Page 23 of Wild Valentine
HAZEL
The next morning I stretch lazily, enjoying the dull ache between my legs that reminds me of last night.
We woke in the night to make love again, and then a third time in the predawn light. The last time was intense, clinging to each other, fearing it might be the last.
Marcus said this isn't a one night thing, but I don't see a way that we can be together.
There's no way I can move out here. Not with Mom the way she is, and besides, what would I do for work? I've got bills to pay, and that’s the reality of life. I need to be in New York for my job and for Mom.
But I can't ask Marcus to move to the city. I know he would if I ask. But he belongs here in the wilderness with his art and his MC. So I don't say anything as we eat breakfast together, the silence heavy with things unsaid.
I take a shower, and when I come out the cabin is silent. There’s a note on the table from Marcus saying he’s in his workshop and he’ll see me soon for coffee.
I smile at his barely legible scrawl. He's an artist alright, through and through with the messy handwriting to prove it.
It’s a few hours before I have to leave for my flight, but I understand why Marcus has gone to the workshop.
Last night has left me feeling inspired, and I head to my cabin to type up my thoughts.
It's a crisp morning but a little warmer than it's been, and winter sun breaks through the trees.
I leave the door to the cabin open, enjoying the fresh breeze and the sounds of birdsong. My mind feels sharp surround by nature, and I perch on the stool by the kitchen counter and open my laptop.
As usual, my mind’s spinning with every revelation about Marcus. My fingers fly over the keyboard as I get them out of my head and onto the page.
It’s about thirty minutes later when my phone rings.
I stretch as I stand up, and my heart sinks when I see that it's Scott. I put the phone on speaker and put it down on the counter so I can make a pot of coffee.
“Have you got the story?” There are no formalities. He gets straight to the point. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my temple with my thumb and forefinger.
“Did you get him to talk, Hazel?”
Scott’s New York accent sounds hard, impatient, and I can hear the sounds of traffic in the background. He's probably got his phone headset on as he walks from the subway to the office.
“Kinda.”
I’ve been trying not to think about my job. About what it will mean to not turn in the story.
I don't want to tell Scott over the phone. If he fires me, it will ruin my day, and I want one more good day. One last good memory before I’m unemployed with a stack of medical bills.
If I can just get through this phone conversation, I won't have to face him till I get back to the office. And then I'll deal with whatever I have to deal with.
I'll get a job stacking shelves in the local grocery store if I need to. I can write in the evenings, do freelance work, do whatever it takes to pay the bills.
“What do you mean, kinda? Hazel, have you got the story or not?”
I press my lips together as I pour hot coffee into my mug. I hate lying, but I really don't want to have this conversation now.
“Yeah, I got him to talk.”
“That's my girl.” Scott sounds happy, which is rare for him. “I knew you had it in you, Hazel. Let me guess. He was a hot-blooded man after all?”
Anger flares in my chest at the way he’s talking about Marcus. I want to tell him that he’s a human being. He’s not just a story. But instead I take a deep breath before I say something I'm going to regret.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice on edge. “I guess it worked. I got him to talk.”
I pick up my coffee, and I turn around. My heart leaps into my throat. Marcus is standing in the doorway.
