Page 8 of Yes No Maybe

“I’ll buy the place,” Jack huffs. “Can we go home now?”

Rose leans in. “See how he is? Complains the whole time when he could’ve popped off as soon as we knew you weren’t an ax murderer. He’s not that bad once you get to know him.” Rose turns to him and sternly says, “Devin and Corey would approve. She’s delightful and honest and hardly wants to change the place. What more do you want, Jack?”

He stiffens bitterly before heading for the door.

“We should go, too,” Tom says. “Thanks for indulging us, Rowan.”

“Oh, yes, and if it helps, we have no homeowner’s association fees and are within walking distance of the cross-city trail. Do you bike or jog?”

“Let’s go, Vernon.” Rose pushes him to the front door.

I follow behind, anxious for home now that the rain’s let up and ready to put this day and the little house behind me.

Rose flashes a demure smile on her soft, pink face as we exit. “This doesn’t happen every day, you know.”

My head cocks, wondering what she means.

“Falling in love with a house,” she grins. “Saying yes should be easy.”

Three

Jack

Iknowthatwoman.Rephrase—I don’tknowher. I’veseenher.

I cut across the yard through the rain as the memory replays.

Two years ago. I sat in the corner booth at George’s Bistro, taking advantage of the restaurant’s busy Saturday night vibe to stoke my writing. Sometimes hearing conversations, music, and clinking dishes makes my fingers fly, not that I needed the helpthen. Back then, I had no problem filling pages. I was three-quarters done withThe Other Us, coming out this summer, and two deadlines ahead with my agent. The damn book had practically written itself—I just needed one more pivotal scene to finish it.

So, three hours and three beers in, my laptop on the table, I’d written all around the scene, even finished the epilogue. My readers love epilogues. But the scene proved elusive—I couldn’t get the feeling right. I needed heartache and agony, the novel’s lowest point, but it came out as mildly upsetting. Not good enough.

I closed my laptop and asked for the bill.

That’s when I saw her.

She sat alone at a two-seater table in the middle of the crowded dining room, back to me. She had dark Cleopatra hair and legs I’d love to wrap myself in, long and athletic. They were crossed under the table and leaning sideways, her heels resting together. Her silky green dress dangled off the sides of her chair, revealing more thigh than she probably realized, and her toned arms begged for fingers to run up and down them. She had a sexy air of confidence, even from behind. A jealous pang ripped through me toward the guy she was meeting—and she was definitely waiting for her date. The cliched rose on the table was a dead giveaway for a first meeting.

Is this what love’s been reduced to, I remember thinking. Padded online profiles and awkward meetings with trite red roses? Real romance is dead. Before long, it’ll come down to an algorithm—love will be a science, not a head-spinning, heart-racing adventure. Even the best romance novels like mine will become archaic fantasies, crowding clearance bins.

The waitress brought my bill, but I ordered another drink, much to her disappointment. A lone guy hogging the best booth—I understood her frustration.

But I tip well.

Cleopatra adjusted the rose for the fifth time, sipped her wine, and then realigned her silverware. Mostly, she fiddled with an emerald scarf around her neck—the only thing about her look that didn’t fit. Scarves are for winter and old ladies. On sexy women, it’s just another annoying thing to take off. Unless that’s all she’s wearing… No, still annoying.

A man approached, his gray eyes fixed on the rose before landing on her. He looked like a former frat guy with a trust fund, daddy’s lawyer on retainer, and a dead body buried in his backyard. I imagined his rich mother drunkenly waving a martini around and saying, “Boys will be boys,” when confronted about her son’s behavioragain. I laughed, opening my laptop. He’d make a fun villain—a piece of shit I could drag through fictitious mud and have readers cheering for his demise by the end.

An ass-beating in an alley?

A flesh-eating virus? That starts on his dick?

Or should he suffer a long, mental manipulation?

So many choices…

It’s my universal truth in writing—see things, ask what if, write it down. From the tiniest, inconsequential detail to the most meaningful and profound moments, my experiences are reflected in my stories like warped funhouse mirrors of what-ifs. I couldn’t separate the two if I tried—that’s how creativity works. Or at least, that’s how it used to work.

Another universal truth of writers—fucking writer’s block. But that came later…

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