Page 25 of Writing Mr. Right

“Well, first of all,” he begins dramatically, “you’re a hard worker.”

I make apsshsound. “Notthathard. Average.”

“You also diminish your hardworking qualities because you think these qualities areexpectedof you rather than something to admire,” he goes on.

“I’m the child of immigrant parents,” I remind him. “I’ve never forgotten how tirelessly my parents worked so I could have a good life, and I never will. It’s why I work as hard as I can.”

“It’s one thing for a parent’s work ethic to be taught to a child,” Aashiq says. “It’s another for the child to actually follow through with it and keep the lessons in mind.Youdo.” He starts listing items off on his fingers. “You’re at the office early, you stay late, you’re always the first to volunteer for coffee runs for everyone in the office, and you bring it all back on your own. And on top of all that, you’re a successful writer.”

I scoff. “Our definitions of ‘successful’ are clearly different,” I say. “I’ve never been agented, and I’ve certainly never sold anything.”

“You wrote a book, didn’t you? From start to finish? All on your own?”

“Yeah.”

“Congratulations, you’re a successful author,” he decrees. “Your successes aren’t predicated on what other people think. It matters, first and foremost, whatyouthink. And it’s obvious you don’t think you’re good, which is what I’m here to help with.”

“I still don’t get how you’re supposed to help with that,” I say.

Aashiq sucks in his cheeks, then catches a glimpse at my computer screen. “Oh! It’s time for lunch.”

My eyes widen. “Pleasedon’t invite my coworkers to lunch again.”

He chuckles. “Nothing that extreme, I promise.” He nods toward the exit. “We’re going for a walk.”

* * *

We grab a couple of salad bowls from a nearby restaurant, and even though I want to go back to the office, Aashiq forces me to sit on a bench in a nearby park. It’s pretty full, mostly parents or grandparents watching over small children as they feed the squirrels or run around on the grass. The chilly morning temperature has extended into midday. Cold seeps through my pants and digs into my thighs, but I stay there on the bench, Aashiq standing behind me. I told him to sit, but I guess after being cooped up in my head, he prefers to be as active as possible.

I open the container for my salad, and though it’s my instinct to grab a huge forkful of everything, I gently pick up a couple of lettuce leaves and a piece of cucumber. I’m about to take a bite when Aashiq suddenly plops his hands on my shoulders. I stiffen and nearly drop the fork, but I fumble with it at the last second before it hits the ground. Warmth from his palms flows into my body, and it’s such a strange sensation. For someone who existed only in my mind a few days ago, he’s amazingly lifelike. Why do his hands feel so real? Why is the weight so comforting?

I startle out of my thoughts when Aashiq suggests, “Let’s play a game.”

I scrunch my nose. “I’m not sure I want to play anything with you, given that your idea of a good time is taking a run at five a.m.”

“Just humor me for once, will you?”

I think I humor him plenty already—I’ve given in to a lot of his whims—but I close the lid to my salad. “Fine.”

He grins at my readiness. “I call it ‘set the scene,’” he explains. He circles around the bench and sits next to me. “I’m going to give you a scenario, and you have to fill in the details.”

I furrow my brows. “Okay, but we could have done that anywhere. Why are we at a park? In the cold?”

He lifts his shoulders. “I like to be in places where there are people,” he explains. “As someone who’s very used to being alone in your head, I’m going to take advantage of being out here.” He elbows me. “You know, really savor the world.”

“Alone?” I repeat. “Aren’t you with my other…personality traits?” I point to my head. “Are there other… I don’t know…beings up there?”

“No,” he answers. A sheepish expression crosses his face. “You’re a pretty isolated person, and you don’t share your writing with anyone, so it makes the most sense for me not to be around others.”

That’s…sad. Even though I’ve only known Aashiq for a few days, I can tell he’s the type of person (if you can call him a person) who has a real zest for life and loves communicating with others. The fact that he’s isolated because of my unwillingness to share this part of my life with anyone… Guilt settles heavily in my stomach.

“It’ll do you some good,” he continues, which jolts me out of my thoughts. “To be out and about and have some fresh air. You shouldn’t be locked up in your stuffy room or in the office all the time. Being around people will be good for you, too.”

I lift a brow. “Meaning what?”

“Ziya, you can’t spend your whole life stuck in your house,” he says, not unkindly. “You should breathe in some fresh air every now and then and see people other than your roommate and your coworkers.”

As much as it feels like his words shot an arrow directly through my ego, Aashiq may have a point. Sometimes it does feel like all I do is shuffle from my house to the office andback every day. Emily and I sometimes go out and do things together, but only a handful of times in the year. I forget how nice it can be to be outside, like how I felt this morning when we went on the run.

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