AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Okay.” She rolls over, and I pull her blanket up over her shoulders. As I turn to go, I notice there, in the corner, is a small desk, and on it, the microphone and headphones she saved the day after the fire. Both are in professional looking stands, and there’s a sleeping laptop next to them. I take a step toward the desk and glance down at the open notebook.
I’m snooping.
And it’s rude.
I think about my own journal, in high school, and the wrath I’d unleash if anyone found it and read it without me knowing.
I step away.
But then. . .
The Bell Hooks quote. The same thing said by both the lady on the podcast and Emmy.
She did say she had a date. . .
I look back at the desk.
Why would Emmy, the owner of a bookstore in small town North Carolina, have what looks like a simple recording studio set-up in her childhood bedroom? It could be that Emmy is a fan of The Hopeful Romantic. . .or, it could be that she is The Hopeful Romantic.
The podcast, in her email, mentioned trying something practical.
That could’ve been her date last night.
Emmy stirs, and I startle, walking straight out of the room before I get caught.
I can’t really do much to help her, but for whatever reason, when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I decide not to leave. Something about seeing her like that sparked something inside me. It makes no sense because honestly, she looks physically worse than I’ve ever seen her. But the desire to take care of her is so strong, I can’t go.
I sit down in the living room and flip on the television, settling on reruns of The Office. She might sleep all day, but when she wakes up, I’ll be here, just in case.
That’s not romantic, it’s practical.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Emmy
I can’t escape Owen.
Even in my dreams, he’s there. And since I’m sick, my dreams are especially vivid.
In the one I just stirred from, I was standing on a long, thin path in a blue bamboo forest, with shifting shafts of light cutting through, mottling the dress I’m wearing.
I look down and realize I’m holding a bucket.
At the end of the path is Owen, wearing loose-fitting white linen pants and no shirt, holding a torch in one hand and, for some reason, a chicken in the other. As I start to move toward him, the rustling of the bamboo creates sounds like wooden chimes, knocking a rhythm that makes my whole body pulse.
Just as I’m about to reach him, reality drags me awake, and it’s odd, but I feel certain I’ve seen him. For real. Here, in my room.
I roll over, and I think maybe I might be feeling a little better. I push myself upright and take a second to check my dizziness and nausea before walking into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth, feeling weak and run down.
I hate being sick. When I’m sick, I can’t envision a time when I felt well.
I’ll never eat tilapia again.
The mental picture of that fish on my plate makes my stomach lurch again.
Blech.
So much for practical romance.
