Page 103 of An Unfinished Story
Whitaker pulled himself away from the ending to respond:Not yet.
I Hear Thunder?
No, Matt, not I Hear Thunder. I am the fucking thunder. Brace yourself. Story imminent. Over and out.
Whitaker closed his messaging app, turned off his Wi-Fi, and went back to work. His fingers danced like they never had before. The end of the story came as if it had been there all along. Of course it had! Whitaker had been so caught up in his own ego that he’d feared his sentences might not be as crafty as they’d been inNapalm Trees, his wordplay not as lofty, his descriptions not as sexy. What he should have focused on was the story! You can string together the most beautiful sentences in the world, but without a story you have nothing.
He’d figured out the missing piece, the glue that bound Kevin and Orlando. He’d originally considered the possibility of Kevin or Orlando dying. That might have been a tearjerker.
But it wouldn’t have been true. It wouldn’t have been true to what David wanted and where David was headed.
And the lesson Whitaker had learned over the past six months was that David was headed toward a love story. One big beautiful love story.
The writer’s fingers continued to fly, and tears rolled down his cheeks as the story nearly told itself. A new character had entered Kevin’s life, turning his world upside down. Turning Orlando’s world upside down.
The power Whitaker felt in his fingers was indescribable as he wrote the last words. It was as if each stab of the key came from not only his finger muscles and forearms but even his shoulders. Not only was his whole body involved, but his soul as well. And it was his soul doing the heavy lifting.
The writer finished the last line, knowing it was right in every way.
He pressed the return key and typed triumphantly: “The End.”
Whitaker sat back in David’s chair, basking in victory like a warrior after battle. He looked at the gash in the wall, which he still hadn’t repaired. He enjoyed the reminder that came with it. What a journey this had been. To think this was a writer’s life. Each book a dive down into the abyss, the best stories coming from the deepest of depths, wringing every emotion out of you, leaving you deathly tired but utterly alive. And once you’d finished and felt like you’d given all you had, you had to wake up and do it all over again.
In his Walter Cronkite voice—deep and exact—Whitaker asked himself, “Who in their right mind would put themselves through this every day, Whitaker? Why not take the road more traveled?”
“Because, Walter. This is what I was born to do.” Whitaker caught himself from slamming his fist down on the desk. He didn’t want to wake Claire.
He still had work to do. Turning toward Willy, he said, “I’m gonna make your mama proud, little guy.”
Whitaker scrolled back to the beginning of his writing session and spent another two hours editing and polishing what he felt was a very fine ending. Once he’d read the last lines again out loud, he decided it was time for her to read it.
As the printer dealt out page after page ofSaving Orlando, Whitaker sat back with his arms crossed, pondering the night before, how very perfect it was. He felt her presence behind him and rotated in the chair.
Claire was standing at the door, wearing her glasses and a Chicago T-shirt—the band, not the city. “What are you doing out of bed so early?”
Whitaker made a dramatic effort to look her up and down. “I’m wondering the same thing myself.”
Claire turned her head to the printer. “What’s that?”
Whitaker didn’t have to say it out loud. A smile rushed over him.
“You finished, didn’t you?” She stepped farther into the room.
“Every last word.” He rose to standing and leaned in for a kiss.
“How does it feel?” she asked.
“Like the battle has been won.”
She drew a shape, a heart maybe, with her finger on his chest. “I want to read it.”
“Soon enough.”
“No,” she said, pushing him away. “I’m reading it today.”
“That’s why I’m printing it out. But we have a little time until it finishes. You can’t walk in here like this and not let me hold you for a little while.”
“Is that all you’re looking for?” Claire asked, looking at him like he’d stolen a cookie out of the cookie jar. “A little snuggle?”
