Page 35 of The Now in Forever
“Just scrapes. I think it’ll be okay. We should probably walk back and get you a Band-Aid or three, though,” he says with a warm smile.
He stands and offers me his hand to help me up. As I take it, I’m surprised how unsteady I am on my feet. I pitch forward, and Ed catches me in his arms. His hands are on the small of my back, mine are on his chest, his muscles solid under my palms. I look up into his face, just inches from mine. His citrus and spice scent, his warm arms, and the pain in my knees scrambles my brain. I lean forward, reaching my lips up to his. Ed’s eyes are warm, but he quickly pulls back.
“Can you walk?” he says, keeping his hand out for me in case I can’t. I trudge a few steps, my cheeks burning. I can’t believe I was going to kiss him. And he’s going to pretend like it didn’t happen, like I didn’t just try to make out with him on this trail.
“I’m fine.” I stride ahead, with a little limp in my step, but for the most part okay. Physically, anyway.
“Hattie.”
I whip around; his face looks pained. “What is it?”
Ed rubs the back of his neck. “Nothing.”
We return to the house, and I shower, the hot water stinging my knees. After I dress and grab some breakfast, I open my laptop and dive into revisions. My story is about a woman named Hallie who works at a bookstore. She finds her boss dead in his office. Ed suggested adding another employee into the mix. Maybe they could even team up. I wonder if he recognized the bookstore as the one we worked at together in Old Town. No. Probably not. He seems to have the memory of a goldfish.
I try incorporating some of the character traits I’ve come up with through the journal exercise, but to be honest, I’m sick of the sight of these words. This story isn’t working, and it feels like no matter what I add, it’s missing that spark of magic.
Closing the document, I open a new one. Usually, I’m an intense plotter and never start a draft until I have all my beats meticulously planned out, but today feels different. It feels like I’ve stepped outside my life, sitting at this window seat with ominous black clouds rolling in. I give in to the voice that’s been whispering to me. I type a new story.
I write for hours, until my leg falls asleep and my stomach snarls at me for food. It’s after four already. I skipped lunch because it hadn’t occurred to me. Shutting my laptop, I stand up. I already have three new chapters and the beginning of a love story. It’s a story about love but also about our attachments, how we see ourselves, and timing. June finds an old book hidden underneath one of the shelves. It’s stuck, so she pulls it out, and when she does, a man appears. He is handsome, tall, with dark messy hair that looks like he’s attempted to tame it with styling product, but it still escapes over his brow. His cheeks are high, his jaw razor sharp, his eyes mossy green. Okay, so Ed may have been some of the inspiration.
But it’s not a straightforward love story. She can only see him when the book is open.
It’s new for me. A whole book and not one murder—well, at least I don’t think there will be. Sliding my sandals on, I grab my bag and head to The Vern for some food, lightly tiptoeing past Ed’s door. There’s no need. His room is wide open, and he’s nowhere to be seen.
A huge gust of wind nearly yanks the door right out of my hand as I open it. I grab an oversized wool cardigan with large wooden buttons from the coat rack and head out, ducking my head against the weather. The walk takes me twice the amount of time, partly from the wind, partly from my banged-up knees. The Vern’s door, which is usually wide open, is shut tight and for a moment I worry they’re closed. But the door is unlocked. Kyle spots me and smiles. He motions to the empty stool in the corner, and I have a seat.
“Let me guess, a hummus plate and lemon water or wine?”
I frown. “Am I that predictable?”
Kyle shrugs. “I don’t know if I’d say predictable. You like what you like, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” There’s a spark in hisbrown eyes when he says this, and not for the first time it occurs to me Kyle might be flirting with me. I bask in it. After this morning's humiliating display, it’s nice to have a man, an attractive man, show open interest in me. But it’s nothing. He probably flirts with everyone.
I inhale deeply. “You know what? Today is a different day. I’d like a margarita on the rocks and the black bean nachos.”
Kyle raises his eyebrows. “Okay. Coming right up.”
He puts in my food order then gets the tequila while he asks me, “What makes today different?”
“I started writing a new story, in a new way.”
“You’re a writer?”
He hands me my drink, and I take a sip, the tartness biting the back of my jaw. I always hate talking about my writing to strangers. Honestly, I’m shocked I brought it up today. I never know what to say. I write stuff. Does that make me a writer? But I haven’t published anything except a handful of short stories when I was in college. I take my craft seriously though, and I think some of the novels I’ve started are great.
“I am. I teach English—well, I did before my school closed. Anyway, it’s not my job, but I do write.”
“That’s cool. I’ve always wondered what you were doing on your laptop. So, what made today different?”
I shrug. “The storm. It’s like there's a new smell in the air. It feels charged.”
Kyle’s face shifts, and he excuses himself. He goes straight from behind the bar down the hallway to the patio. I sip my drink and idly scroll my phone. After a few minutes, people file in from outside, drinks in hand, some with plates of food. Kyle must’ve closed the patio.
One of the last people to file in, holding a sweaty tall can of Rainier, is Ed.
BEFORE SUNRISE
TEN YEARS AGO
