking about Gavin.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Dating apps aren’t the only way to start a relationship, you know.”
I brush crumbs from my top, ignoring her pointed look at the mess. “Let’s pack up the rest of your library.” I turn the faucet on to full blast and wash my hands, putting an end to the discussion.
Dating Gavin is out of the question. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our friendship. Romance? That would ruin everything.
Three
Gavin
