Page 12 of Here for a Good Time
“What?”
He gives a tentative shrug. “What if… youdidwrite it? Or something like that? Or just tried?”
“What? Romance?”
“Yeah. Something… fun. And ridiculous. Maybe that’s what you need to get past this writer’s block. A genre switch.”
I give him aYeah, rightlook. “Sure, my agent and publisher will absolutely go for me pivoting to romance out of the blue. Afterward, what, I try my hand at sci-fi for the next one?”
Zwe’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The dimples aren’t there. “Why not? Is it written in your contract that you can’t?”
“Well, no, but under a two-book contract, it’s generally assumed that you’ll stick to the same genre. They’re expecting something…notromance. I can’t turn in a book about assassins and plane crashes and inevitable hot lifeboat sex. Besides—” I pause, unsure if I want to say this for fear of sounding like a total loser. But it comes out anyway, and it is precisely as sad as it was in my head. “I’m not exactly the best person to write a love story. What do I even know about love anyway? Any romance novel I write would just end on a bitter tone with the scorned main character, I dunno, moving to the rainforest to become a celibate hermit.”
He laughs under his breath. “I think you need to give yourself more credit. You can be pretty romantic when you want to be. Look at this trip you booked for us.”
“Alternatively, look at the fiancé who broke up with me three months after we got engaged,” I say without thinking. Immediately, I want to take it back. But it hangs there now: the ghost of fucking Vik. “I just… don’t think I have what it takes to be a romance writer.”It’d be ironic if I did, though, since writingwasthe reason my romance ended. But I don’t say the second part out loud.
Zwe puts up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I don’t want tobe that guy who tells you how to do your job. Last thing I’ll say is that I haven’t seen you this excited about books,anybook, in a long time. Maybe this is a genre you didn’t realize you could love this much, and maybe it’s the solution to your writer’s block. There. Oh, and he-who-I-refuse-to-name sucks. That’s it, promise,actuallast thing I’ll say.” To prove it, he makes a zipper motion across his mouth.
An attendant stops by before I have to respond, and hands us two warm towels. By the time we finish wiping our hands and have picked from another attendant’s silver tray of drinks—I get sparkling water, Zwe gets orange juice—it’s silently agreed that the conversation has ended.
The flight to Singapore is approximately three hours long. I read a couple more chapters before deciding that I want to savor this book like precious wine while lounging on a chaise bed with the ocean breeze messing up my hair. So, I re-watchKnives Outbecause Chris Evans in a cable-knit sweater is always a good idea. When I glance over, Zwe’s screen is still playingEverything Everywhere All At Once,but he’s asleep, head slumped against the closed window shade. We’ve barely said a word throughout this flight, traces of the Julia conversation and the book conversation and the Vik cameo still lingering in the air. It’s not that the mood is bad or awkward, it’s just slightlyoff.
By the time we land, though, things are normal again between us; we’ve reset, silently agreed the little things are too little to ruin the present moment. I’ve never had that with anyone else, not even Vik—that ability for the atmosphere between myself and someone else to fall back into comfort without either of us actively trying. Our layover is four hours long, so we repeat the same sequence of events as in Yangon: snacks in the lounge, light reading, andanother quick bathroom dash before we’re boarding our final five-and-a-half-hour flight.
“What else did you have your eye on? In the activities brochure?” Zwe asks, dragging another warm towel across his neck as we make ourselves comfortable in our new set of seats.
“We could go snorkeling—”
“You’re terrified of fish touching you.”
“No,” I correct him. “Everyday Poe is terrified of fish touching her. Island Poe might be a regular Ariel. Maybe I’ll make a little fish friend who I visit every day, like in that documentary.”
“You mean the one where the guy becomes friends with an octopus?” Zwe’s smirk is gleeful. He starts making wavy movements with his hands. “You’re going to make friends with an octopus? With its eight slimy tentacles and the tiny suckers that will latch onto your arm and—”
I slap a hand across his mouth, just the mental image of what he described making my body want to break out into hives. “Okay, maybe a new fish best friend is out of the picture. But we can still go snorkeling!” Zwe’s blank stare screamsBe serious. “Iambeing serious!” I say. “The whole point of this trip is that I’m going to find new inspiration for my book, and I can’t be inspired if I’m only doing the same things I do at home. Look, maybe I’ll hate snorkeling, but even then,thatcould be inspiration for a character who has to overcome a lifetime fear of snorkeling.”
“I suppose that’s fair.” He exhales. “What else did you have in mind? Any land-based activities? Maybe some more pottery?”
Too lazy to locate the email with the brochure PDF, I try to remember off of the top of my head. “I think a cooking class could be fun. They offer Thai, Filipino, and Malaysian cuisines.”
“I’d be down for that.”
“There are some guided hikes and rainforest tours that I wouldn’t mind trying—” At Zwe’s reaction, I quickly add, “Yes, I know it’s exercise out in the wilderness, but this is what Island Poe does, okay?”
“The lady doth protest a little too much,” Zwe notes.
“We could take a helicopter tour of the neighboring islands,” I continue, but not without first flipping him off. “See the wildlife and the ocean from a different perspective?” Zwe wrinkles his nose, which surprises me because out of all the activities I’ve just listed,Iwould’ve wrinkled my nose at the humid rainforest hike, not the fancy helicopter ride. “What?” I ask.
“Aren’t those terrible for the environment? It feels, I dunno,ickyto be in a helicopter that’s emitting all that pollution over the same wildlife we’re trying to admire. There’s the noise pollution as well.”
“Okay, Steve Irwin. When did you become such a big expert on aircraft pollution and wilderness conservation?”
“I’ve been reading up on it lately.”
“You have?” I ask, surprised.
“Yeah, actually. There’s some really interesting literature that’s been published over the past few years. It’s kind of… all I’ve been reading lately.” He gestures at the book shoved into the seat pocket in front of him. “I actually got the memoir to break it up a bit.”
