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The heavy sigh that slips past her lips as she rests her head on my shoulder fills me with dismay. She won’t let go of me, either, which further confuses me.
“I’m sorry, Levi. There’s nothing I’d like more, but I have a splitting headache and need to go to bed early. Another time,” Stella says.
“A headache again? Are you okay? Are you really okay?” I ask, lifting her chin with my thumb and index so I can peer deep into the hazy blue pools of her eyes. “What’s going on with you, Stella?”
“Just the headache. It’s nothing, really,” she replies. “I’m tired, Levi. I work my ass off every day, saving every penny so I can move on with my life and keep my kids safe, happy, and well fed. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I want to understand.”
“Another time,” Stella repeats. “Right now, I just need to sleep.”
It’s hard for her, too, but she manages to pull away and give me a weak smile. All I can do is let go. I can’t force her. I can’t make her do something she doesn’t want to do. Whatever is holding her back, it’s serious enough to affect the dynamic in our relationship. And I am nowhere near ready nor willing to let go of this extraordinary woman.
“You can always talk to me about anything, you know that, right?” I ask.
She nods softly. “I know. And thank you, Levi. I mean it.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night,” she says and goes back into her room.
I stare at the closed door for maybe another minute before I decide to enjoy that evening stroll on my own. My heart feels heavy. My stomach tightens with every step. The anxiety of her intentional absence has my senses spinning out of control, but a walk through the woods is always a good way to pull myself back together, to regain some balance and move forward with my life and my thoughts.
She knows I’m here for her. It’s all I can do.
An hour later, I’m still walking. The forest behind the Elizabeth is a sprawling emerald winter paradise with gargantuan oaks and pines that predate the town itself. Ancient giants with gnarly, twisting roots that jut out from the mossy ground, magnificent crowns that create a thick canopy blocking most of the night sky. Their crowns are replaced by thick coats of snow, and countless leaves and patches of ice crunch under my boots—the overall effect is soothing for an agitated mind. I reach a clearing with tall grass and an untouched blanket of snow and young, naked maple trees jutting out and reaching for the night, where the full moon pours all of its milky light and bathes everything in a lovely glow.
I sit on the edge of a thick stump and try to gather my thoughts. It’s been a wild ride with the bed and breakfast. I was nervous about it at first—about investing in a business I knew little to nothing about. I trusted my best friends, however. I still trust them. My life wouldn’t be the same without Isaac, Noah, and Beau in it. We’ve learned plenty together. We grew up together in more than one way. Sharing a woman like Stella feels like a natural progression of our close bond and timeless friendship.
But she’s slipping through our fingers. I can tell. And I’m certain they’re aware of it, too. Yet no one dares to do anything about it. Will we just let it fizzle out on its own? Are we really that scared of what life could evolve into if we stay with her? Is it truly madness if we try to make it work in the long run? What’s the harm in trying? We’re a perfect match in the bedroom. We never run out of topics of conversation. Stella finds joy and wonder in each of us equally. I never thought I would feel this way, but it’s real, it’s happening.
My phone rings. Judging by the hour and the caller ID, I’m guessing my agent forgot about the time zone differences. I was hoping I’d be left to my own devices out here, but when my agent calls, it’s important, otherwise he’d just text me.
“What’s up, Joe?” I answer with a heavy groan.
“Well, Levi, it happened,” Joe says. “They want you involved.”
“Who are we talking about here? Because we’ve had multiple meetings about me getting involved in one thing or another over the past couple of weeks.”
“I’m talking about your Dinah Steele series. The studio wants to make you a solid offer. Creator credits, based on a story by Levi Smith… plus an executive producer credit. But they want you to head the writers’ team, too.”
I’ve always wanted to sell the TV and movie rights to that particular series of thriller novels. Dinah Steele gave me the notoriety and stardom I needed to fully finance myself as an author, to be able to write my stories in peace without picking up a second job in order to support myself. Dinah Steele made me a ton of money, and it’s still one of my readers’ favorites to this day. It was only a matter of time before a studio picked it up. I’m just shocked they want me involved on a creative level.
“Don’t they usually have the director work with the author on these things? Why do they want me in the writers’ room?” I ask.
Joe scoffs. “It’s full creative control, any author’s wet dream! Remember how many times people wanted the movies to be more like the books because the author had no say in the creative process whatsoever?”
“I also remember the time Stephen King went on to make his own version ofThe Shiningand it fell flat after Kubrick.”
“You wanted this, remember? You specified it in every email you sent me… that you wanted some creative control in how they develop Dinah Steele for the small screen.”
“I just didn’t think I’d actually get it,” I mutter mostly to myself.
“You should be happy about this. I’m confused.”
Yeah, I’m equally confused. It’s what I’ve always wanted. The crowning achievement of a successful author is for them to produce their literary works for the screen. To be an actual part of the screenwriting process and to make sure the most valuable parts of the book are beautifully translated into the audio-visual experience. My heart should be racing, yet it’s sinking. I should be dancing and hyping myself up right about now.
Yet I can’t even get up from this old stump to really take the moment in.
