“Me too,” I said and felt like my heart was three beats from growing wings and flapping out of my chest.
He let out a sigh. “So. In this life where you have your cozy cottage in England, what are you doing?” he asked. I could tell when the subject was being changed. I wouldn’t push.
“I want to be a writer,” I said.
He gave me a pointed look. “I don’t know how to break this to you, but you are a writer.”
I tilted my head and made a face. “A real writer.”
“Explain.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. His whole body took up so much space without ever feeling oppressive.
“Respected. Published,” I said.
“Ah.”
Somehow that felt like it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“If I’m published, then I’ll be taken seriously,” I clarified.
“You’ve said that before,” he said.
“Have I?”
He stilled and focused on his glass of water. “I mean, it seems like something you’ve said a lot. This idea that you need to be published to be considered a success.”
I frowned. “I suppose. I feel like most people think of my fic as a silly hobby. When I’m published, it won’t feel like I’ve wasted all this time.”
“I don’t think it’s a waste if you enjoy it.” He held my gaze. “It seems to have made an impact on a lot of people. It’s what got you here.”
“True,” I said. I hoped I didn’t sound ungrateful. The need to explain spilled out before I could stop. We were so far past overshare, we were basically seventh grade girl besties levels of close.
“When I was eighteen, the summer before college, my mother took me to the Met on a business trip to New York. We passed theJoan of Arcpainting by Jules Bastien-Lepage and I was transfixed. The young girl stands out against the muted browns and greens of the background. Her haunted eyes pierced through to a truth that nobody else could see. And the longer I looked, the more detail I could see of the three angels in the background. A girl younger than me who changed the course of history. It was impossible to comprehend.
“My mother eventually joined me at my side when I hadn’t moved on. She said, ‘That’s you.’
“I’d preened at her words. She almost never doled out compliments and the artist obviously held the subject in such high esteem. Then she added, ‘A young woman with her head in the clouds and hearing voices, just like your stories.’” I couldn’t quite meet Charlie’s gaze. His hand was clenched on the table, just a few inches from mine. He didn’t speak, so I went on.
“It hadn’t been a compliment but a censure of the fan fiction that had been taking more and more of my time. I walked away from the painting and shortly after chose a ‘safe’ major in business instead of creative writing.”
“I never knew that,” he said, frowning to himself.
“How could you?” I shook off his pity. “But that’s the moment I knew I was a joke to her.”
“You’re not a joke. You don’t need a publishing contract to prove that.” His tone was so serious I was forced to meet his intense gaze.
But he didn’t know me; we were strangers. He couldn’t understand all the looks of disapproval I’d gotten over the years.
“Thank you,” I said. “Look at us. A couple of armchair therapists over here.” I chuckled awkwardly and he smiled.
I’d just about worked up the nerve to ask if he had read my stories when he glanced at his phone and swore.
“We better get back. Sally wants to get a few more questions in.” He put down an alarming amount of cash on the check that had also magically appeared.
“Oh, yeah.” It was best not to ask; I would overanalyze his response to the point of driving myself mad. Plus, I wouldn’t be able to make eye contact again. My blushes were already becoming an issue.
I checked my phone. There was another text from Pete.
You wasted no time, I see.I frowned, not understanding the message but felt a wave of anxiety.
