Page 9 of Yes No Maybe

At her table, an awkward beat passed. I knew the date would fail—he wasn’t good enough for her. I’ve always been an expert at people-watching and making predictions. I expected him to sit, thankful his hot date wasn’t a lying ogre, and spend the next hour talking about himself between chewing an expensive steak, mouth open, before she politely told him her version ofthis-isn’t-going-to-work-out.

But he never sat down.

He gawked, wide-eyed, nearly laughing as he took her in.What the hell?Words were exchanged before he shook his head, gave her a dismissive wave, and left.

Cleopatra’s shoulders sunk a fraction but rose again with a deep breath. She stopped the waitress delivering my drink, dropped the flower on her tray, and pointed to the menu, determined to enjoy a good meal despite the dickhead.Atta girl.

The waitress delivered my beer, and I motioned toward the woman’s table. “What happened there?”

“He didn’t like her face.”

Her face?A quick trip to the bathroom solved that mystery, but initially, I didn’t see her scars—just a poised, well-dressed woman with electric blue eyes that stood out next to her dark hair like stars at night. When I passed her table, she glanced up and even smiled. Not a desperateplease-save-me-from-these-assholessmile but one of polite resignation.This-is-my-life-and-I’m-getting-a-good-meal-out-of-it.

Her scars caught my attention like an afterthought. I looked twice—I can’t believe I did a double-take like an asshole. Her eyes rolled slightly as she turned away, and I crept by her table, mapping out her scars. They started on her left cheek and disappeared into the scarf around her neck—ah, camouflage.

While I’d never pull a dick move like her asshole date, I understood his vanishing act. That guy wanted a quick lay or a potential trophy wife. Maybe both. But she’s neither—whatever happened to her can’t be ignored. For some, scars are off-putting, as are the stories that come with them. Guys don’t want drama or imperfections. They want an unrealistic ideal propagandized by TV, magazines, music videos, and movies. Everyone wants Taylor Swift, but the truth is only the top one percent of men could orshouldbe contenders. Andnevera guy like that.

At least he didn’t waste anyone’s time.

Still, I felt bad for her. The guy was no loss, but that twenty-second encounter must’ve added another jagged tear to her inner agony. I tried to imagine that rejection—conjuring feelings I’d never understand but wanted to capture anyway.

I wrangled the psychological jabs inflicted—her hope dashed in a glance, and then her dignity trampled by his cold amusement. How could she sit there? And eat dinner in defeated solitude? No anger. No tears. No desperate race to the door. Nothing.

Her fake indifference intrigued me. Tormented by an injury she can’t hide and the trauma of whatever happened to her, life’s slings and arrows had built her an impressive shield. But her cold demeanor was bullshit, too.

“She screams on the inside,” I said, typing ideas as they flooded me. Under the right conditions, with the right person, her iron defenses would crumble.

That’s what I needed forThe Other Us—screaming on the inside. And the right conditions for my characters to break down. It played out in my head in all its heart-wrecking glory. My fingers twitched across the keyboard.

My waitress returned, eyeing my half-gone beer with annoyance. “Get you anything else? Food?”

“What wine is she having?” I motioned toward the woman’s table.

“The house merlot. Want me to ask if you can join her? I don’t mind.” Her eyes lit up at the prospect of freeing the booth. “She’d probably like the company.”

“She’s been screwed over enough already. I’ll take my bill and hers—add a bottle of your expensive merlot and your best dessert. Don’t tell her it’s been paid until I leave, and don’t tell her who paid it. Just that itwasn’tthe prick.”

At home that night, I wrote my best scene yet, finishingThe Other Us.

But nothing since. Days later, my neighbor, Ben, keeled over in my driveway, grabbing me and his chest at the same time and soon becoming the second guy to die in my arms, and only yards away from the first. I’d known Ben all my life. He’d been a second father to me and my brother Devin. Now, they’re both gone, taken out in a sentence when there should’ve been many more chapters ahead. Fucking unfair.

I duck inside my house, shedding my raincoat at the door. I promised Tom that I wouldn’t interfere with selling the little house. An empty house isn’t good for anyone’s property value, and buying it myself would’ve turned it into a shrine. Still, I ignore Tom’s hippie-dippy nonsense most days, but he has a strange point—as long as that house has been empty, I haven’t written a damn thing.

Not a chapter.

Not a paragraph.

Hell, I couldn’t even pen an anonymousYelpreview for the dudes I hired to power-wash the deck. And they did a fantastic job!

I am ridiculously blocked. Rephrase—I am utterly fucked.

So, Tom might be right—a new neighbor might spark ideas. But I don’t care—I hate it anyway. That’s Ben and Margot’s place… and Corey’s. He’s the reason my brother Devin spent as much time there as he did in our house.

He’d say I’m being a prick right now, that change is good. But not when it’s a change you didn’t want.

Hell, Devin would probably even argue forherspecifically—he understood damaged goods. He’d compare her to the moon—cratered and marked but still beautiful.

Thereissomething about her.

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