Page 32 of Take 2
“Just admiring the dress. It’s going to be in tatters soon.”
Chapter Thirteen
Inthemorning—orwheneverit is, because:jet lag—I slip out of the bed where Preston sleeps and go back to my room. His words repeat in my mind over the sound of the shower.Make you fall in love with me.That had to be the stomach bug talking. Right? As I rinse out my hair, I remember I need to find out what products Preston uses.
Wrapped in a towel, I peek in at him through the connecting door to verify he’s still asleep.
He is. And the sight doesn’t inspireoh, I should get out of herethoughts. It makes me want to sit next to him and read a book while I brush through his silky hair with one hand.
I am royally screwed.
The door closes softly. I slide a robe on and pull out my laptop. I dig through my bag, but— Damnit, where are my writing gloves? I pinch the bridge of my nose and imagine Lisa and James telling me this is a sign I shouldn’t be working. Well, my wrists scraping against the edge of the laptop used to be the norm before I got them. This won’t stop me, even if the loss of the soft green gloves I’ve written in since grad school pulls me down.
I sit cross-legged on the bed and open the screenplay I’m supposed to clean up. I’ve compiled a list of notes and find more saved on my phone, a Post-it in my purse, and the back of a receipt. This was the plan Ashleigh and I came up with. I’ve done the pre-work to get ready to revise it. Yet, sitting here with the script open, I have no desire to work on it.
It isn’t for lack of caring about this story or paralysis from the scope of work. It isn’t even burnout or creative exhaustion. I feel like I’m in writing mode, butthisisn’t what I want to write.
I glance up to the left corner, where I could create a new project with a couple of clicks. Daydreams from the flight reassemble in my head. Would that be more of the same, writing too many things instead of focusing on one? Or is this Lisa’s advice to work on whatever lives rent-free in my head?
Maybe my optimism isn’t completely dead because I choose to believe the latter and start with a fresh, clean digital page.
The day is a blur of working at the desk, room service while working on the balcony, and checking on Preston. I’m lying on my stomach on the bed with my feet in the air when he knocks on the open connecting door. My laptop is nearly dead, and my neck is probably broken. His footfalls on the carpet announce his entrance before I can tell him to come in.
“Feeling better?” I ask without looking up.
“Physically, yes. But this is absolutely not how today was supposed to go.”
Everything in me creaks like stairs in a haunted house, but I manage to twist my neck enough to face him. Water clings to his hair, and fortunately, he’s fully dressed now.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “This is a great day.”
“You’re working. You could be doing that at your apartment.”
“Not with that view.” I tip my head toward the balcony.
“You’re not even enjoying it.”
“I even went out there for some fresh air.”
“With your laptop?”
“Obviously.”
“What are you working on?” he asks.
“My thesis for my chemical engineering PhD.”
He rolls his eyes and sits next to me on the bed.
“Hey! Get your ass off my bed.” I shove him with—apparently—zero force because he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“You had your ass on my bed last night.”
“You wanted it there.”
“Fine.” He flops down onto his stomach next to me. “Ass no longer on bed.”
“You’re an idiot.”
