Page 19 of Writing Mr. Right

I pause from my spot beside the screen, where I’m currently queueing upBouncyby ATEEZ. “I…uh…” I run my tongue along my teeth. “I met Aashiq at a coffee shop a few weeks back. We went out a couple of times, and it wasn’t serious…and then it was.” It’s the lamest thing I could have come up with, but I have no idea how to explain to her how he actually came to be without sounding like I need an intervention. “I didn’t mention him because I didn’t want to say anything in case it was nothing.”

Emily stares me from her spot on the long couch. “But why didn’t you tell me?” she asks quietly. Hurt flashes in her eyes. “I told you as soon as I went out on a date with Daniel.”

My heart cracks, and I set my microphone down as I get up and go over to where Emily’s sitting. I take her hand in mine, giving it a light squeeze. “I know you did,” I start. “And I really am sorry I didn’t tell you. But you know me…” I shift awkwardly. “I’ve never done the whole…datingthing before, and I don’t know what timelines are like and when you should tellpeople. Plus…” I lift a shoulder. “This feels personal, and I kind of wanted to savor it being only me and Aashiq for a while.”

Instantly, Emily’s hurt washes away. “Oh, I’m sorry, Zee.” She drops my hand, only to wrap her arm around my shoulder and pull me in close. “I overreacted. It was selfish of me to think I’m entitled to know everything about your life just because you’re my best friend, but you’re right. Certain things—especially when it comes to relationships—are private, and you deserve to do things at your own pace, regardless of what other people think.”

Wow. That was easier than I thought it was going to be. “Thanks,” I say, and a weight lifts off my shoulders. I stand up, thinking she’s done, but Emily grabs my arm and yanks me back down. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” She taps her hands on my leg. “Tellme about him! What’s he like?”

Considering I met him today and for most of the day he annoyed me, these are going to be very difficult questions to answer. “Well…” I drawl, trying to buy more time. I bite my lower lip. “He’s nice.”

Emily’s giddy grin pauses. “That’s it?”

“I mean, you wouldn’t date someone rude, right?”

“Yeah, I guess, but what do youlikeabout him?” she presses. “Do you have the same interests? Do you find him funny? Does he treat you well?”

My mind flashes back to Aashiq in our kitchen, whipping up breakfast for me so I wouldn’t start the day on an empty stomach. Aashiq encouraging me to take breaks so I can relax. Aashiq showing up in the rain with an umbrella, which he did because he knows I love the trope. “He’s really good at anticipating what I need,” I start, though I’m unsure of where I’m going with this. “It’s like he knows my brain as well as I do. He does his best to take care of me and encourage me and…” My face warms. “He’s there for me.”

Emily regards my expression for a long moment, then nodsfirmly. “Alright, then. Good enough for me.” She claps her hands. “Now, are you ready to usher in the rest of your life?”

I know she’s just talking about my thirtieth birthday, but her words ring true in more ways than she knows. I grab my microphone and stand up. “You bet I am.”

9

Aashiq wasn’t kidding when he said we’d get started right away. The next morning, he accompanied me to work again (he wasn’t in my apartment all night, and when I asked him where he went, he said he was wandering around New York; he almost got mauled by a homeless cat, he said, but otherwise it was fine) and after we got home and had dinner (leftovers from my birthday dinner with my parents), he pounced. “Okay, since your old book is gone, the only logical thing to do is start a new one.”

I frown from my spot in the kitchen, where I’m putting our plates into the dishwasher. I’ve already changed into pajamas, but Aashiq’s still dressed impeccably in black dress pants and a white knit sweater, which matches the white knit sweater and dress pants I wore to work today. I guess comfort doesn’t matter when you’re not a human. “I can’t just decide to start writing a new book, Aashiq.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“I have to be in the mood.” The dishwasher isn’t full yet, so I close the door, then turn around to face Aashiq, leaning against the counter. “I’m a mood writer. I don’t organize myprojects according to what I have to write next. I choose whatever feels right and go with it.”

“Okay,” he muses. He taps his fingers on top of the counter. “Do you have any ideas right now you might want to pursue?”

“I have a notebook I sometimes scribble ideas into,” I offer. “But they’re just plot bunnies. I haven’t fully developed anything because I’m usually busy with something else.”

“Let’s take a look at this notebook, then.”

I go to my bedroom, and Aashiq follows behind. I dig the notebook out of my bedside table drawer—ideas often come to me in dreams, and I always force myself to wake up and write them down because I can’t trust myself to remember the next morning. I turn around and hold it out to Aashiq. His fingers wrap around the top of the book, and just as he moves to tug it out of my hands, my grip tightens and I pull back.

Aashiq raises a brow. “Something wrong, Ziya?”

“No,” I reply unconvincingly, my tone hesitant.

“Then you can let go.” When I maintain my grip, Aashiq continues to regard me with an expectant stare. “Are you afraid of something?”

“No,” I say, but I’m even less confident this time.

Aashiq lowers his hand, but neither he nor I let go of the notebook, so it hovers between our torsos.

“Ziya,” he says. “This isn’t going to work if we don’t trust each other. I’m going to be honest with you about everything I do, so I need you to be honest with me, too. Now.” He squares his shoulders. “What are you afraid of?”

Even though every instinct in my body tells me to lie, to toss my notebook back in my drawer and pretend like it doesn’t exist, I sigh. “I’m afraid…you’ll think my ideas are awful.”

He furrows his brows. “I’d never think that. All your ideas are wonderful.”

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