Page 17 of Marginally Yours
Chapter Eleven
"Callie, what the fuck?" She flinches when I stand up from my chair and I immediately regret my harsh tone. "Please," I ask, softer this time. "Please explain how the fuck you answered a question I asked you in my head." I take a few slow steps toward the bed and sit down on the opposite end from her.
"I..." she starts, closing her eyes again. "I can't explain, because you're not going to believe me anyway." Her words are rushed, like she had to force them out.
"Callie, are you kidding me? Look around you." I gesture around us, from the bookshelf full of fantasy books to the vintage Hobbit and Star Wars posters framed on my wall. "What exactly do you think you're going to tell me that I won't at least entertain the validity of?"
She considers for a moment before her shoulders droop in concession. "I'm not supposed to interfere," she whispers, her voice cracking.
"Hey, come here," I mutter, pulling her into my lap. I tuck the stray hairs behind her ear and trail my fingers along herjaw, tipping her chin up gently until her eyes pierce into mine. "You can tell me anything."
With one more deep exhale, she finally caves. "I'm going to tell you some things, and I need you to know before I do that..." She pauses, swallowing. "You're talented on your own. What I'm going to tell you doesn't change that." I'm so confused, but I nod anyway. That seems to satisfy her, so she continues.
"Callie is short for Calliope. As in Ancient Greek muse Calliope. I mean, I'm nother, but I'm named after her," she rushes out. I squint at her, not sure what being named after a muse has to do with anything. "She's a great great something aunt. But I'm a muse. It's all a bit bureaucratic these days, but it's still very much an indentured servitude and we're all just born into it without any real say. Anyway, I was assigned to you. That's why I'm here. I'm supposed to inspire you to write your book."
She finally stops to breathe, and I stare at her for a beat before I blurt out the stupidest shit I could think of apparently.
"By what, fucking me?"
"What? No!" She jumps back like I slapped her, and I wish I could shove my words back in my mouth and choke on them. "I... That isnotpart of the job. This is... different.We'redifferent."
I groan and drop my forehead into my hand. "I'm so sorry," I tell her. "That was shitty and uncalled for. I don’t know why I said it." She stares at me, mouth open, like no one's ever apologized to her before. "I'm sorry," I say again, barely audible. She says nothing but she nods lightly.
I’m not sure what to say to any of this. If I open my mouth again, I’m sure I’ll just put my foot in it. I don’t see a reason for her to lie to me about what she is, but it’s all a littlehard to believe. I decide to see it scientifically. I’ll need more evidence before drawing a conclusion.
“Okay, tell me more,” I urge. “What does that all mean?” She releases a relieved breath before continuing.
"Well, we get assigned randomly to anyone the Fates see a thread for. People with talents they haven't discovered, people who struggle to find success..." Her eyes drift up to meet mine. "People with lots of talent but not enough motivation."
Ouch."I'm guessing I fall under that last category?" Her gaze drifts to the floor as she nods. "No, it's okay. It's not an incorrect assessment, I guess." She gives me an apologetic smile.
"So, when we get assigned, we just follow whatever the Fates tell us to do to get into your path. There's a whole dossier and everything."
"Oh, I havegotto see that." The world's most boring case file, I'm sure. "So, what about you hearing me? How does that play in?"
"I wasn't lying to you. Iamactually mostly deaf. Not a muse thing, just a me thing. But, while you're my charge, I can kind of hear your thoughts." My eyes widen in horror.Oh fuck, all those times I thought about...
"Not every thought, I swear!" She interrupts my impending panic attack, but I'm still mortified. "I can only hear things related to your inspiration. Like if you have writer's block, or if you're struggling to connect with a character or make a plot decision or something. I can hear it like an echo in my head, and I can step in to adjust or provide more inspiration as needed. Like I said, we're not supposed to interfere directly, so being able to hear your thoughts about your work makes it easier to inspire you.”
I nod my head slowly while I try to process everything she just dumped on me while she eyes me warily. “Are you tryingto figure out how to get the crazy lady out of your apartment?” she asks with a nervous laugh.
Am I? It's hard to believe that she's not making this up - or maybe that she's just batshit crazy - but it all kind of lines up. Ever since she showed up in town, I've had the motivation and the inspiration to plot out and start writing an entire novel. The dreams, the annotations… Wait a minute.
"I knew it was you," I blurt out. Her eyebrows scrunch together. "The annotated books. The purple pen in those used books you were giving me. I thought it was just a coincidence at first, but then I opened one in the store, and it had nothing in it. The writing appeared as soon as I got to work. That was you, right?"
"Yeah," she nods, her expression almost bashful. "Those are all books from my personal collection actually. The annotations aren't just magic; they're my own notes."
Of course they are. Of fucking course it was her own words and ideas that inspired me to come up with a whole world of my own. It dawns on me that I never actually told her about the annotations magically appearing in the book, just that they were there. I was going to tell her after last night, but I hadn't gotten around to it yet. She wouldn't have even known about them unless she had something to do with them one way or another.
"Okay," I say with a sigh. "Let's say this is all true and I believe you. Why is this," I point a finger back and forth between us. "Different?"
"We're not supposed to interfere," she says again. "That means we just show up in your life close enough to provide the inspiration. New barista at your local coffee shop, new coworker in your office… New bookseller at your favorite bookstore. Once you've written your first book, recorded your first album, painted your first masterpiece, whatever the assignment is, we disappear." My stomach twists at that last word. I'm sure my face does too, because she rushes to elaborate. "You're not even supposed to remember me. I was supposed to just move out of town after the job was done. We're not supposed to get... attached."
I can't help myself. I pull her closer and shoot her a grin. "You're attached to me, huh," I chide, wiggling my eyebrows. She laughs, and warmth spreads through me. I hate to drag the moment down, but I have to know. “So why did you? Get attached?”
She looks away again, pink flushing her cheeks. “I’m not sure, honestly. When you first talked to me at the bookstore, I tried to be polite and distant, but I couldn’t help myself. I haven’t been on many assignments, and they’re usually all too oblivious to notice me. But you saw me immediately, and you were obviously so nervous to talk to me. It was cute.”
I sigh. Cute is the last thing I was going for, but if it works, it works. I guess.
