Page 64 of Dear Mr. Brody

“You think he’ll feel better tomorrow?”

“Probably not. But I can only handle so much.”

His laugh scratched through the speaker. “When are you going to tell me about this present you have for me?”

“Oh… that.” I stood and headed to a quiet corner of the waiting room, hiding by a giant fish tank. “Were you serious about reading the stuff about my dad?”

“I’m serious about anything you write.”

“I don’t think I want a critique on this. It’s too personal.”

“That’s understandable, and you don’t have to send it if—”

“I’ll send it.” I leaned my back against the wall, wishing it was Sunday already. “What time tomorrow?”

“Does six work for you?” he asked.

“I’ll see you at six.”

“Park?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t send it if it’s too hard.”

“I want to.”

“Then, I’m looking forward to reading it.”

We said goodbye, and as I opened my email again, I thought about all the risks Van had to take for us to be together. If I wanted more than what I’d had in the past, if I wanted a chance at a real relationship, I could risk this. I could let someone in. He understood what it meant to give yourself to the page, and these memories, these words, were part of me. If I couldn’t trust him with that, then I shouldn’t trust him at all.

Donovan

The pat of butter sizzled in the hot pan, my damp hair falling into my eyes as I bent down to grab a pot for the pasta. I filled it with water and set it on the stove to boil while I finished chopping the mushrooms. I didn’t even know if Parker liked mushrooms. For all I knew, he could be allergic to them. I exhaled, edgy and anxious, my hands shaking as I picked up the knife. I thought I wouldn’t be this wound up after the other night. Mutual orgasms should have been enough of an ice breaker, but evidently, the more I liked a person, the more my mind found ways to make me nervous. I’d spent most of my day trying to catch up on work. I had two manuscripts I needed to finish, and a few more papers to grade, but my eyes kept drifting to my damn couch. From my office, I had a straight view through the living room. My mind kept recalling every sound he’d made, every touch, every kiss, and I’d end up reading the same page over and over again. I wondered if it had been enough for him. Or if he’d want more tonight. I was ready for more. All these thoughts had inevitably ruined my ability to focus. Instead of doing what I was supposed to, I’d opened the files he’d sent me last night and reread the stories he’d written about his father for a third time.

Parker had a brilliant mind. His writing voice mature beyond his years. I’d considered sending his stories to Anders, but I needed his permission first. His prose was vivid and alive, every sentence a reel of film rolling across the page. His life, in his words, played out like one of those old family home movies, steeped in sepia-colored tones, where everything seemed slightly out of focus and sped up, and as I’d read, my eyes and chest burned with a sentiment that only the past could create. By giving me those stories, he’d opened a window, lifted the shade, and let me in. I might not know what food Parker preferred, but I’d felt his pain, his loss, the pieces of his past. It wasn’t all of him, but it was enough to know I’d made the right choice by taking a chance on this. On us.

Distracted by my thoughts again, the butter started to smoke.

“Shit.”

I removed the pan from the heat, setting it in the sink. The stench of burnt butter filled the room and I cracked open the window, hopefully saving my ears from the smoke detector in the living room. After a few minutes, the room cleared out, but as I turned on the water to wash the pan, it splashed back, splattering brown grease onto my shirt. I tried to clean it off with a dish rag, but it only made it worse. Pissed at myself, I turned off both burners, and left the mess in the kitchen. I walked back to my bedroom to change, and with the way my night had been going, I thought it might be better if we went out for dinner, instead. And because I couldn’t catch a break, the doorbell rang after I’d barely taken off my shirt. I checked the clock on my nightstand realizing how far behind I’d gotten. It was almost six o’clock and I was half-dressed, and nowhere near ready for Parker to be here. I hadn’t even finished cutting all the vegetables for the sauce I’d planned on making. The bell rang again as I opened my closet door and grabbed the first shirt I could find. Pulling it over my head, I made my way to the front of the house. I ran my hands through my hair, hoping it wasn’t a mess, and took a deep breath before I unlocked and opened the door.

“Thank God, I didn’t think you were home,” Lanie said, sounding as frazzled as she looked. She released Anne’s hand, and my daughter took off toward the kitchen without saying hello. “I tried calling you a thousand times.”

“You did?” I asked, looking over Lanie’s shoulder, my anxiety and confusion tangled in my stomach.

Parker would be here any second.

“My mom was supposed to watch Anne for me tonight.” She walked past me without invitation, and I shut the door. “But she and my dad got food poisoning and I have to work.”

“What’s that smell?” Anne asked, holding her nose. “It smells like burnt popcorn.”

“Close… I burned butter.”

“You’re making dinner?” Lanie reached across the counter and picked up a mushroom, popping it into her mouth. “Is Olive coming over?”

“What?”

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