Page 10 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Sorry. I know. I’m avoiding. But since you asked…” She watches me for a second, the mattress creaking as she shifts closer, like she’s telling me a secret. “I write romance novels. God, it feels weird to say that out loud.” A deep breath escapes her lips, and the tension in her body melts away. She actually looks relieved.
“You write full-length novels?”
“Well, I’ve written one and a half so far. I just started. My first is about strangers, Bryce and Layla, who meet on a train, connect, and agree to meet up on the same day of each year for five years. One year, he doesn’t show up, and then a year later, they become coworkers. I’m starting on my second, about a prime minister’s personal assistant. I’m going to call itThe Prime Minister & Me.”
Holy shit.
“Andi, do you realize how cool that is?” I lean forward, astonished by how casually those words came out of her mouth. Why is she not an ounce proud of herself?
Another shrug.
“You’ve literally written an entire book and a half. Who else can say that? Not many people.” At least not people who I come across day to day. When she still refuses to admit how kick-ass she is, I continue on. “Actually, my sister, Emma, loves romance novels. She used to steal my grandma’s old paperbacks and hide in the closet reading them, way past her bedtime. I think she has one of those e-readers now. Anytime she can get a break from the kids, she’s glued to it.”
She glances up at me, encouraged. “Your sister sounds like my kind of girl.”
“She’s sweet, but she has a dark side. If I ever interrupted her while she was reading, she’d literally hiss at me.”
“Never get between a woman and her happily ever after,” she warns, a smile flirting at the edge of her mouth.
“I’m guessing you’re a hopeless romantic like Em?”
She turns her soft gaze back to her lap. “Not really. I’d consider myself more of a realistic romantic.”
“What does that mean?”
She lifts a shoulder and pulls her legs tight to her chest. “I think true love exists to some degree. But that happily-ever-after, everlasting romance we’re told to hold out for? I’m not so sure. In my experience, those initial butterflies, the lust and sexual chemistry in the first few months or years of your relationship, fade with time until you’re left clinging towhat was.”
Wow. I didn’t expect her answer to be so bleak, even if it isn’t far from the truth. “Damn. Who hurt you?”
“No one in particular. Life, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I think those lightning-in-a-bottle moments exist. The ones that sweep you off your feet and leave you winded. The moments that inspire all the great love stories and make you believe in magic. That’s what I love about writing romance. You get to capture that snapshot in time when real life is better than any dream. The moments that make life worth living. Will the characters experience hardship later on? Fight? Fall out of love? Maybe. But we as the reader or writer get to experience the pinnacle of their love. It’s joy in the purest sense. It may not always be realistic, but it makes me giddy and hopeful in a way I haven’t felt since I was a little kid who believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny. It makes me feel like anything is possible. At least, for a moment,” she finishes, voice wistful, almost hopeful.
I’ve never been a romantic myself, but I could listen to this woman talk about her writing all night. There’s something beautiful about the way she describes it. The way her eyes glint, starlit with possibility. The subtle curve in the warmth of her smile. It stirs a deep ache in me. A longing, a homesickness for a feeling I’ve never actually felt, if that’s even possible. How can I miss something I’ve never had?
I’ve also never heard anyone talk this openly about love. When you’re in my line of work, conversations about love go about as far as a crude joke in the mess hall.
“And no one has read anything you’ve written?” I ask, bewildered by this woman.
“Nope. I don’t know if anyone ever will. I thought abouttrying to get published. I did all the research on the best agents and publishing houses, but I’m also considering self-publishing online. I don’t know. My new job is proving to be pretty demanding, so finding pockets of time to write is hard.”
“If that’s your dream, writing, I mean, I think you should pursue it. With everything you have,” I tell her.
She eyes me for a moment. “How can you say that when you haven’t read my work? What if it’s complete crap?”
“If your writing is a sliver of the magic of what you just said about love, I can tell you with absolute certainty it isn’t complete crap. Listen, what you said about real life being hard and wanting to give people that hope and escape was fucking amazing. Imagine what your stories could do for someone else going through a hard time.”
She fidgets, running her fingers through her hair. “The issue is, my day job is kind of…serious. I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. The books can get a little…uh, steamy.”
“First, who cares what other people think? But if you really want to stay anonymous, you could use a different name. Don’t writers do that all the time? Then no one would know it’s you.”
“True. That’s a good idea, actually.” She keeps twisting the ends of her hair, seemingly mulling it over.
“Are you open to any suggestions?” I ask after a couple moments of easy silence.
“Sure.”
“Don’t name your main character Bryce.” I’m only half joking.
She clasps her chest in mock offense. “Why not? What’s wrong with Bryce?”
