Page 68 of Book Boyfriends
Doc’s words roam inside me, not quite nestling in and finding a place to call home. They’re just there wandering around. Logically, I understand the gist of what he’s saying. One shouldn’t take responsibility for other people’s actions, but I don’t see the correlation. Doc’s injury was an accident. I know that, but it doesn’t change my regret that it occurred.
“I sound like an inspirational poster.” Laughing, he taps my hand. “Enough life philosophy, let’s see what you brought me?” He pulls out a paperback from the gift bag. “Dating Dr. Dillby Nisha Sharma,” he reads the title out loud.
“It’s a modern retelling of Shakespeare’sThe Taming of the Shrew,” I say, taking the chair by his bedside, hanging my purse on its arm.
“Is it steamy?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Just a bit.” With a cheeky expression, I squeeze together my index finger and thumb.
“Guess Estelle and I can’t do this one for our weekly dramatic readings.”
“Perhaps just a buddy read for you two.” I laugh. “There are two other books in the series that I’ve already ordered from Heartbound Book Shop. They’ll be delivered on Monday. They should keep you busy while recovering.”
He sits the book on the bedside table. “I’d rather use my downtime to readyournext book.”
“Ah…” I tap my foot against the chair leg.
“Still blocked?”
“How?” I gesture at him.
“Each time I ask you about it, you get all dodgy like you owe me money. Once you committed to the idea for your first book, it only took you four months before you had the initial draft complete. The same for the other two. It’s been at leastsix months since you started this book. With the others, you brainstormed and discussed ideas. You were almost like a kid the night before Christmas, all full of anticipation about your story.”
I slump into the chair’s cushioned back. “I don’t think I’m that kid anymore.”
My passion for storytelling is braided into my DNA. Whether I’m reading or writing them, stories offer comfort. Each celiac flare up. My parents’ turbulent marriage and, later, divorce. Will and Lena. Through every big and little heartbreak, my stories were there.
“They’re not talking to me.” I blink back the sting of looming tears.
It’s silly to cry over this, but pain radiates in my chest with the idea that I’ll have no more stories to tell. It almost hollows me out, leaving nothing behind but me.
“Are they not speaking, or are you just not listening?” Thoughtfulness shimmers in his gaze. “Anytime you have a story idea, you start with how it turns out. It’s hard to start a story at the end and even harder to write it, if that ending isn’t the right one.”
Blinking, I think of Owen’s critique ofTwice Baked Love. It’s his and Selena’s story, and even he believes the ending may be the wrong one.
“If we only have a single notion of how things are supposed to turn out, we’ll never hear the rest of the story. We’re too focused on trying to force things to fit that ending, and when they don’t, we toss them.”
“But if you know how it should be, why wouldn’t you work to make that happen?”
“Does the end serve the story, or does the story serve the ending?” His mouth quirks. “Peach, you’re one of my favoritewriters, but you get so bogged down by making things turn out the way you picture that you aren’t open to anything else.”
The comfort I find in my stories is the endings. That no matter what happens, everything turns out as it should.Well, as I believe it should.That singular focus on not just the ending, but that things would end how I want them has steadied me in choppy waters, but it’s also kept me from seeing the here and now.
Both my brothers’ voices echo inside me. Jackson’s warnings about Will that I ignored, and Rem’s concerns about my inability to commit after a single date. So many of those dates were terrible, but some of them weren’t…Until I found a reason for them to be.
“And not just in my books.” I dash away the few tears that escape.
It’s strange how my little security blanket now seems to smother, rather than snuggle around me. The stories may not be talking to me, but the fixation on happy endings guides me like a wayward compass. I have no idea how things will turn out. My book boyfriends. My writing. Davis. All were impacted by my fixation.
“I hate to see you cry, but sometimes we need to just let it out.” Doc holds up the tissue box from the bedside table.
I take a few and dab at my eyes. “I’m supposed to be here comforting you. You’re the one busted up and in the hospital.” I wipe away my remaining tears and toss the tissue in the waste basket near the bed.
Hetsks. “I broke my hip, but my noggin is still at one hundred percent.”
“And so is your heart.” I lean over and take his hand.
“Not to mention this helps me as much as you, especially after the last few days of everyone fussing over me. This reminds me that I still got it. That no matter what, I have ways to dothe things that give me passion—like encouraging my favorite author to write a swoony medical romance inspired by Estelle and me.” He winks, causing me to laugh.
