CHAPTER 13
I was nursing a terrible feeling. A feeling that gnawed inside me like one of those bot flies. You’ve seen the YouTube videos, right? They burrow into your skin and, when you squeeze, some big larva comes out, all plump and juicy from its comfy hibernation in your warm flesh. I wanted to throw up just thinking about it, and cursed myself for all those YouTube rabbit holes I so often went down. I start watching videos of cute cats and somehow land up on a weird Russian woman pouring slime over a microphone while whispering the alphabet at you in a mysterious way.
After leaving the cemetery, I went back to the hotel and sat in my room trying to type up a response to that letter. But it wasn’t working.How the hell was I meant to respond to that, when I’d never experienced anything close to that kind of love and devotion before?I’d certainly never been loved like that—a love that seemed unselfish and kind. Who was this woman who was so utterly adored? Everything I tried to write seemed so lackluster and pale in comparison. Well, of course it was. I had no great love story to pull from. All my “love stories” had been utter disasters. I’d dated a much-older man in college, and I didn’t need a psychologist to tell me I’d been looking for a father figure. It had ended abruptly when we realized we had absolutely nothing in common and there was no passion. Then there was the son of the lady I’d worked for, but I’d liked her more than him. She had been so nice to me and taken me under her wing. Again, probably just an attempt to create the family I’d never had. I’d been looking more for a mother than a partner. And then, finally, the man I’d considered to be the great love of my life, only he’d had another love and it wasn’t me. My psychologist had pointed out how I’d probably unconsciously chosen him because he was unavailable, like my dad. My dad was dead, not unavailable. Sometimes psychologists just took it too far.
After going round and round for two hours unsuccessfully, I stopped trying to write. The beanbag I was sitting on was uncomfortable and I was starting to get a strange pain in my shoulder blade. I also found myself suffering from cabin fever in this room, which seemed smaller than it had when I’d first walked in. The walls were making me anxious, and I kept looking to the door, hoping it was unlocked. Getting trapped in the elevator had definitely made me feel unsettled in confined spaces. I left my room in the hope of finding something else to do, and I very quickly found myself sitting at the hotel bar,notdrinking, simply staring down at my Coca-Cola, watching as the bubbles fizzed away, making the edges of the ice cubes smaller and smaller. I started to imagine that those ice cubes were the story I was trying to tell, and the bubbles were a carbonated combination of all my fears, anxieties, insecurities and growing guilt, making my ability to tell the story less and less. I downed the Coke so I couldn’t watch it anymore. I needed to get to that willow tree; maybe if I saw the engraving that she’d made, I would have more of a sense of her and would be able to write. But how? I needed to have at least 80,000 words written in less than twenty-one days, and that thought was driving me crazy.
I heard a huge cheer and looked to my left. A group of guys was watching the rugby on the TV in the corner of this fine establishment. The nineties rave-esque decor of the hotel had also spilled into this small bar. This was evident from the lime green, vinyl bar stool I was sitting on and the ultraviolet light that was making my pale pink nail polish look luminous white. The cheers from the corner were getting louder and it seemed that the big game was reaching its conclusion as manly high-fives mounted. Clearly, their team had won. I didn’t really pay much attention to things like rugby—or any sport, for that matter. It reminded me a little too much of an uncomfortable part of my childhood. I looked down at my phone; I needed a distraction. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about—the kind where you’re blowing up bits of candy, or decorating your virtual fish tank, or imaginary living room. So gratifyingly mind numbing. Meditation for the modern mind. Ten minutes later, while I was happily adding some bright pink sun loungers to my gorgeous patio in Belize, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I jumped in my seat and swung around, and then looked straight athim.
“Uh,you! I . . . didn’t see you, sorry, I got a fright,” I said, as my heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t know why it was beating so fast—because I’d gotten a sudden fright, or because he was standing there, so close to me?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Captain Magic Mike said, and then he smiled at me. He was wearing civilian clothes, as they might say in his profession, and looking . . . looking . . . so, so . . .wow!
Breathless.
Stupidly breathless.
And did I mention he was smiling at me?
