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My gaze shifts down to the blank screen on the computer.
Still nothing.
I close my eyes. In my head, I can hear music, and with the world shut away, I pretend I’m the one playing the notes.
Ideas form.
They flutter to life the way that fireflies do when you release them from the glass jar.
I can’t seem to catch hold of any of them.
It’s ironic that’s the analogy that came to mind. Gideon, although not here, is always in my mind. I drum my fingers on the desk as I try to focus, but instead, all I can think of is how writing this essay feels like trying to weave a tapestry out of thin air.
Finally, I take a deep breath and move my fingers over the keyboard.
As soon as I do, the ideas come tumbling out of me.
I feel alive.
Hours pass, and when I look down, I smile; the essay is done.
I skim through it one more time.
It’s good. Solid.
Gideon would be proud of me.
Why does it always go back to him?
It shouldn’t be about him.
“This essay is about me, about my dreams,” I say out loud. “This is about what I want.”
I want Gideon.
How did I get to this point?
And now that I have, what does it mean?
Can I have a future with him?
It’s the same question, over and over again, and I’m getting sick of harping on it.
42
GIDEON
I takea sip of my scotch, and the smooth, smoky liquid slides down my throat. Heat spreads throughout my body, and I savor it. Letting the flavor roll around on my tongue, I close my eyes and let out a sigh.
This day needs to be done.
Nothing would make me happier than to walk the fuck out of this room, find Sasha, and sink deep inside her.
But nope, I’m reclined in my chair, sloshing my drink around, waiting for my guest to arrive.
Lifting the glass back up, I take another gulp.
Meeting with a Russian informant is not how I want to spend my night.
