Page 131 of Role Play
“The end,” I whisper.
His eyes widen in slight alarm. “What do you mean ‘the end’?”
“It’s just this thing I say when someone says the perfect line. Something worthy of ending a story on.The end.”
“I like that,” Forrest says, staring at me like the entire room has melted away and he’s trying to pour out his entire heart with one powerful look.
We’re silent through the rest of the movie, eyes on the screen, but lost in our thoughts. Dakota begins to droop, her eyelids growing heavy despite her determined efforts to stay awake. By the time Stitch delivers his “ohana means family” speech, she’s fast asleep, curled against her father’s side like a contented kitten, her breathing deep and even.
Forrest isn’t far behind. The warmth of the fort combined with the emotional comfort of the story lulls him into sleep. His head drops onto one of the pillows, his arm still protectively curled around Koda. I watch them sleep for several minutes, memorizing the peaceful lines of their faces, the way they mirror each other’s expressions even in slumber.
I never noticed how different he looks when he’s sleeping—vulnerable but unburdened, manly but still so delicately beautiful. That’s Forrest, though. Full of contradictions and complications. And worth every mile of the journey.
And just like that, inspiration, for the first time in months, hits me like a runaway train.
Careful not to disturb them, I turn off the movie and tuck the blanket more securely around their sleeping forms. They look so comfortable, I decide to let them sleep in the fort for the night.Forrest will probably wake at some point and carry Dakota to her bed, but for now, they can rest together in their pillow nest.
I tiptoe into the office, retrieve my laptop, and settle into the armchair by the window. Outside, the city lights twinkle against the darkening sky, a few tentative snowflakes beginning to fall, dancing in the glow of the streetlamps.
It’s a perfect backdrop for the words that suddenly flow right through me demanding to find life on the page. The inspiration that’s been eluding me for months surges, filling my mind faster than I can type. I write without planning, without overthinking…I write from my heart, not my head.
Some of it’s nonsensical, just lyrical descriptions of the metaphorical fullness I feel staring into Forrest’s eyes like his irises are galaxies, and there are endless worlds to discover. Some of it is marking memories, describing the taste, feel, sound, and smell of the bliss of this evening. I jot down our conversations, like etching hieroglyphs in stone so that the magic between me and Forrest becomes the stuff of legends and myths.
Hours pass in a creative blur. It’s intoxicating, liberating, and I feel so fucking alive. For the first time in my life writing just for…well…me.
A faint pinging sound from the kitchen pulls me reluctantly from my writing trance. It takes me a moment to identify the source—Forrest’s phone on the kitchen countertop, a stone’s throw from where he’s sleeping.
Afraid the noise might wake them, I hurry to the kitchen, intending only to silence it. His screen lit up in an eerie blue glow in the darkened kitchen should’ve been my first clue that my peace was about to be disturbed. I shake off my intuition, and continue on my mission to silence the thing and flip it over.
The screen lights up once more as I reach for it, and I can’t help but see the notifications.
Rina
Job tomorrow night, 8pm.
New client requested an overnight.
Details to follow.
My hand freezes midair, a cold weight settling in my stomach, as if I’ve swallowed ice water too quickly.
Of course. How could I forget this glaring alarm in the symphony of my budding romance? The ten-foot thorn in my rose garden. Forrest is an escort. He has clients. That’s his job, his livelihood. The job that supports Dakota. The job he’s never promised to give up.
So why does it feel like I’ve been sucker punched? Why does the thought of him having even apathetic sex with someone else make my chest ache as if all the air has been squeezed from my lungs?
The phone buzzes again, thepingnow sharp with aggression.
Rina:
Last chance, Hawkins.
Confirm ASAP, please.
The warm glow of our domestic evening evaporates, replaced by a sick, chilly hollow feeling of dread. I set the phone back on the counter after setting it to vibrate.
I retreat back to the study and to my laptop, but the words that flowed so easily before now stick in my throat. The cursor blinks accusingly on the screen, a visual metronome marking the seconds of my naive foolishness.
What was I thinking?How much longer could we play house without reality ripping through like a tornado?
