Page 47 of Writing Mr. Right

Sparks bristle between my temples like I’ve short-circuited. “I mean,” I say, aiming for a strong tone, but it still comes out soft, “I guess that’s what I said.” I shake my head and try desperately to change the subject. “But how can younotknow what romance is like and still know how to give advice on it?”

Aashiq scratches his chin, and the action drives me to distraction. “Okay, I can’t tell you,” he finally says. He drops his hand. “But I can show you.”

“Show me how?”

Aashiq moves toward me. First, I think it’s going to be just one step, but he keeps moving until our toes touch. At this distance, I have to tip my head back to look at him, but there’s still a safe amount of space between our faces. “Close proximity is always great between characters,” he starts, his warm breath against my chin a sharp contrast to the frigid, biting temperature. “The narrator, often the main character, will react in response.”

Pink floods my cheeks, and I pray that despite the light surrounding us, he doesn’t notice. A thrill races through my stomach. “Then what?” I squeak.

“Then, you should up the ante by adding some sort of physical touch.” Without breaking eye contact, his hand brushes against mine. His movements are painstakingly slow, and he drags the back of his finger along my skin. I don’t know why I insisted before that he wasn’t real; there’s nothing artificial about the way his touch raises goose bumps on my body. “It doesn’t have to be a lot. Even holding hands can be enough to get someone’s heart racing, though I guess I wouldn’t know what that feels like.”

Finally,finally, he laces our fingers together. My hand is too stiff with cold to react at first, but after a second, the warmth ofhis palm pressing into mine brings some life back into my fingers, and I bend them until the tips skim the back of his hand. A shiver trembles his wrist, and it travels from his arm up to mine. My breath quickens like it’s running away from me, but I can’t be bothered to keep up anymore. “And then?” I whisper.

“Then the love interest usually leans in closer…” Aashiq tilts his face downward, his mouth hovering above my own. I can practically feel his words in the space between us. “And if they’re lucky, something will happen, but more often than not, they’ll get interrupted by—”

“Hey! Move out of the way!”

Aashiq and I abruptly jolt apart, just in time for a cyclist to zoom right through where we stood before. I stumble until my back hits the lamppost, which throws me into reality. Anger flushes my skin, and I push off the pole as I turn toward the cyclist. “Hey!” I wave a furious fist in his direction. “You don’t own the sidewalk, asshole!”

I turn back to Aashiq, but he’s taken a few respectable steps away from me. “Anyway,” he mumbles, then he lifts his chin. “There’s plenty of time to keep thinking about how to work the romance. We should focus on the plot, too.”

The urge to jump from the Brooklyn Bridge seizes my muscles. Disappointment fills my lungs, but there’s absolutely no reason for me to feel that way. None at all. Nope.

So even though I want to return to the moment, to beg time to go back, to bring us back to the second where I thought our lips would touch, I force a smile. “Sounds good to me.”

22

Over the next few days, I notice Aashiq more. Like, alotmore. Like more than is appropriate for someone who technically isn’t real.

I notice the curl of hair at the nape of his neck and how he ruffles it when he’s thinking deeply about something. It doesn’t happen often, because Aashiq is of the “speak first, think after” variety, so whenever I see his fingers reach for the tiny strands at the back of his collar, I know something profound is coming. I notice the way he prefers to stretch his legs out on every surface, whether he’s sprawled on the couch or lying on the floor or spread out on my bed. It’s like wherever he used to be in my brain was so crowded that this is his chance to take up as much space as possible. And I notice the happiness that glows in his eyes whenever he looks at me, like he can’t fathom being anywhere else.

I know how bizarre I sound. I try to rationalize it in my head by constantly telling myself Aashiq isn’t real, but every time he brushes against my shoulder when he passes me in the kitchen as he makes sure I eat something good, it feels real. Every time he gets excited when we reach a breakthrough inthe new book’s outline and he gives me a high five, it feels real. And every time we go out for our evening walk to talk about the story, the desire to hold his swinging hand feels so, so real.

I ignore it—mostly—by throwing myself into work. Not just writing the outline for the new book, but at the office as well. After the day I spent with Joe, he asked me to keep filling in for his assistant after it became clear they needed more time away. It was mostly administrative work, but I eagerly accepted, and every now and then I get to tag along on his cases to see how things work inside the courtroom. He also told me he’s already put in a good word for me with Colin, so that improved my mood, too.

Except that’s not enough for Aashiq, apparently, because when we arrive at the office this morning, he pivots in front of me, blocking my path to my desk. “Today’s the day,” he declares.

I frown but shrug off my jacket. At this point, I’m used to his antics, so I’ve gotten good at just continuing with my business. “The day for what?” I ask. I go to sidestep him, but he follows my movement. I end up closer to his chest, with little space left between us. My eyes widen as my heart skips a beat. This proximity isn’t helping with the delusions I’ve been having lately.

“The day you ask Colin for your funding package for your JD!”

My stomach sinks. “What?” I splutter, shaking my head. “I’m doing no such thing.”

“Why not?” he questions. “You’ve been doing well at work, and Joe said he spoke with Colin on your behalf. It’s the perfect time for you to sweep in and get what you were promised.”

“I’ve already asked Colin, remember?” I remind him. “The day before my birthday. He brushed me off.”

“How hard did you try, really?” Aashiq questions. “Did you sit down with him and discuss your plan properly? Or did you half-heartedly ask while he was busy doing other things?”

He’s got me there. But… “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “He’s already dismissed me, and I can’t go back and ask him about it again.”

“Why not?” Aashiq presses. “You deserve the world.”

Warmth floods my cheeks at his casual speech. It’s a profound statement—the world is a vast place, after all, and not exactly something you can tangibly take into your own hands for yourself—but he said it so sincerely, without a hint of irony, that I knew he meant every word.

But annoyance quickly replaces those fuzzy feelings. I know Aashiq’s perseverance is well-meaning, but sometimes I wish he’d drop something once I’ve made it clear I don’t want to talk about it. Plus, I’m not even fully sure I believe what he’s said. “Because beyond asking for the actual money, I don’t have any kind of plan.”

“Sure you do!” Aashiq counters. “What schools did you have picked out?”

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