Page 62 of An Unfinished Story
As if she could ever understand. Whitaker stood and took the books and picture back off the table. He held them out. “Take them. Please. They’re not safe in my hands.” He said that last bit as a way to force her to take the books. He wanted them out of there. He wanted this responsibility off his back.
Claire took the books and went toward the front door. Watching her walk away might have been the saddest thing he’d ever seen. Cue the Roy Orbison and a tuna melt.
“I’ll email you what I have so far. And I’m sorry, Claire.”
Once she was gone, Whitaker returned to David’s chair and clicked his way back to his OPENPROJECTSfolder. He could finally let go of his ego, and he could finally settle into being a normal human. He draggedSaving Orlandoto an email and typed Claire’s address into the form.
Whitaker moved his mouse to the “Send” button but hesitated. This was it, his goodbye to writing. Yes, a retreat and surrender. Perhaps a cowardly one. But also the start of a new life.
Whitaker pressed his finger down but pulled back at the last moment. He lifted up the mouse and slammed it as hard as he could onto the desk. It shattered, plastic shrapnel shooting out across the desk.
It wasn’t enough to satisfy his rage. So many people had commented over the years that they could never imagine Whitaker losing his temper. How wrong they were. Swiping his right hand along the desk, he knocked everything off: the laptop, the writing books, the broken mouse, the cup of cold coffee, the lamp. The bulb of the lamp sparked in a final blue flame as the cold coffee spread like a pool of blood.
Just in time, he saved his laptop from the coffee and set it back on the desk. Pulling the computer open, he prayed that it was still operational, that he hadn’t lost the latest iteration ofSaving Orlando. As the display lit up, he reached for the mouse by rote until he remembered that he’d smashed it. A longtime hater of the trackpad, he fortunately had a spare in the desk.
Whitaker put his hand on one of the iron pulls of the drawer and tugged. It slid a couple of inches into an abrupt stop, like it was caught on something. With his anger still lingering, he jerked on the drawer until it broke free and came flying off the casters. As it crashed onto the floor with a boom, something white slid out, a piece of paper, maybe.
A photograph?
It must have gotten stuck behind the drawer. Out of breath from his tirade, he reached down. It was an image of two people standing in front of a baseball stadium. Whitaker recognized the man in the picture instantly. It was David.
A young boy stood smiling next to Claire’s deceased husband.
“What is this?” Whitaker asked. Chill bumps fired on his arms, and he had a sudden sense of lightness, like he was flying. He stared hard into the boy’s eyes.
“Who are you?”
Chapter 28
POPCULTURE
With David’s unfinished story in her hands, Claire traipsed down the steps of Whitaker’s house and went to her convertible. Though a very small part of her hoped that Whitaker might change his mind, she could see the defeat in his eyes—his white flag waving shamefully. And she didn’t know if she was strong enough to help him dig out of it.
This felt like the end.
Setting the composition books on the seat, she took a moment to look at David’s picture. “I’m so sorry, David. I’m trying my best.” It was as if he’d come back from the grave to ask her to write this story, and she was not fulfilling her part of the bargain.
Then the sound of a door opening and closing. Turning, she saw Whitaker leaping down the steps, waving something like a piece of paper up in the air, yelling for her to wait.
“What in the world, Whitaker? What are you doing?”
He wasn’t the man she’d left moments before. He was glowing as he handed her a photograph.
“What is this?” She took the picture from his hands and looked. Her body went rigid.
Whitaker asked, “Who is he?”
Claire was staring at the photograph in shock. David and a boy were standing in front of a baseball stadium. The sign above their heads read: HOME OF THEBALTIMOREORIOLES. David was wearing a green polo shirt and seersucker shorts. And he was holding his arm around a boy she’d never seen before—a white kid with a broad nose and straight brown hair partially covering one eye.
Whitaker was asking again, “Who is he?”
Claire shook her head and looked again. “I don’t know.”
But she did. She did know.
“I think that’s—” Whitaker paused.
Claire and Whitaker said at the same time, “Orlando.”
