Page 8 of Happy After All

I pour the need for romance into my writing. I’m unfailingly cheerful in the face of Nathan’s lack of friendliness.

I’m also nosy, though. I tell myself it’s a side effect of being a writer. I always want to know about the inner workings of the people around me. I write intimate details for a living, and I’m curious—endlessly so—about the intimate details of people’s lives.

What does he do for release when he comes here?

He has the face of a god and the body of ... well, also a god, from what I can tell. Does he really spend the summers in total celibate monkhood?

It’s a double standard, I guess, to think that he wouldn’t. I’ve been celibate for two years, though I have circumstances.

I wonder about him more than I should. When I see the lights on in his room, glowing through his curtains, as I walk back to mine at night.

Even worse, I wonder about him when I get into the shower. When I get into bed.

My internal monologue isn’t passing the Bechdel Test, and I’d love to blame my romance-writing brain—he’s physically hero material, after all. I fear it’s more to do with the fact he’s hot, and I’m only human.

He’s also a famous, interesting writer, which means I also fear I’m giving a lot of space to his eccentricities because they’re potentially artistic, and I find that fascinating.

I’ve never been particularly susceptible to brooding artistic men. I was drawn to Chris because he was an extrovert. He could work a room, make people laugh and smile with ease. I live more in my head, and he always seemed to be in the present moment.

I never wanted to be with someone like me. I spend too much time thinking, too much time observing things around me rather than just living the things that are happening.

One thing that does bring me nicely into the moment is the giant shipment of decorations I get one afternoon. It’s warm enough that I have to wait until evening to get out the parrot string lights, flamingo lawn ornaments, and magenta lounge chairs, but once the sun starts going down, I attack my new project with the kind of focus I’ve been giving to Nathan.

Wilma, Lydia, and Gladys arrive at the pool area in all their state. Wilma in glitter, wearing jewelry and with her hair wrapped up in a bathing cap; Lydia in a baby-pink suit with a skirt; and Gladys all in black. I watch as the three of them enter the pool, then go back to planting flamingos in the white rock borders around the Astroturf lawn. Landscaping is a losing battle in the desert, and water is too precious to waste.

Rocks, fake grass, and plastic flamingos are a great zero-moisture alternative.

I’m focusing on the task at hand when the door to the lobby opens into the courtyard and a delivery driver walks out, holding a paper bag.

“Room thirty-two?” he asks when he sees me standing there bent over a flamingo.

“Oh, yes, just ... I’ll get it.” I walk over to him and take the bag, and I tell myself I’m being helpful and not angling to see Nathan. “Thank you.”

I head toward Nathan’s room and realize my heart is pounding a lot harder than it should be as I raise my hand and knock.

The door opens, and I see a momentary expression of surprise on his face—probably when he notices it’s me and not the delivery driver—as he reaches toward the bag.

“Oh! Help!”

We both move toward the scream as soon as we hear it. I whirl around and look toward the pool, while Nathan is half out the door, both of our hands still on the take-out bag.

Wilma is screaming like she’s in a horror movie, while Lydia is waving her arms. Gladys is looking at them with a hard stare, not engaging in hysterics of any kind.

Nathan lets go of the food and passes me up as he strides to the poolside, with me jogging behind.

“Oh, please help me, darlin’,” Wilma says, looking forlornly down into the water. “The filter reached out and grabbed hold of my necklace, and it was a special piece that I got from my Lonny, bless hisdead, deceased heart.”

Before I can fully take in what she’s saying, Nathan strips his shirt off and jumps into the pool.

I know how I would writethat.

His muscles literally ripple. Droplets of water follow the lines of each well-defined ridge. I’ve wondered what he does in his room at night, and the answer appears to be sit-ups.

He’s glorious. A stereotypical representation of ideal masculinity.

Most importantly, he’s being heroic.

Though I find his abs to be a point of importance as well.

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