Page 26 of Writing Mr. Right

I watch as Aashiq’s gaze flits over the groups of people around us, taking in the conversations and the laughter, and I sigh. “So,” I begin, drawing his attention back to me. “What’s my prompt?”

Aashiq checks the crowd out again, then discreetly points to a man and woman sitting on a bench opposite us. They’re young and appear to be the only people here—other than Aashiq and me—without children to watch out for. “There,” he declares. “I’ll set the scene for you. They’re a couple on a romantic date.” He drops his hand back into his lap. “Fill in the blanks.”

“How?” I ask.

“Any way you want to,” he answers. “This is your story. You decide what happens.”

Okay. This really isn’t any different from the game I play on the subway when I take quirks from people around me. Making sure my staring isn’t obvious, I observe the couple. They’re eating ice-cream cones; the guy licks a strawberry cone while the girl nibbles on mint chocolate chip. He suddenly dives forward, as if to make a move for a bite of her ice cream, and she squeals and squirms away, holding her cone out of reach. They’re too far away for me to hear what they’re saying, so I guess I have to make that up, too.

After a few long minutes, I speak. “They’re a fairly new couple,” I decide. “The way they touch each other may be familiar, but it’s tentative.” I motion toward them, where the guy pauses before he raises a hand and gently places it on her side. “See how he hesitates when putting his hand on her waist?” I say. The guy then kisses the underside of her jaw. “And see how her chest hitches slightly when he presses his cold lips to her warm neck?” I peek at Aashiq. “It’s a test to see how she responds when he touches new territory.”

He nods but his face doesn’t betray a single thought. “And what are they talking about?”

I wrinkle my nose as I watch them giggle and hold up their cones. “She’s commenting how strange they are for having ice cream in November,” I say. “When the breeze is sharp, and people walk around bundled in jackets and scarves. He says it gives them personality; they like cold things when people are desperate to stay warm.” The guy entwines their fingers together, so I add, “He also says she doesn’t have to worry about being cold when she has him to keep her warm.”

As if on cue, the girl giggles, and they share a kiss before she snatches a lick from his ice cream, even though she denied him a taste of hers earlier. That causes them to fall into a fit of laughter.

I can’t help but grin, too, and I turn to Aashiq. “How was that?”

“How do you feel?” he asks instead.

My brows pinch together. “Why does that matter?”

“Because I didn’t ask you to do this for a grade,” he explains. “I’m not gonna give you a performance review. How do youfeel?”

I close my eyes, examining the emotions swirling in my body. “I feel…good,” I eventually say. I open my eyes again. “When it comes to writing, I’m not the free writing type. I have an outline, and I know exactly what’s going to happen. Coming up with something on the spot is kind of freeing. It’s also nice, because I never create outside like this; any real time I have free to write is late at night, so I’m typically locked in my bedroom with darkness filtering through the blinds and the glow from my laptop screen providing the only light. I didn’t know what it felt like to be creative with the crisp midday breeze and the warmth of the sunlight on my cheeks.” I nod thoughtfully. “It’s doing wonders for my creativity.”

Aashiq stares silently at me for a long moment. “Wow, that was incredibly deep.”

Heat flares in my face. “Oh, you didn’t want me to open up so much?”

“No, no,” he quickly assures me. “I’m just surprised you opened yourself up to the exercise so fully when you’ve dragged your feet with some of the other things I’ve asked. It’s nice.” He spreads his hands out. “Andthisis how I’m going to help remind you that it always matters first what you think and how you feel. You’re your first critic, but you’re also your first supporter.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Thanks for humoring me.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply, and for a sweet moment, neither of us says anything as we stare at each other. Then I see something strange—a flicker in Aashiq’s appearance, like a glitch, and his face becomes transparent. It’s just a brief moment, but I notice it.

Before I can dwell on it, though, Aashiq says, “Okay. Ready to play again?”

12

I shut the door to the office behind me, pressing the lock button on my way out. It’s one of those rare days where everyone headed out before 6 p.m., the time we officially close. Technically, I’m only paid to stay until six, but most of the time I stick around later in case any of the lawyers who are putting in overtime need anything. Emily thinks I’m doing way too much for the firm in that sense, but I’m hoping it’ll keep me in Colin’s good graces and show him how dedicated I am to this place.

I try the handle to make sure it’s locked, then turn to face Aashiq, who has his hands in his pockets and is rocking back and forth on his heels. “Are you ready to go home?” I ask.

A scheming grin covers his face, and I freeze at the sight of it. “What?” I demand, because when he smiles like that, it’s usually not good for me. “What is it?”

“We’re not going home yet,” he announces.

“What?” I say again. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise!”

At those words, a wave of exhaustion hits. “I don’t know, Aashiq,” I mumble. “I’m pretty tired from waking up so early this morning—”

“And if you go home now, you’ll fall asleep on the couch and mess with your sleep schedule,” he cuts in. “I know exactly what we need.”

I suck in my cheeks but allow Aashiq to slip his hand into mine and drag me over to the elevator. Given that the last time he surprised me, it was with a run before the sun was up, I don’t know how many more surprises I can handle from this man.

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