Page 8 of Writing Mr. Right

“Crap!” I toss the blanket off and scramble to my feet.

Aashiq knits his brows together as he watches me fumble. “What are you doing?”

“I need to take a shower!” I nearly fall over in my haste to get to the bathroom, but I regain my footing and race forward.

I hear him rise from the couch behind me. “You need to have breakfast!” he insists as he follows on my heels. “And then you need to write!”

I toss him an annoyed glare over my shoulder. “I need to not be late for my job that pays my bills.” I slam the bathroom door in his face before he can come in after me.

I tear my clothes off in a frenzy, kicking them to the side and then stepping toward the shower to turn the faucet on.

For a second, I think he’s left me alone, but I’m proven wrong when he shouts through the door, “But what about writing?”

I groan but grab my robe from the hook on the door. I slip it on and secure the tie at my waist before cracking the door open just enough to expose only my face. Aashiq stares at me expectantly, genuine confusion worrying his eyes, like he can’t fathom why I’d rather be at my paying job than sitting at home and playing the starving artist. “Okay, fine, I accept that you’re my muse, and I appreciate that you decided to…materialize to help me.” I give him a once-over. “I’m sorry to whatever brought you to life, but I’m not writing anymore. I’ve given up and nothing’s going to change my mind. Now—” I wave him away “—begone, or however I can get rid of you.”

I shut the door again, then take my shower. It’s more like a quick rinse, because I don’t have the time to do my normalshower routine. By the time I get out and step back into the hall, Aashiq is gone.

Relief washes over me. Maybe I hallucinated him, after all.

And I might have believed it, too, if the plate filled with food on the coffee table, the parted curtains, and the typewriter didn’t suggest otherwise.

4

Just as I’m about to run past the breakfast plate, my mother’s voice rings in the back of my head about wasting food, so at the last second, I screech to a stop. I pick up the plate and eat as fast as I can. I choke a little on the toast but quickly wash it all down with the orange juice. I dump the dishes in the sink and then speed out the door. Emily might give me another lecture about not loading the dishwasher, but I can use my birthday as an excuse.

I lock the front door behind me, then shoot off a text to Stella to let her know I’m going to be late. In all my years of working at the firm, I’ve only been late twice: one time the subway broke down, and the second time my sister had gone into labor, so I waited at the hospital with her until her husband arrived. As a result, whenever I’m late, my coworkers know something must have exploded in my life.

When I get on the subway, I squeeze through the thick crowd until I find a free spot. I touch my forehead to the back of my hand, willing the panic rising in my body to cool down.

It wasn’t real, right? Maybe I made breakfast without remembering it. Maybe Emily parted the curtains before she went towork. And maybe my parents had a typewriter delivered as a birthday gift. And maybe…my vivid hallucination just happened tofeelreal.

I shake my head, blinking a couple of times to push away the thoughts. I forgot my headphones again in the chaos of this morning, so that leaves people watching to keep me entertained until I get to work. My gaze sweeps along the length of the car; I usually leave the apartment around seven forty-five so I can guarantee myself a seat before the nine o’clock rush, but after…everything that happened, I didn’t leave until almost eight forty-five, so while it’s not nearly as crowded as peak time, it’s still pretty full.

A woman stands next to me, her elbow practically digging into my side. She’s in a smart pantsuit ensemble, her hair is blow-dried to perfection, and her flawless makeup somehow increases the aura around her. The only thing that stands out is her shoes: instead of dress shoes or sharp heels, she’s wearing a pair of Birkenstocks. I’m not sure what could have possibly possessed her to pair such a fancy outfit with sandals, especially as the temperatures continue to drop every day. But maybe she has a pair of fancy shoes in the tote bag hanging off her shoulder. Maybe her last pair of good high heels broke this morning and the Birks were all she had left. This would be a really good detail for a protagonist, and it could lead to an adorable meet-cute, and—

I shut those thoughts down. There’s no reason for me to be thinking about characters or meet-cutes. I shift slightly forward and turn my back to the woman before any more of her outfit inspires writing thoughts. I’ve given up writing.

“No, that’s good!” Aashiq’s voice suddenly exclaims. “Keep thinking about how you could include these details in a story.”

I jump, nearly falling into the old man standing next to me. He gives me the stink eye, and I dip my head in apology before turning to my right. Impossibly, there’s Aashiq. His handrests above my own, gripping the subway pole. He’s taken the spot of the woman with the sandals, and she’s shifted a couple of paces away. I don’t know if she moved because the subway car emptied a little at the last stop, or if it’s because she sensed something there that shouldn’t be, but either way, Aashiq is standing next to me. I give him a once-over, my brows rising to my forehead. “How the hell did you get here? I thought I hallucinated you!”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m still here! I told you I’m here for as long as you need me, and you clearly need me right now.”

“I don’t—” I start, but at the ogling from the other people around me, I cut myself off. I don’t know why they’re staring at me; someone talking to themselves certainly isn’t the strangest thing to ever happen on a New York subway. Once I saw a guy dressed completely in black step onto the car with a crow sitting on his shoulder. The bird actually seemed very well trained, but I got off two stops early just in case. I fish my phone from my purse and pretend to answer it, holding it up to my ear. “And I told you I don’t need you here,” I reiterate, staring at Aashiq so he knows I’m talking to him. “I’ve given up on writing, and that’s it.”

“Okay, fine,” Aashiq relents. He nods once, then tilts his head to the side and relaxes his eyes. “You’ve given up on writing. Can you tell me why?”

His even tone and softened brows reminds me of when an adult tries to calm a child down when they’re angry, and while it’s kind of annoying, I have to admit it works. “Because stories like mine are a dime a dozen,” I grumble, my mind drifting back to Rachel’s email. “Nobody wants to read them. One of the biggest agents in the romance world said that.”

“That’s just one agent’s opinion,” Aashiq points out. “It doesn’t mean you throw in the towel completely.”

I huff. “Please. I get enough talk like that from the people around me. I don’t need to hear it from my hallucination.”

“I’m not a—” he begins, but he stops when he sees me drop my hand from the pole and move toward the exit. I pocket my phone and wait for the doors to open, and when they do, I step out.

As I emerge onto the street, I check behind me to see if Aashiq is still following. My eyes flit over the crowd of commuters, but I can’t see the top of his head. With a relieved sigh, I turn back around.

Just as I do, my chest bumps into another one, and I stumble backward. An insult hangs on my tongue, but I force it back when I recognize Aashiq. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Maybe you don’t like hearing what me and everyone else in your life have to say because you know we’re right,” he suggests.

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