Page 6 of Writing Mr. Right

I yank out my external USB and stare down at it. This tiny little device has the only existing copy of my book, a piece of art I poured my heart and soul into. Countless months of latenights, brainstorming sessions, and missed meal breaks because I was in the zone. The very last of it is in here.

I toss it to the ground and crush it with my heel until it shatters into tiny pieces. I cry the whole time, tears dripping down my chin.

When I’m done, I kick the pieces to the side. I’ll deal with it in the morning. Then I stomp back into the kitchen, pull the cake out of the fridge, and aggressively cut a piece. There are only a few minutes left until my birthday, and after the rejection I just got, I deserve this. At the last second, I snatch the candles from the counter and grab a box of matches.

I change into pajamas, then situate myself on my bed with the plate and the candles. My eyes are puffy and red, and my throat feels like I swallowed a baseball, but I don’t even care as I stick one of the candles into the cake. A quick check on my phone tells me there’s about thirty seconds until midnight. I strike a match and light the candle. The tiny flame flickers blue on top of the wick for a solid three seconds before it shifts to red. I blink at it, dwelling for a moment in its soft quiet resilience. But I can barely see through the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes again when I turn my attention back to the sad-looking piece of cake.

This cake is supposed to represent my big transition into the next decade of my life. A decade where I’m supposed to be wiser, thriving, and completely sure of myself. Instead, I feel like I know nothing, I’m stuck in a dead-end job, and I have never felt so lost. I always used to be so sure of my writing; it’s been the one constant in my life. I wonder when that changed. I just want to be happy.

As the clock strikes twelve, I make a wish and blow out the candle.

3

When my alarm goes off, my headache is infinitely worse. I fell asleep crying, so it shouldn’t be surprising I’m in pain. My face is swollen and my eyes ache. I rub my cheeks, trying to get rid of the numbness. A groan slips through my teeth as I detangle my blanket from my body and slither out of bed.

I step out into the hallway. I’m halfway through the door to the bathroom when a rustling in the kitchen stops me. I freeze, then peer back out into the hall. My alarm goes off at 7 a.m., which means Emily’s already been at work for a couple of hours. I furrow my brows and take a few steps down the hallway, but the sound of heavy footsteps along the floorboards and the long person-shaped silhouette projected on the opposite wall screeches me to a stop. I scramble backward and duck into the bathroom. Immediately all my drowsiness disappears, replaced by an adrenaline racing through my body.

My heartbeat picks up, thumping in my ears. Oh, my God—it’s an intruder. Someone is in my apartment. I grab the thing closest to me—which turns out to be Emily’s hair straightener—and peek over the doorframe. Anxiety curls my stomach. With careful movements, I sneak over to the kitchen. One of the floorboardscreaks under my weight. I wince and press myself against the wall. After a few tense seconds where I’m sure I don’t hear anything else, I continue to creep along the walls until I reach the one leading into the kitchen. With each step I straighten my back more and more until it’s ramrod straight. I raise my chin, trying to force some courage into my veins. Even though my mouth is dry and my hands tremble around the straightener and I’m barely five foot three with thin arms like E.T. and the upper body strength of a newborn baby, I’m not going to go down without a fight. Whoever decided to mess withmyapartment is going to regret their choice. I tighten my grip on the straightener in case I have to immediately swing. With one firm nod, I peep cautiously around the wall.

A man is standing in front of my open fridge. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and soft brown slacks. His tousled russet hair and green eyes nicely complement his smooth brown skin. In his hands is the chocolate syrup I bought for our sundaes yesterday. He tips his head back, then squirts the syrup into his mouth straight from the bottle.

Oh, my good God. A strange man is in my apartment. He is in myapartment, where I am alone and groggy and have a headache from crying all night. And the only thing I have to defend myself is an unplugged hair straightener.

I have to call the police. I have to get help and protect myself against a man who is…drinking my chocolate syrup. Shouldn’t he be rifling through my things until he finds anything of value (which he won’t, because I’m a legal secretary and Emily is a nurse and we’re both paying off student loans)? But no, he’s just drinking liquid chocolate and licking his lips with relish.

What would a main character in a book do? They probably wouldn’t call the police until they confronted the intruder themselves, because they’re the protagonist and need to act. They’d probably knock the intruder out themselves, then tie him up and wait for him to return to consciousness so they could askhim what he wanted. Depending on the genre, this could be a wide range of things: if it’s an urban fantasy, the intruder could be any kind of supernatural creature who acts as the call to action in the hero’s journey. If it’s a romance, the intruder might be someone who thought my apartment was actually theirs through some kind of comical mix-up. If it’s horror, the intruder could be a serial killer who was being chased and managed to take refuge in the first apartment they could break into. And if it wereextramessy, I’d fall in love with him à laFlower of Evil.

I hope it’s not the last one, even though the angst factor would be amazing. No matter which genre the story of my life is, the first step is knocking him out, so that’s what I have to do.

When he suddenly turns to me, I almost forget I might actually be in danger. Now that he’s facing me, I can clearly see the slit in his left eyebrow. He gives me a huge grin, brown syrup staining his white teeth. He holds up the bottle. “Hey, have you ever tried this? It’sdelicious!”

His voice kick-starts a rush of adrenaline in my body. I scream, and he jumps about a foot in the air.

“Get out of my apartment or I’m calling the police!” I wave the hair straightener clutched in my hands. “I’m not afraid to use this!”

He frowns. “What do you mean, get out? You’re the one who called me!”

Once again, confusion overtakes fear. I lower my arms slightly. “What are you talking about? I didnotcall you.”

“I’m Aashiq.” He holds his hand out to me, though he makes sure to hold on to the bottle of syrup. “I’m your muse!”

“Oh.” I stare at his outstretched hand. “Okay.”

And then all the adrenaline leaves my body and I promptly pass out.

* * *

The crackle of something frying in oil is the first thing I hear when I wake up. I open my eyes slowly to see I’m lying on the couch with a blanket tossed over me.

I lift my head off one of the throw pillows, confused. The last thing I remember is tears decorating my comforter as I curled over in bed last night.

I turn to the direction of the kitchen, where I assume Emily is making breakfast. Instead, a man in a black shirt and brown pants whistles happily as he moves about the space preparing food.

Then it all comes crashing back. I woke up to this man—Aashiq, I think it was—in my kitchen before blacking out. And he’sstillin my kitchen, except this time he’s cooking and not just eating my groceries straight out of the containers.

I’m still a little fuzzy, so I raise my hand to press the heel of my palm to my eyes. “What are you doing?” I grumble.

Aashiq stops whistling long enough to look over his shoulder. Emily’s pink apron, the one with tiny strawberries printed all over it, is tied around his neck, and even though he’s some intruder who just appeared in my kitchen, I can’t help but admit he kind of rocks it. His eyes light up when he sees I’m sitting. “Oh, good, you’re awake!” He glances at the frying pan. “You can’t write on an empty stomach first thing in the morning. You need breakfast.”

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