Last Thorsday Night
Holly Lisle
The Thorsday Night Writers were getting down to business when a cold autumn wind swirled through the room, leaving a tall, rugged blond in its wake. He stood in the doorway, looking a little lost and a lot out of place – a man who did not belong.
It’s hard to look out of place in a writers’ group – especially one like ours, which specializes in science fiction and fantasy.
Jason MFA-Working-on-PhD had the mandatory professorial waist-length ponytail, goatee and tweed jacket; William I-Write-Bleeding-Edge-Crossover dressed only in black turtlenecks and black jeans; Carol My-Tiny-Heroines-Can-Kick-Your-Big-Ol’-Heroes’-Asses dyed her hair carrot orange in homage to Robert Heinlein’s heroines, wore elf-green contact lenses, and favoured spandex – which admittedly looked fantastic on her; Apocalypse-and-Dystopia Tophe (short for Christopher) had run out of places to tattoo, and had moved on to making sure he’d never pass through a metal detector alive; and Shora I-Only-Write-in-the-Nude (who thankfully wasn’t writing at the moment), favoured low-cut skintight angora sweaters, miniskirts, and six-inch heels when she did deign to dress. An ex-stripper, she was smart and tough, hated her job as an office manager, and wrote unfinished fantasy novels about women who conquered the universe by lying on their backs.
In contrast, the stranger’s summer-blond hair was short and neat, and he wore a plain dark-brown T-shirt with a pocket – no clever sayings – and faded blue jeans a little on the tight side (bless you, handsome newcomer). He did have well-defined muscles; what he did not have was a Look. “Sorry I’m late,” he said to Jason, and myheart hit the floor at the rumble of his voice. Oh, that voice. “I had a little trouble finding the place. Thank you for inviting me.”
He glanced at everyone in the room, studied me for a longer moment, and gave me the sort of smile a five-year-old gives an icecream cone. He strode through the circle of folding chairs and took the empty seat to the right of mine.
Which simply doesn’t happen.
Because . . . me, I’m the woman men notice when there aren’t any busty twenty-something ex-lap dancers or sylphlike Heinlein heroines around. We were full-up on both, and they had empty seats next to them, too.
The new guy swung his enormous backpack to the floor beside him, where it made a substantial thud, pulled a legal pad and pen out of it, then leaned over to me and whispered, “What have I missed?”
All the oxygen leaving the room, I thought. When did that happen?
I managed to find my voice though, and I said, “Pizza. When Jason hosts, he always has pizza for us before the meeting.”
“No writing yet?”
“No. Official start time is in ten minutes. You’re not actually late,” I told him. “We ’re waiting for two other writers to arrive – Narnie, who has a long drive to get here, and Tyler.” I’d been halfheartedly and sporadically dating Tyler for about four months, a fact I suddenly wished wasn’t true.
Tyler arrived like the king for his coronation, spotted the stranger sitting beside me, and glared at him. He came over and took the empty seat on my other side, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Who’s he?”
“New guy,” I whispered back. “Jason invited him. We haven’t done introductions yet. We’re still waiting on Narnie.”
Narnie Hampstead was our resident pro. She had fifteen published novels, plus a bunch of shorts in various magazines. Jason had an MFA and taught creative writing, but Narnie actually wrote for a living. She was the one whose crits we all saved and double-checked as we were writing and revising.
The rest of us were wannabes. I was the Wannabe-Least-Likely-to-Ever-Publish-Anything.
It wasn’t that I didn’t write. Seven completed novels gathereddust and mouse droppings in the trunk at the foot of my bed, and I could not muster the courage to send out any of them.
After a year in the group, I’d finally brought myself to readWall of Rivers, the best of my trunk novels, to everyone. Narnie told me I should send it out, that it was really good.
But I hadn’t. I couldn’t.
Next to me, the stranger was introducing himself. I realized Narnie had come in and taken her seat while my head was in the clouds.
“Thanks, Jason,” the stranger said. “I’m Per Tordönsson. I’m just getting started writing. I didn’t bring anything to read tonight. I want to see how this works first.”
Both Carol and Shora oozed “Hi, Per,” in melting tones. Beside me, Tyler snorted.
“I’m Nila,” I told Per. “I write, but I haven’t sold anything yet.”
Per looked into my eyes and smiled again. All he said was, “Wonderful to meet you,” but he said it like he meant it.Reallymeant it. Like meeting me was the most important thing he’d done all year.
There may be a moment in every woman’s life when she sees someone she doesn’t know and, for just that moment, wants what she cannot have because every cell in her body is screaming at her that this . . .thisis the person she’s supposed to be with. Or maybe that’s just me. But right then, right there, feeling the bass vibrations of Per’s voice resonating in my chest, staring back into his eyes, with his left knee bumping my right one . . . that wasmymoment.
I wanted.
I could feel Tyler stiffen in the seat on my other side. He put his arm around me and said, “I’m Tyler Boothe Mayall, the defence attorney. I intend to be the John Grisham of fantasy.” He was a Thorsday Night charter member, and he’d been using that as his introduction sinceIjoined.
Per called him on it. “Terry Brooks beat you to that thirty years ago, big guy.” This caused Tophe and Carol, who couldn’t stand Tyler, to burst out laughing. Giggles echoed around the rest of the room. I stifled my own laugh, but not fast enough.
