Page 71 of Is This for Real?
I squeeze his hand. “Yes. I just thought, it’s true. And I felt bad for Ingrid that she lost her father at such a young age, too.” I smile. “I wish my parents were still available for chats.”
“We could always try a medium.” He gives me his half-smile.
“Add that to the list for your Halloween party.”
“I don’t know how you handled it so well. If my parents died, I would be devastated. They’re like my best friends—but the older, PG version.”
We turn to walk up Lafayette Street, past the Schermerhorn Building with its huge, arched windows.
“I didn’t handle it well. I was a wreck.”
“But you’re not a wreck anymore. It would be worrisome if you hadn’t been a wreck when it happened.”
“Michael couldn’t handle it,” I say. Lafayette Street has beautiful buildings built in the 1880s, with huge, arched windows.
The lights are on in the New York Sports Club on the second floor across the street. Through the arched windows, a woman is running on a treadmill. We pass the more modern, curved-glass façade of Astor Place.
He says, “He probably didn’t like feeling helpless and unable to fix it. I can imagine that’s how I’d feel.”
“Zelda really pulled me through by just being there and listening and letting me express my grief. And writing out my feelings helped, too.”
“That’s what my dad says about therapy. That talking about it—not leaving it bottled up inside—can help. He also always recommends journaling.”
“That’s good advice.”
“Hey, we’re in the neighborhood of Veniero’s,” Rory says. “Should we go? Are you still off the clock?”
“Can’t pass up Veniero’s. I always need fuel for writing.”
We walk a few more blocks over to Veniero’s. It’s not too crowded. The front area is a bakery with glass displays of pastries. In the back, the hostess is taking reservations for tables in the seating area. She hands us two menus and takes us around to a table on the other side. We order two hot chocolates, a cannoli for Rory, a strawberry tart for me, a plate of cookies to share, and a box of cannoli and fruit tarts to go as a surprise for Zelda. The waitress takes it all down without batting an eye.
Rory talks about his ad campaign preparation, and I discuss the stumbling blocks I’m running into in my book. We work through some issues, and I scribble notes in my little, black notebook. It is very comfortable, but more than that, it feels so right—like we’re some dynamic duo together. I don’t discern any frissons of electricity, except for once when our fingers touch as we both reach for the same cookie. That was more like a bolt up my arm. Something flares in Rory’s eyes. But it disappears so quickly that I could have imagined it. Rory shifts in his chair.
At 10:30 p.m., I say I should be getting home. Rory nods. He’s got a big week ahead, too. We take the subway Uptown. He kisses me good night on the cheek when he gets off, but it’s our old “just friends” kiss on the cheek.
I’m going to interpret his “it’s not for real” as him saying he would like it to be real. I know this plotline from romance novels. In novels, it causes weeks of confusion as both think the other isn’t interested. So, even though I lost my nerve at that moment, what with his “two beds” comment, his back turned to me, I know he is attracted to me. Okay, he doesn’t seem to be rip-my-clothes-off attracted, but then he wouldn’t be. That’s not his style. London is an opportunity to change this friendship dynamic. I can use this fake dating scheme to persuade Rory that we could last long term. This is the last chance for our pretend dating and spending a significant amount of time together. I go home to revise the final scenes of my book when she changes the dynamic, and their fake dating relationship becomes a real relationship.
Chapter twenty-three
Myalarmwakesmeup at 7 a.m. to write on Monday morning. I add and delete scenes as I tighten it, now that I know what I’m aiming for. Esther was right about the third draft.
I sent my revised first five pages ofFake Dating Follyback to Trilby yesterday afternoon. I don’t have her skill, but I could feel that I improved it.
She writes back: “You’re 90 percent there. Did you feel it? You need to write to that feeling.”Did I feel it?I knew when my description was good. So, I felt something there. A feeling of yes!Write to that feeling.I go back through the manuscript.
Zelda is up and moving about the living room.
“It’s coming together, finally,” I say as I send the first fifty pages to Esther, ahead of schedule.
She high-fives me. “That’s excellent.” Zelda stretches on our living room floor, getting ready to go to the gym.
“Rory invited me to London for a writing retreat. I’m leaving Friday.”
“You’re going to London? I thought you had to write.” Zelda looks horrified.
“I’m going to write there. He’ll be working, so it will be like a writing retreat.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to stay here and write? Less distractions?” She rolls her legs on our foam roller.
