Page 44 of First Love, Second Draft

She stared at him, a determined look on her face. He prayed all that focus and determination was geared toward dunking him in the tank. She reached down into the basket of balls. “Why did you lie to me?”

Oh please. Not now. Just hit the bull’s-eye. Or his head. He’d take anything at this point. But she clutched the ball, not lifting her arm. She obviously wasn’t going to throw until he gave an answer. “I—didn’t.” There. An answer. Now please throw the ball.

“You told me nothing was going on between you and Rachel.”

“J-just—th-throw...” They could talk later. Hopefully when he could feel his lips and form words again.

“How long have you loved her? Tell me.”

“Sh-sh-sh-sh.” He pressed a shivering finger to his lips. She needed to stop talking. Now. Because Rachel had just appeared next to theanimal shelter booth. And any second she was going to spot him. In his undies. On the platform. With his ex-girlfriend hurling questions instead of balls.

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Aimee, whom he’d never once heard raise her voice in all their time together, had started to shout.

Oh, please don’t shout.

Too late. Rachel spotted him. Spotted Aimee.

“Because you’ve always loved her, haven’t you?” Aimee whipped a ball over his head.

“Loved who?” a young boy holding a caramel apple asked.

Oh, please don’t answer that.

“Rachel,” Aimee shouted. And now a crowd was gathering.

Rachel’s eyes widened. “Stop,” he caught her lips saying.

Aimee wasn’t stopping. “Through high school. The night of senior prom.” A ball sailed past his left ear. “The entire time we were dating.” A ball bounced off his knee. Maybe. He’d sort of lost feeling everywhere. “That’s why you broke up with me. Admit it. You love Rachel. You’ve always loved Rachel. Just say it.”

And now she was throwing every ball in the bucket, one after another. “Say it, say it, say it. You love her. You want her.Just say it.”

A ball hit his shoulder. Another his shin. Jeez Louise, how many balls were left in that bucket? He blocked two more with his forearms, then caught a glimpse of Rachel reaching into the bucket.

“Stop. He doesn’t love me. We’re just friends, okay? Just. Friends.” Rachel’s arm cocked back. Her words smacked him as hard as the ball hitting the target. He heard the thunk. Then dropped in the tank.

Bull’s-eye.

21

“Sooooo...” Mona lifted her coffee mug toward her red pursed lips, pausing as she leveled her gaze at Gracie. “How exactly did you end up taking a bubble bath with your ex-husband?”

Outside the kitchen window, gray clouds gathered. Gracie spooned a heap of sugar into her tea. She should’ve known the only reason Mona dropped by this afternoon after finally getting back to town late last night was to give her a hard time. “Can we not talk about that right now?”

“Hey, I’m not judging.” Mona blew on her coffee. “I mean, why would I judge? Noah’s a handsome man, you two have a lot of history together, and let’s face it—there’s just some areas you cannot reach on your own. Now me, personally, I use one of those loofahs on a stick, but—”

“Enough.” Gracie was stirring her tea into a whirlpool. “I don’t need this. Not from you.Youwho’s been gone the entire last week.Youwho didn’t check on me once.Youwho has no idea what I’m up against right now. A deadline. A terminally ill father I haven’t visited in over a week. An annoying husband I can’t get away from.Ex-husband!I haven’t slept in... I don’t know. I can’t even do the math anymore. Is today still Saturday?”

“Yes. And quick question. Does any of what you’re talking abouthave to do with why there’s a typewriter sitting on a desk next to the oven right now?”

“He shaved, Mona.He shaved.Do you have any idea how hard it is to concentrate on writing a funny, zingy story when your smooth-shaven ex-husband won’t stop getting into your personal space and smelling like a warm, buttery cinnamon roll?”

Some of Gracie’s tea had sloshed over the rim. She reached for a napkin to wipe off the kitchen table. “Which is probably why somehow in the past twelve hours my manuscript has turned into a time travel story. That’s right. Instead of witty banter, my hero is now giving a seven-page lecture in chapter eight about the theoretical physics that make time travel possible. Why, you ask?”

“I’m mostly just curious about why there’s a desk next to the oven.”

“So that he can go back and prevent the heroine from getting into that accident that caused her to lose function in her legs prior to chapter four, of course. But wait, Gracie. Won’t that completely screw up your entire story that’s due in a matter of days, you ask?”

Gracie waved her spoon at Mona. “Why yes, Mona, it will. It has. But I guess I’d rather destroy my story, possibly my entire writing career, by focusing on the quantum mechanics of time travel instead of how close my ex-husband came to kissing me in the bathtub, and more importantly, how close I came to kissing that stupid, handsome face back.”

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