Page 99 of Script Swap
Rubbing my neck, I watched them go.Keme and Millie had already disappeared, which meant I’d have to bide my time and wait for the perfect opportunity for revenge.Would pantsing Keme in public be going too far?No, my brain told me.If anything, it wouldn’t be going far enough.
I was still rubbing my neck and glancing around when I caught sight of Bobby.He stood with Mr.Cheek, head bent to hear him over the competing conversations, nodding at something Mr.Cheek said—and then, just as quickly, shaking out a definitive no.His hair was in its perfect part.The burnt-bronze of his eyes was fixed on Mr.Cheek’s face, in that kind, attentive sincerity that was Bobby Mai’s trademark (even with someone like Mr.Cheek, who had once invented what he called a “fire-pole carry” and tried to get Bobby to do it to him, but it turns out, there’s no such thing as a fire-pole carry, and what he was talking aboutusedto be illegal in every state, and Bobby used a word they donotteach you in fireman school.) (Is there such a thing as fireman school?) Bobby had cuffed the sleeves of his gingham shirt at the elbows, and honestly, if it’s at all possible, I highly recommend you get yourself a man with fantastic forearms.His collar was rumpled in back; my hands itched with the need to fix it—and, in the process, touch him again, if only for a moment.
And then it happened.It wasn’t like all the clichés, not exactly.It wasn’t a key turning in a lock.It wasn’t a lightbulb going on.It wasn’t a flower unfurling its petals.But all of a sudden, I knew.I knew how to fix my story.I knew how to makeA Work in Progressbetter.Because everyone who had told me that the story was cold or mechanical or that it didn’t move them—they were right.It was too old-fashioned.Too much of a puzzle box.Because my story needed a heart.
And my heart was Bobby Mai.
(By the way, I know how mushy it sounds.But it’s true.And I’m not changing it.)
Maybe Bobby felt my gaze.Maybe it was chance.But he looked up, spotted me, and smiled.
My answering smile trembled on my lips, and I tilted my head toward the door.
A furrow appeared between Bobby’s eyebrows, but he shook Mr.Cheek’s hand, and with a murmured excuse, slipped away.
Mr.Cheek saw me then.He didnotlook happy, but at least Bobby had taken his shiv.
Outside, the evening was cool, the breeze high and sharp with the ocean’s tang and the faintest hint of those wild roses, and the sky was purple like the deepest part of a mirror.
“What’s up?”Bobby asked as he joined me.
“Lots of people,” I said.“Want to go for a walk?”
It’s a credit to Bobby that he smiled and offered his arm.
Fox’s gallery was only a couple of blocks from the beach, so we made our way to the water.The tourists had gone inside, leaving behind evidence of a day spent with sun and sand: a forgotten beach umbrella; a SpongeBob kite; a heart drawn in the wet sand, slowly being erased by the surf.Moonlight made a negative of the water: everything dark except the bright tracery of crests and swells.And out across the water, the sun was gone, but a last bit of red smudged the sky.
We walked for a while before I said, “I think I figured out how to fix my book.”
“That’s great.How?”
“Will Gower needs a boyfriend.”
Listen, Bobby’s pretty much perfect in every way.But there was something endearing about how satisfied he looked at that answer.And his chest did puff up a little.Then he said, “Wait, seriously?That’s all?”
“I don’t know.I guess we’ll find out.”
The dry sand made for hard going, so we worked our way down to the water.We passed the heart in the sand that was slowly being washed away.Bobby was way too diligent about sneakers to let the surf reach us, but I liked getting as close as possible, risking it.It didn’t hurt that stuff like that drove Bobby positively bonkers.If it were up to him, we’d be walking a straight line along the safest possible route, and that would be the end of it.
Here’s the proof: the third time I yelped and laughed and tried to run away from the water as it came in, Bobby gently caught my arm and steered me higher up the shore.
He was proud of himself.
(I loved it, of course.)
“Remember when we talked about moving?”I asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, I was thinking about that.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I don’t want to move.”
“Okay.”
“Ever.”
