Page 91 of Wish You Would

“Then I…walked away.”

I looked up some time later to find everyone watching me with tears in their eyes. Even Simon, who prided himself on his stoicism. Cari doled out napkins and we all dabbed our faces. The coffee shop was quiet, save for the occasional sniffle. And, you know what? I felt better.

Not better better. My heart still ached like it’d been run over a couple hundred times by a bulldozer. But at least I could pull a full breath into my lungs again. One would think I’d know how beneficial talking about things was, considering my soon-to-be profession.

Alas.

Once the tears were sufficiently dried, Jill spoke up. “That is one hell of a black moment.”

Cari nodded, her face serious. “Truly,” she agreed. “The darkest of dark nights.”

Simon and I looked between them, then at each other, bafflement mirrored on both our faces. Simon spoke first. “You two mind explaining what in the cryptic sound bites we just encountered?”

Jill laughed, her blue eyes sparkling behind her neon pink glasses. “Sorry,” she said. “We sometimes forget that not everyone speaks fluent romance novel.”

Cari pivoted in her seat, pulling one leg up. “So,” she started, all-business, “the black moment is the all hope is lost moment in a romance.” Her brown eyes danced with enthusiasm. “It’s when our main characters retreat back into themselves, run away from their feelings, let their wounds win.”

Across from her, Jill nodded, shifting excitedly in her seat. “It definitely sounds like you both let your wounds win.”

I frowned, looking from one writer to the other, then to Simon, who shrugged, just as lost as me. “Okay,” I said slowly. “I’ll bite. What’s a wound?”

“Ooh, all right.” Cari dropped her feet to the floor. “So. A wound is something that happened in a character’s past that affects how they operate today. Usually some sort of trauma, big or small, that has left an impression on them and shaped who they are.”

As she spoke, my brain pinged with memory. Gigi telling me about her dad, and the regret over not being here for him when he was sick. The guilt that pushed her to take over Heathcliff’s so her brother could step back. Her stubborn belief that she couldn’t have it all—the bar, the band…love.

I’ve hurt too many people I care about already.

My eyes stung. I blinked and looked away, fumbling for a fresh napkin.

In my periphery, I saw Cari and Jill lean in. Then, in an act of Twilight Zone weirdness, they both asked, “What is her wound?”

Simon put his arm around my shoulder and eyed the two women. “Are all writers this weird?”

Jill nodded. Cari grinned. “Yep.”

“On the upside,” Jill added. “We could help you plan one hell of a grand gesture.”

I was about to ask what, exactly, a grand gesture was when there was a knock on the front door. All four of us turned at the sound. A disgruntled old man stood on the sidewalk, gesturing to the hours of operation sign.

Simon heaved a ginormous sigh and stood. “Back to work, ladies. Leave it to a man to ruin our fun.” He walked across the dining room to open the door, flipping the sign back to Open. “Sorry, sorry,” he sang as he let the man in. “Staff meeting, you understand.”

The man harrumphed and marched to the counter. “Black coffee,” he grunted. “Large. And make sure it’s hot. None of that lukewarm bull-hockey, young man.”

Across the counter, Simon caught my eye and quirked a brow. I gave him my most sympathetic smile and stood.

“Hey,” Cari said, putting a hand over mine.

I paused, turning back to her.

“We’re so sorry you’re hurting.” She squeezed my hand. “Both of you.”

Jill smiled up at me, empathy radiating from her. “This isn’t the end of your story. You two aren’t done yet.”

I returned her smile, hope and despair battling behind my ribs like Godzilla vs. King Kong. I thought about telling her that it felt very much like the end. That I didn’t see an ending where Gigi and I fixed things. That the wounds we both had were not compatible. We were two broken pieces from different masterpieces. Our wounds? They only poked at each other. They only hurt.

But I kept all of that inside. Who was I to crush the idealism of these two romance novelists?

“Thank you,” I said instead, taking a step back. “Happy writing.”

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