Page 15 of One More Chapter

I shake that memory from my head, and let my heart ache for him for just a second.

“Umm… Sorry. It’s just an adjustment, you know?”

“What, living with another person?”

No. Living with you, and trying to convince my heart that it isn’t permanent.

“Yeah.”

“I promise you, getting to the doom boxes is the next item on my checklist.”

“Doom boxes?” I chuckle. He hitches his thumb over his shoulder without taking his eyes off of the frantic click-throughs of the training videos. I follow his thumb over to the kitchen table, where his boxes of chaos sit.

Doom boxes. Funny.

I leave him to finish his videos—well,toskip throughhis videos—in peace, while I worry about myself. I unpack thebathroom essentials I picked up at Target, take a quick shower, and change into sweats for the night. When I meet Ant on the couch, I notice that he’s wrapped up in a Red Sox tie blanket, only taking up half the couch. The memories of our FaceTime calls—of Ant wrapped in that same tie blanket, snuggled in bed, his face filling up my phone screen in the middle of the night—sneak in all of a sudden, making my body ablaze. I snag my Kindle and settle into the other side, tucked beneath my own blanket, and try to focus on reading.

Except, my mind can’t read more than three consecutive words in a row. Now, I feel likeI’vegot bees in my brain. Only, it’s just one. And its stinger is needling at the incessant question that I crave the answer to.

“So, why do you have to live here? What happened to what’s-her-face?”

I know her name, but only because I Facebook stalked her once upon a time. He doesn’t need to know that.

Ant’s face turns to stone, his focus not wavering from the training videos.

“We were never going to work. I want a family and she doesn’t.” He swallows thickly. I pull my knees up to my chest. Family was something we talked about aloton that trip. How we both want a houseful of kids—him, because he grew up with brothers; me, because I grew up with too much love and no one to give it to. It was one of the reasons I thought we were made for each other. But then I found out that he had taken his girlfriend back, and that illusion shattered like stones through stained glass.

Anthony moves his laptop to the coffee table and turns to face me, giving me and this confession his undivided attention.

“We were broken up before Florida. She didn’t want kids, and was never going to come around to the idea. But when I got back, she begged me to give us another shot. I felt terrible,because we had plans together once upon a time, and I gave in, because I’m a coward. I went along with it for a few weeks before I couldn’t pretend anymore. I was wrong—for leading you on, and for lying to her and to myself that we could keep trying to fix what was beyond repair. For what it’s worth, I am more sorry than you’ll ever know, Pen.”

I can’t handle the look in his eyes and the honesty in his voice. It is cuttingly candid, transparent as a freshly cleaned window. I hug my knees to my chest to keep myself from going to him, because Iknowwhat happened the last time I was a sucker for his words. He reeled me in, hook line and sinker, and then dropped me to the bottom of the river.

But those eyes—they’re an oceanic color I’ve never been able to describe, never been able to get out of my head. And they drip with remorse. He swallows again, like there’s a bag of marbles trying to slide down his esophagus, blinking with the pain of it.

I can’t speak. The words that want to come out are from my heart and not my head. My head knows he’s bad news. My heart wants to crawl right back into the bear trap of his arms. It seems to have forgotten the way we were ripped to shreds the last time. Instead, I nod. Acknowledging his apology isn’t going to kill me. It very well might weigh me to this spot though.

As soon as it’s clear that he is done talking to me, I lift myself from the couch and head to my office. Suddenly, my brain is buzzing with his words once again, as if I finally detoxed from the last hit of him, only to become freshly addicted to this new strain of Anthony Ellis.

Luckily for me, I don’t have to succumb to overthinking before bed. I’m not tired. I’mwired. With inspiration.

Something I haven’t had in far too long has busted through the walls of my writer’s block. And I have Ant to thank for it.

The little bit of backstory he gave about his history with his ex has my fingers itching to get on the keyboard. And fly they do.It’s past two in the morning by the time I stop writing. Between character arcs, plot, and the first four chapters, I haven’t felt this good sincebefore.

Before a road block the size of the interstate halted progress of my latest story, because even trying to conceive someone else’s happy ending while mine was drowning in concrete hurt too much.

That thought is the one that halts my fingers in the dead of night when the rest of the house is quiet. Ant was the one to stop my creative flow. It may as well be his stories that rekindle the fire. I blink a few times, yawning as I notice the hour on the clock. I triple save all of my documents, send them to the Cloud, and pack it in for the night. Passing the living room, I am shocked to see the TV still on. Ant must have fallen asleep on the couch.

Despite my anger, my frustration, my stupid longing feelings for him, I use every ounce of willpower that I have to stop myself from peeking in. From turning off the TV and covering him with that tattered Red Sox blanket that clashes with the décor. Instead, I turn off the hallway light, tuck myself in, and pray that when my alarm goes off in the morning, I can still hold onto the momentum of this story.

after florida

2:32 PM

Anthony

I’m sorry

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