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“Really? I was moping in both directions,” I say.
She laughs. “Yeah, but one was sad, and the other was angry. You’ve gotten your fire back.”
Maybe I have. Maybe my vacation self had found it, and brought it back to me.
I have a job I enjoy. A book I’m excited to write. A family I love, a goddaughter on the way, and a new house that’s all mine.
So what if a teeny, tiny little postcard hadn’t arrived?
I’ll just have to live with the memories of him instead.
I’m driving home from work when I get the call.
It had been a good day. A great one, even. My kindergarteners are currently exploring the solar system, and we’d spent the better part of the day creating papier-mâché replicas of Saturn.
During my lunch break, I’d grabbed my prepackaged salad and ate it in my car. It wasn’t sad at all—it was necessary, because it let me write on my laptop all through lunch. I’d never have gotten the peace and quiet in the break room.
The killer sisters are quickly becoming the most interesting part of the story for me. I’m focusing more on them and the mystery and less on the romance.
Maybebecause I still haven’t solved the other little puzzle at the heart of it all… who’s going to be the main character’s love interest.
I’ve tried to brainstorm other characters. I even got really far into writing a version where the hotel manager was the romantic interest, but it didn’t feel right. Nothing did. Does.
Except…
The one version of the story I’m not supposed to write; that hurts to write. The one where Phillip is my inspiration. The worst part is that I know it would be easy, like falling into a memory and pulling emotions out of experience rather than thin air.
But I don’t want to think about him, because every time I do, I get angry.
At myself. At the situation. And then at him and for what he said on the phone to his sister, and because I could hear the relief in his voice. He was genuine. He meant every one of those words.
I suppose I’d gotten in the way of a lot of work for him those two weeks. And maybe it had been fun, being with me. Diverting, even. I couldn’t deny that he had been… well… he’d wanted to have sex. A lot. He was attracted to me.
That counted for something, and I couldn’t pretend it didn’t. I had my confidence back in that area, at least.
It was just themorehe didn’t want.
And that’s totally fine, if I think about it logically. Convenient, even, seeing as we don’t live in the same state and are both getting out of our respective relationships. But I’m still angry and hurt that he came to that conclusion when I was starting to feel the opposite.
But… Onwards and upwards.
So I’m still in a good mood when I’m driving back home from work. Saturn, book writing, and the warmth of May in the air.
The call is from Becky. I put her on speakerphone and keep driving.
“Hey?”
“It’s Patrick.” His voice is rushed. “It’s happening.”
“It’s happening?”
“Yes. We’re on our way to the hospital now.”
“Okay. I’ll go pick up Ziggy,” I say. Their Jack Russell mix hates being left alone, and none of us know how long their stay at the hospital would be.
We’d worked out this game plan months ago. Becky goes into labor; I go get the dog.
“Thanks,” he says. There’s a low groan in the background and then I hear Becky’s voice, frantic and angry.
