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“I . . . well, maybe it’s crossed my mind, but not to any great length.”
“Will you consider it now?”
“Are we talking a collection of my articles on New York or something different?”
“We can package your current stuff together and get it out there, but I think you have a great novelist inside you. What do you think about fiction?”
“I love fiction. Anything that allows the psyche to escape for a little period of time is a good thing.” I look down at the floor with a better understanding of what he wants from me. “Are we talking about the next great novel—Hemingway, Salinger, King-type stuff?” I feel the pressure being applied. This is usually the point when I tend to cave into my inner feelings of doubt.
“Look.” He shakes his hand at me, not scolding, but more matter of fact. “I know you like your free-living lifestyle, and that doesn’t have to change. I’m just saying if you let yourself attempt something of importance, you might succeed.”
“You seem to know me better than I do, but what you forget is it’s me who lives with me every day. I have accomplished a lot on my own, considering the circumstances surrounding those accomplishments—”
“You’re not understanding what I mean. And being from a wealthy family doesn’t constitute child abuse. Your talents are bigger than you give yourself credit for.” He walks closer, lending me his hand. Pulling me to my feet, he looks me in the eye. “Charlie! You can do this, and you should do this. Think about it and give me a call later this week with your answer.”
I remain speechless and leave the room, already feeling the weight of the burden placed on my shoulders. I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk back outside, finding comfort in the small action.
The rest of the afternoon is spent staring at a blank page on my computer, willing myself to write something, but I can’t. I’m not feeling it. Thankfully, I have a distraction. Tonight’s my date with Rachel.
The dinner is good enough, and as much as Rachel seems to be a nice person, I’m not sure if a love connection has been made. We end the night sitting at the bar and having a cocktail. Every once in a while, she says my name or pats my knee to bring my attention back to her. But instead of my name, I think of it as her name—the other Charlie, Rachel’s friend, Charlie. I jiggle my head a few times to shake it off, but even in my overanalytical state, I know where my interest lies, and it’s not here.
I’m relieved when she says, “Listen, I like you, Charlie, but I think we might be better as friends.”
I see the sincerity in her eyes and smile. “I agree. I like you—”
“We don’t have to go into all that. Let’s just leave it at we’ll stay friends.”
I chuckle. “Yes, I’d like that.”
The evening ends at the same restaurant where it began three hours earlier. When we walk out, she leans forward and kisses me, a kiss that stays chaste and on the cheek. Easier to cut ties that way.
“I’m so glad we did this. It was fun, Charlie. But damn if your name doesn’t throw me off every time. I keep thinking of my friend, and that just makes it weird.”
I chuckle, knowing exactly what she means. “I had a great time getting to know you, but you’re right.”
She laughs. “Friends.” Taking my hand, she squeezes gently. “Best of luck.”
“You, too. Thanks again.”
Right before she ducks into the waiting taxi, she says, “Call me if you want to hang out. All right?”
“Okay. Take care.”
I spend Tuesday running every pro and con through my mind, on paper, on my laptop, and out loud to strangers, searching for an answer regarding this novel idea. The only conclusion I come up with is that I should write this book. And although I explained the whole deal to Tony at the bagel shop, he’s more interested in the redhead I mentioned in passing. He said I should have asked Rachel for her friend’s number, but that’s just crass, in my opinion. He’s of no help with this major career decision. By the end of the day, I reason with myself. What if I write just for me? What’s the worst that could happen?
On Wednesday afternoon, to honor my great-aunt Grace, I decide to walk. She used to say our walks were her own saving grace before she was too sick to take them. But what I forgot to tell her was our walks were my saving grace, too. I enjoyed the peace they gave me, maybe even more than she did.
Chapter 5
Charlie B
While rushing along a side street that runs perpendicular to Park Avenue, I look down at my watch—it’s almost three. These things don’t start on time. There’s always leeway at weddings. I hope funerals follow the same standard protocol.
