And now I know, whether I want it or not, it’s not on the table.
“I have no intention of giving you a second chance.” She doesn’t sound so sure, but I don’t let myself linger on what could be wishful thinking.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” She nods, rubbing her palms against the tops of her thighs. “Let’s get to work.”
The next few hours play out like our own little movie montage. We start in separate corners of the room, communicating in grunts and eye rolls and the occasional sarcastic comment.
When Jess starts arching her back, I offer to switch places, letting her sit on the bed while I take the chair so she can be more comfortable but still keep the space between us.
But it doesn’t take long before my own back starts aching. I’m accustomed to my ergonomic chair, and yes I know exactly how spoiled that makes me sound.
Jess watches me suffer for a few minutes before letting out a long sigh. “Just come back to the bed.”
I do, cautiously, like she might change her mind and whack me in the face with a pillow. Because we’re using the pillows to prop up our backs and our laptops, the barrier down the middle of the bed has disappeared, leaving just a foot of open space between us.
We write in silence for a few minutes.
“I really like the idea of the musical revue. It’s a fun way to bring them together.” It’s a partial lie, I actually hate that part, would never dream of writing about something so outwardly cheesy, but Jess’s unique voice—sharp and witty, fully indicative of her humor—has made it fun. And I need to say something to break the tension between us.
“Thanks. You’ve created some really good side characters. I love the family dynamic, especially the way the siblings interact with one another.” She sounds like she actually means it too.
“Thanks.” In the past, it was hard for me to write sibling relationships, since my own were so strained. But overthe years, as the disappointment of me leaving Ohio and the family business has abated, it’s become much easier for me to relate to my brothers, and for them to relate to me.
There’s a few more minutes of quiet, each of us working in the Google doc, changing names and filling in missing details.
Jess stops typing, the silence much longer than it would be if she just needed to find the right word or come up with a transition. I chance a glance over at her and find her cheeks flushed a bright pink.
I scroll through the doc, finding her place and realizing exactly why she’s so flushed. “Maybe we can work on the sex scene later?” I suggest.
“Yes, definitely,” she agrees before I can even get the full thought out. She clears her throat. “But maybe this is a good time to talk about the ending?”
“The ending?” We’re only about halfway, still have at least a dozen scenes to get through before we get to the final act.
She pulls her lip between her teeth. “All of my books have happy endings.”
“But you’ve been struggling to see how this one would come together?”
She nods. “But that doesn’t mean I feel okay with no HEA.”
“My readers will be expecting the book to end with the couple not together.”
“And my readers, like all romance readers, will be expecting them to overcome their problems and find a way back to each other.” Her brown eyes meet mine. “Theproblem is, I don’t know if that’s realistic. Sometimes when people break up, it’s for a good reason.”
I pull in a calming breath, knowing this is about so much more than what’s happening on the page. “And sometimes people need time to grow and change, before they find their way back together.”
She raises one eyebrow. “So you think this book can end happily?”
I force my eyes back to the screen. “Honestly, Jess, at this point, I don’t know what I think.”
It takes twenty-four hours, both of us working on different sections of the now-combined manuscript, each of us taking turns raiding the almost-empty vending machines, neither of us catching more than a couple of hours of sleep. But by the evening of the next day, we have it.
It’s still rough and probably riddled with plot holes, and not actually finished—we haven’t talked about the ending again—but Jess and I have taken our two separate stories and merged them into one.
She collapses into a heap on her side of the bed, slamming her laptop closed and shoving it (gently) to the floor. “Are my eyes bleeding? They feel like they’re bleeding.”
I pretend to give her a cursory eye exam, really using the time to unabashedly stare. “I think you’ve managed to escape with both eyeballs firmly intact.”
