Page 2 of The Love Interest
Why should something that magnificent be anything other than a once-in-a-lifetime event?
I wanted to marry Sophie.
I proposed to her when we were twenty-two, before either of us had any idea we wouldn’t live forever.
I still wanted to marry her when it became clear that she wouldn’t live much longer than a few months.
I wanted it on the record that I was Sophie’s husband and she was my wife.
She said she didn’t want to make me a widower.
“Marry someone who’ll make life beautiful for you again,” she said. “Marry someone who’ll live for you. Promise me you’ll be happy again.”
That was the only time I’d lied to her, when I made that promise. And I promised myself that I would never fall in love again. I’ve kept this silent promise to both of us, every single day, for over ten years.
I had made the decision to love and care for her, in sickness and in health, long before I’d actually proposed to her. If she’d let me marry her, I wouldn’t have said those words “till death do us part.” Fuck that parting shit. I lived for her, and I would have died for her. There’s no end to that kind of love.
Here’s one true sentence that I will never share with anyone:I’m starting to forget what it felt like to be in love with Sophie, and it’s like I’m losing her all over again.
Here are two more:I probably just need to get laid. I definitely need a drink.
And, as always:I’m going to write one more page before I do anything else.
JACK IRONS
Title TBD by Emmett Ford (The Jack Irons Series, Book Six) – Chapter One
Eggs. Jack Irons was staring at eggs when he realized it. Two eggs, sunny-side up, staring right back at him. He hadn’t even had his coffee yet—maybe that was why he wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe that was why he wasn’t thinking about the news, or the bills that were due, or the song on the radio, or the five men he’d killed in Berlin two months ago.
I need a woman.
At first, he thought about sex. Then, he thought it would be nice to have someone to eat breakfast with. Then, he thought about sex again. Sex and breakfast with a woman. It had been years since he’d thought of having both with the same woman. He hadn’t even let a woman stay the night in this apartment before. Hadn’t offered any woman a glass or a mug that his wife had drunk from. They were the only things he’d had his sister pack up and send to him once he’d finally settled down in Oceanside—or disappeared here, rather. His wife’s favorite wineglass and coffee mug, unwashed since the last time she’d use them. Two things that still had traces of her lipstick and fingerprints on them.
After Marianne had died, Jack left their South Carolina hometown with nothing but the clothes he was wearing and a heart full of guilt and rage. Guilt, rage, and a love that wouldn’t die. A love that would not be forgotten, could not be replaced.
He had faced death on his own more times than he could count by the time he’d reached the West Coast, but not once did the thought of losing his own life scare him as much as the thought of losingherhad.
He’d only been with one woman in the last month. Not because she was special—because she’d kept calling him and he didn’t have the time or the energy to get to know anyone else. In bed, she had the enthusiasm and stamina of a spin class instructor. Out of bed, she was as mentally stimulating as watching the spin cycle of his washing machine.
* * *
Hold on there, hot shot.
Seriously?
What. The. Shit?
Fuck fuck fuck fuck ball sack cocksucker loser hack garbage sellout New York Times best-selling author piece of shit has-been.
That right there was better writing than what you just churned out. You’re joking, right? You think you can get away with this? I would never think this shit—not on page one. You call that a hook? You write thrillers. This is the exact opposite of thrilling. Your readers deserve better than this horseshit. That entire opening is weak, and those last two sentences are the worst sentences anyone has ever written.
Select all and delete.
Again.
What is this now—your fourteenth attempt at Chapter One?
Admit it. You have writer’s block. You know what writer’s block is? Life block. You’ve cock blocked yourself into a corner. Step away from the computer, man. Get out of that fancy loft. Get back out into the world again. Let the summer night air and the city of Manhattan into your lungs and your heart again. Think about something other than your deadline and me and Sophie. Talk to a living, breathing human being. A pretty one. A smart, pretty one. The kind you can really talk to. The kind who will make you smile again. Someone you can make love to. Someone you could fall in love with.
