Page 83 of Her Pretty Words

He holds the door open for me, and the space smells of leather, sandalwood, and a hint of strawberry lingering on his clothes. With tourists coming and going, a drive can sometimes take longer than a bike ride. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Don’t get too excited,” he says, placing his palm on my knee.

“Don’t be ridiculous. A night out with you? I would never.”

His hand moves up my thigh by a hair. “The last night you spent with me, you seemed…rather enlivened.”

I glare at him, and with his eyes on the road, they crinkle at the sides. “What will you write next?” he asks.

“I have something brewing in my mind.”

“Will you ever run out of love stories?” he asks curiously.

“Never,” I say. “A woman can never grow tired of romance, and I will never stop imagining fictional relationships.”

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks after a few moments.

“If I can ask you one.”

“Fair enough.” He clears his throat. “I’ve read your books. All of them, might I add. The way you write about falling in love…it always feels so real. Like I’m falling in love alongside the characters.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Right,” he says. “Did you love Walter?”

“In the beginning I thought so. I felt all the things I write in my books, but it wasn’t long until the euphoria of a new relationship vanished. Sobered, I was left with a man who didn’t love or respect me, yet I stayed with him for years to get those feelings back. I wasn’t in love withhim. I was in love with love itself, and I confused the two. I tried to ignite a wet match, but it was never going to catch fire, because Walter wasn’t a man Icouldlove.”

“So, if you’ve never been in love, how do you know what you’re writing is real?”

“What makes you think I’ve never been in love?”

He’s silent for a minute, his hand stiff on my thigh. “Oh. I guess I just assumed Walter was your first relationship.”

Even when I was too young to understand the emotion, that string around my heart was tied to Daniel’s. It’salwaysbeen him. And here he is, sitting in the driver’s seat, holding my thigh. The man who introduced me to love, the one who disappeared and left me with nothing but my words and the stories in my head. He’s the foundation of every love story I’ve ever written.“He was,” I whisper. I love him down to my bones, to the very atoms making up my existence.

He doesn’t prod any further. “Your turn. Ask away.”

Out of the millions of questions I could ask, I settle on one of insignificance. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I’m not sure I’d like to know.

“Oh,” he says, appearing thoughtful for a moment when he says, “I actuallyhavea girlfriend. She won’t be happy when she finds out about you though.”

I glare at him.

“No,” he says, dropping the act. “I’ve never had one.”

“But you’ve…” I let that part of my sentence trail off, hoping he’ll pick up what was implied.

“Yes, Macy,” he says in a bored tone. “I’ve had sex before.” I’m not surprised. He definitely knows what he’s doing in that department. “I’ve slept with girls I met at work conventions. I’ve never had sex with the same person more than once.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel special or something?”

“No. Sorry, that came out wrong.” He sighs. “Sex was a refuge for me. It was an escape from my own thoughts, similar to running. But it was never about feeling connected to another person. It was…I don’t know—” he says with frustration. “It’s never been how it is with you.”

He spent nearly his entire life in isolation, to the point where even his sex life was spent in solitary. My heart aches for him. But maybe this is a turning point for him. Hope inflates within the walls of my chest and if I could extend some to him, I’d do so in a heartbeat. I squeeze his hand resting on my leg.

“We’re here,” he says.

I look out the window and see the familiar parking lot of The BARnacle. I grin when he slides out of the car and comes to open my door. “Such a gentleman.”

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