Page 25 of The Now in Forever
I trudge farther down the street than I have before and look towards the water. On the end of the small block, a large circular sign swinging in the breeze catches my eye.
Painted in loopy cursive, arced on the bottom of the circle, is the wordBooks. I follow it like a siren call. The building is an old dusky blue Victorian house with a large porch. From the steps, there’s a perfect view of the ocean from the railing. More space than even my grandma’s porch. There’s worn spots on the wooden slats, like there used to be tables and chairs out here, but now all that’s left is the scuffs.
On the large bay window is a For Sale sign and a phone number. I step forward, cupping my hands on the glass. Inside is lit only by the ample windows. It’s enough to see the rows of shelves with books still on them. Floral-patterned wallpaper covers the walls, peeling here and there. A large chandelier hangs from the center of the room above a large circular table, empty at the moment, but I can imagine the displays that could adorn it.
The red front door has an oval glass and lead window in a floral pattern. I twist the knob quickly. Locked. Not that if it wasn’t, I would go in. I snap a picture of the sign then head down the stairs and take a picture of the building itself, excitement stirring in my chest and an idea percolating. I head back to Main Street.
After a long walk, I end up starving and realize it’s past lunch and I still haven’t had anything today but coffee. Maybe that’s why Ed’s critique stung so much, because I’m hangry.
The Vern is the closest place and the only one I know so far. The bartender comes over, the same one from Friday night—Superman with brown eyes.
“Would you like a Cab?”
He remembers. That’s sweet, but if I have a glass of wine on a stomach full of nothing but coffee and spite, I will wretch. “Food. I need some food.”
He laughs and hands me a menu. “We have that.”
I order a hummus plate and a club soda with lemon.
Stirring the squeezed lemon carcass around my glass, I replay my conversation with Ed over and over in my head.It needs work on a line level.I’m not even at that stage. I have to finish it first.
I open my phone to the Word app and look through his comments. There’s a particularly nice metaphor in chapter three that he’s marked with a question. “Would this character wax poetic about sunflowers?”
He’s right. That line would work better in one of the other POVs. Most of his comments are irritatingly spot on. I slam the phone down.
I shouldn’t even be messing around with my writing until I have a job lined up.
Kyle sets my plate in front of me. “Here you are.”
I try for a smile, but I’m too surly, so I just nod.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I sigh.
“Is it man troubles?”
“Sort of, but not the way you mean. Have you ever wanted something so bad, and tried so hard, and then you see someone else, and they do it like it’s nothing? Like when you strain and nearly pop a blood vessel in your eye trying to open a stupid jar of pickles, and someone comes along and opens it like it wasn’t even stuck. Like you’re a weakling and it just takes a normal amount of strength to crack the jar right open. And all your effort is just a waste.”
Kyle is scratching the back of his neck, looking confused. “You want pickles?”
“No, well, kind of now, but that’s not what I meant.”
“They probably opened the jar because you loosened it for them.”
“No, it’s their jar. I haven’t touched their jar.” Too many hot flashes ofthat daycome uninvited into my brain. This metaphor is running away with me. Stupid writer brain.
“You know what can affect jars? Everything. Humidity, air pressure, the way it was sealed at the factory. Their jar was probably easier to open to begin with or the conditions were perfect when they tried. Sometimes when things look effortless, it’s because we had some well-timed help or approached it at the right moment.”
I sigh. “Timing.”
The door opens, sunlight momentarily blinding me.
Kyle crooks a thumb to the door. “Here’s your boyfriend now.”
It’s Ed. He takes off his sunglasses, and when he spots me at the bar, his electric eyes lock on mine.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
