Page 8 of Out of Focus

“Char, are you all right?” My twin’s tone is concerned.

“I’m fine,” I respond. “Ugh, no, I’m not!” There’s no use in lying to Maeve. She may have asked if I’m all right, but my greeting by way of a groan gave me away already.

“Oh, what is it, love?” I can practically feel her firm touch on my back as I come up for air. “Maybe I can help.”

My sister is one of my favorite people for many reasons, one of them being how well she can help me settle down. I sometimes feel so out of control, and when I do, Maeve is the one who can get me through it. She knows I write. I’ve done it since we were kids, but she has no idea I’ve ever published anything. Still, she treats this “hobby” of mine as seriously as anything else I’ve ever done because she knows how important it is to me. Like screaming into a pillow, writing is a way I can express the emotions I don’t know how to articulate out loud.

“I think this whole situation with Robert is throwing me off my writing game.” I have more time than I usually need to write, and I wanted to use this sabbatical from work to get most of it done, but it’s not working. Nothing is. I always find myself thinking about life in London—and about Robert—who weirdly hasn’t called or texted since our last conversation.

Should I be thankful or worried that he’s giving me space?

“What were you writing about? Talk it out with me.” Her steady tone and genuine interest put me at ease.

“It was… I don’t even know. This couple has already been in a relationship for a while, and I have no idea what that looks like, so I’m stuck.”

“All right. What’s happening with the characters?” Her voice remains calm as I hear her shuffling about on her end.

“They’ve been together for years, and they’ve become complacent, I suppose. Now, they’re finding their way back to one another. I’m struggling with the everyday stuff. The mundane. That and the intimacy that comes from two people knowing one another so well. I don’t actually know what that looks like.” My tone turns frantic again, and I take a deep breath to calm myself down. “This isn’t normal, is it? At least not for a romance writer, right?”

“Everyone struggles sometimes. Why do you think you’re having such a hard time with this?” Of course she’s not just giving me a fix to my problem. I swear this sister of mine should have been a therapist rather than an actress. Then again, she’s exceptionally good at what she does, so perhaps it’s okay that Elaina and I are the only two who reap the benefits of her counseling.

“I think it’s because I don’t want to just write the words for the sake of it. I need them to really mean something, and in order for that to happen, I have to draw from personal experience. Something I am seriously lacking at the moment when it comes to sex or any other kind of relationship.” My cheeks burn as I say it aloud. It’s Maeve, the person who knows me best, but it’s still embarrassing to admit.

“Hmm. So, what you’re saying is you need a good shag.” She doesn’t ask. That fact does not escape me.

“Is your answer to everything to go out and get laid?” She laughs then, and I can’t help it; I do, too. Few people can make me laugh like this—so genuinely—but with Maeve and Elaina, it’s natural. Easy, even.

“Pretty much! And I think, in this case, it’s the only answer. At the very least, you need to go on dates. Connect with someone. Push yourself out of your comfort zone.” A scowl overtakes my face as that final word. “Don’t scowl at me, Charlie Mae!”

“Right. Because dating in LA is just the easiest thing in the world!” I roll my eyes, knowing full well how much harder it used to be for her to find anyone to date because she can’t go anywhere without being recognized. “And it’s not like I haven’t tried. I have triiiiiied!”

Ugh, how I’ve tried. Over the years, I’ve dated them all. The famous ones who had egos so big I felt like I was competing for the oxygen in the room. The rich ones who were obsessed with their portfolios and cars. One time, I nearly fell asleep on a date as he tried to explain the stock market to me. My degree is in business and accounting. I did not need the mansplanation. In fact, he got several things wrong, and I nearly chewed the inside of my lip raw from holding back my thoughts. Friends have set me up, and I’ve done the dating apps. I’ve dated in London, and New York. I have never met a man who sent shivers up my spine or tingles on my skin. I’ve written about it. I’ve daydreamed about it. I’ve heard about it from Elaina, who is so in love with Adam that it makes me believe the fairy tales can actually be real. I’ve seen it play out with my sister and Owen. It’s why I write romance novels. I wholeheartedly believe in fairy tales, in love that lasts forever, and people choosing one another day after day. I’ve just never experienced it myself, and sometimes, I question if it’s possible for me and the kind of brain I have. It’s probably why I agreed to this arrangement with Robert years ago. It was a guarantee that I would get my happy ending. Like I had some control over it.

I used to wonder if my autism diagnosis was the thing that would keep me from ever feeling real love. I believed that until I realized that despite what doctors and psychologists had told me, I connected with someone outside of my family. Elaina is like a sister to me, but I didn’t meet her until I was eighteen. I had recently been told that friendships and relationships of any kind would always be difficult for me, but somehow, with her, it wasn’t. And so, she gave me hope. Hope that I would one day meet a man who would send shivers down my spine. Who would see me for who I am and accept me. Just like she did. Just as my twin—who couldn’t be more different from me—always has.

Robert is attractive. He paid attention to me. He listened to me, seemed genuinely happy to spend time with me, and never pressured me into anything. But I’ve never experienced the kind of admiration, intimacy and friendship that I write about with him. And I want to believe those things are possible. For anyone.

Something else I haven’t experienced? The steamy, toe-curling, all-consuming sex I have also read/written/heard about. Not once. I’ve had sex. I’ve had orgasms. When a man was involved, I had to work very hard for those orgasms, whether that be with my hands or with a toy once they’d left. But my imagination has always been pretty exceptional, so I’ve been able to write about it all convincingly if my fan base, publisher, and upcoming movie deals are anything to go by. But suddenly? I’m coming up dry. Literally.

I could write a book about all kinds of bad dates. It would be a horror story about a woman who goes on one horrible date after another. A woman who, at thirty years of age, has never been in love. A woman who’s become so jaded and numb to the male species that she can’t even make up stories about love anymore. Her creativity has run as dry as her minge. In case it wasn’t obvious, I’m the woman. She is me. The story is about my sad, dehydrated vagina.

Maeve goes on despite my mental tangent. “Is the issue just with writing?”

I shouldn’t be surprised that she knows that’s not all there is to it. I shake my head and look down at my lap. “I think I’ve realized that my life in London was making me numb. I knew what to expect from my job, from the city, from Robert, from everything. And yes, that can be boring, but it can also be comforting. As if nothing would ever change. Then, Robert went and offered me the one thing I thought I wanted most, and I started thinking that maybe I didn’t want that life as much as I once did. Maybe I don’t want him as much as I used to.” Maeve lets out a little grunt at the mention of the man I’ve told her is who I’ll end up with. “I’m feeling a little out of control here, Mae. This move—it’s what I needed, but change is more than just difficult for me, even if this isn’t permanent. You know that. It’s the real reason I didn’t stay last time. Because when Robert called me back, I was happy to fall back into the safety of my routine. A routine I’m trying really hard to let go of and forget about. I’m trying really hard to push myself to feel. Everything.” My voice cracks, and there’s this desperate feeling in my chest that I don’t know what to do with.

In a near whisper, she asks, “What are you feeling in your body right now, this very moment?”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Warm. A little calmer, maybe. Heard.” I don’t have my fight or flight system activated because I feel safe with my sister. She knows better than anyone what it feels like in my head, in my body, even if she doesn’t share my diagnosis.

“See? You’re not numb, Char. I think maybe you need to experience safety with someone who isn’t just Lainey or me. And perhaps also someone to hump you into remembering what an orgasm from someone other than yourself feels like.” We both burst out laughing, and it feels good. So, so good.

“I’m sorry I don’t have the answers for you, sissy, but can I say one last thing?” I hum in agreement, feeling in my bones that I will not like whatever this one last thing is. “Look for the places and people in your life that evoke powerful feelings in you. Even negative ones. Maybe especially those. Start there. Don’t push yourself too hard, but look for the people and things that make you feel something. Anything.”

“Why do I think you have an exact person or place in mind, and you’re just not saying it?” Dread clings to my chest as I wait for her response.

“Love and hate aren’t that different from one another, Charlie. I thought I hated Owen for years, when, in fact, I never stopped loving him. I blamed him for all of my emotional outbursts, thinking they came from resentment, but that’s not all it was. I had to be honest with myself about what I was feeling.” She pauses, and I know the blow is about to be delivered. “I can only think of one person you dislike enough to make you have big, potent emotions. No one else gets you worked up quite like him. It’s always him.”

It’s always him. Ugh, if she only knew how many hours I’ve spent thinking about the man who makes the blood boil inside my veins. The one who inspired the villain in my last book. The one whose words I can’t ever forget, no matter how hard I try.

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