by Carrie Quest
He turns away and I give her a little wave before she goes.
“What’s up, man? I’ll go down with you when she comes back if you want some company.”
He rolls his eyes and ignores my offer. “Did you bring me more of Natalie’s book? I’ve been thinking about it all night. She’s a killer with the cliffhangers, man. Read me the next chapter before the Angel of Death comes back.”
Shit. Guess I’m not even going to get one thing right.
“Yeah, about that.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“She’s pretty pissed at me, so you might have to wait to find out. I’ll read you more about that zombie guy though, if you want.”
I reach for the book on his bedside table, hoping he won’t ask questions, but of course I’m not that lucky.
“What did you do to make her mad, roomie? Eat her last cookie? Fucking fix it, man. I want to know what happens.”
“I didn’t eat anything of hers,” I say truthfully. I didn’t get the chance. “But I’m not her favorite person right now. She’s probably not about to do me any favors.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
He raises his eyebrows and I sigh. “I was about to bring her breakfast in bed.”
Adam grins. “That sounds promising.”
I think of Nat on the table, her legs wrapped around my waist. Her lips curving up into a naughty grin when she told to bring the syrup.
“Believe me, it was. But then Autumn showed up and started yelling that she needed to talk to me, so I answered the door.”
He rips off another chunk of burrito, studying me. Then the fucker starts laughing.
“You are a dumbass, Easton.”
“Thanks. That’s a huge fucking help.”
“Did you fuck Autumn?”
“Don’t be a dick, man. We just talked, but Nat ran out of the house like her ass was on fire.”
He shrugs. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, then just apologize. She seems like a cool girl, and you guys are friends, right? She’ll believe you.”
“I guess.” It sure as hell didn’t feel that simple when I was standing in the street trying to get her to talk to me, but maybe he’s right.
“Does Piper know you’re getting it on with her best friend?”
I reach over and punch him in the leg. “No, she doesn’t. And you’re not going to tell her.”
That shuts him up. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he opens his mouth to answer but I wave my hand.
“Not my business, man.”
He looks down at the empty burrito wrapper in his hands. “She’s stopped by a few times,” he says. “Just to talk.”
He stops but I let the silence hang, in case he wants to keep going. I can’t let it get weird that he’s talking about my sister—he’s my friend and I’m the only one he has right now.
Adam crumples up the wrapper and lobs it toward the trashcan. It’s an easy shot, but he doesn’t even get close.
“Fuck!” He glares at the wrapper, looking close to tears.
“I’m glad you guys are talking,” I say carefully, trying to distract him. I want to get up and move the ball of paper, so he doesn’t have to look at it, but I know that would only make things worse.
He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose. His lips move, and I know he’s reciting lyrics from his favorite song. It’s exactly what he used to do to calm himself down before a big run during competitions, and it kills me to see him do it now.
“Not like it could ever be more than talking,” he says a minute later. He gestures down at his wasted body and then around at the hospital room. “Not anymore.”
I’ve got nothing. What can I possibly say to make this better? I can’t give him assurances that everything will go back to normal because we both know that’s a lie. I’d give him my body if I could, but the only thing I have to offer is a fucking burrito.
“Did I tell you how I fucked up my knee?” I say it without thinking, not sure where it came from. I want to swallow the words at first because I shouldn’t be talking to him about injuries, but I see a flicker of interest in his eyes, so I keep going.
“I was clearing out the condo we rented, getting all our shit together.” I stop for a second, making sure this is okay. I don’t say the words after your accident aloud, but they’re still the loudest fucking things in the room.
“It was depressing as shit,” I continue. My heart’s racing because this is the closest we have come to talking about any of what happened.
“I started drinking,” I say. “But the only thing I could find was a bottle of tequila.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up.
“I packed everything into my car, and I cleaned up a little, and the whole time I’m pounding back this bottle, right?” My stomach turns, just thinking about the sharp taste of the alcohol as I forced it down my throat.
“So, I finally finish, and I’m totally wasted. I know I’m too fucked up to drive, so I try and call someone to pick me up, but I dropped my phone in the snow bank.”
He’s grinning now, and I relax a little. It’s working.
“That sucked, but I decided I’d sleep it off in my car for a few hours. It was around noon, so I figured I’d be good to go by dinnertime. Only on the way over there I saw this sled. You know the people next door who kept complaining about all the noise when you and Zeke had that party?”
He nods. “Zeke went fucking nuts that night. Still, those guys were uptight assholes.”
“Rich assholes. Did you ever see their daughters’ sled?”
“Nope.”
“Shit, man. It was a thing of beauty. No plastic crap would be good enough for their kids, right? It was one of those old-fashioned wooden ones, like an actual toboggan, with metal runners. Painted bright pink, with yellow and purple flowers on it. And the kids had tied this stuffed unicorn to the front.”
To my drunk brain it had been irresistible.
“They probably special ordered it from the fucking North Pole. You remember the garage roofline? And the stair rail?”
Our unit had been on the end, with a low, sloped roof over the garage that ended right over a metal railing on a set of stairs leading down to the lower parking lot. We’d talked a lot about dropping off the roof and jibbing the rail, but I’d been too paranoid about an injury and Adam got hurt before he got the chance to try.
“Well, I grabbed the sled. I figured, I’m never boarding again anyway, so fuck it if I get hurt.”
Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. I see the question forming in his mind, but I rush back into the story, not giving him the chance to ask.
“I climb the roof, which, let me tell you, was not fucking easy with that heavy ass sled, and I set it up. I’m all ready to go when the kids come out, all bundled up in their snowsuits, ready to go sledding. They freak out when it’s gone, call their parents, and soon all of them are down there, looking around. The dad calls the cops to report it stolen and everything. The whole time, I’m up on the roof, laughing to myself and trying to be quiet.”
That hadn’t worked out so well.
“They finally spot me, and the dad’s screaming at me to get down and the mom’s trying to cover the kids’ eyes, and the kids are yelling about saving the fucking unicorn.” I put on a high voice. “Princess Sparkle Hoof! Princess Sparkle Hoof!”
Adam’s laughing for real now. I haven’t seen him this happy in months.
“It’s mayhem. The dad calls nine-one-one and tells me the fire department is coming with a ladder and that the cops are on their way. So, I grab onto Princess Sparkle Hoof and shove off.”
He’s dying. The bed is shaking, and tears are running down his face. “Did it work?” he gasps out.
I nod. “It was a fucking quality sled, man. Heavy. Good speed. I flew off the roof and hit the rail just right. It would’ve been perfect, but my balance was off, so the thing tipped about halfway down and d
umped me on the stairs. Landed on my knee.”
“The sled?”
I shake my head. “Fucked. Princess Sparkle Hoof survived, though.”
He’s wiping the tears off his cheeks when Dawn comes back.
“Ready to go?”
Adam sucks in a few deep breaths. “Yeah. Sorry about before.” He gestures at the wrapper on the floor, but he isn’t angry anymore. “I clearly need the practice.”
He looks at me. “Still want to come along? Bet I can kick your ass at beanbag basket throwing.”
“It’s on, man,” I say. “I just have to text someone, meet you down there?”
“Sure.” He hauls himself out of bed and stands up, still a little unsteady on his feet. His hand lands heavy on my shoulder, but it’s not to balance himself. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “I really needed that.”
“Anytime.” That story has haunted me as yet another example of how I’ve fucked up my life, but using it to make Adam laugh makes the whole sorry episode worth it.
He follows Dawn out and I text Nat, asking if she wants to meet up later and talk. There’s no reply and I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, jogging my leg up and down in frustration, wondering if I should text her again, when the door opens.
Piper walks into the room. She stops short when she sees me and drops the bag of chocolate chip cookies she’s carrying.
“Nice move,” I say as she scrambles to pick them up. She looks up at me, maybe waiting for another dig about her clumsiness, or about why she’s even here, but I’m not going to do that.
“Those are his favorite,” I explain. “And he hates the food in here. Good idea to bring them.”
She relaxes, her shoulders falling, and smiles. “Thanks.”
“I’m on my way down to kick his ass in beanbag basket throwing,” I say. “You coming back to Boulder this weekend?” It’s weird to see her here. She’s wearing scrubs, same as Dawn, and her hair is pulled back tight. She looks official, and grown up, and it hits me again how long it’s been since we really spent any time together.
“Not sure yet,” she says.
“You should.” It will no doubt fuck up whatever I may or may not have going with Natalie to have Piper in the house, but I’ll figure it out. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” she says, pulling me into a hug. “I’ve been missing you.”
She pulls away. “Duty calls,” she says. “I just stopped by to drop those off. I’ll see you later.”
She’s almost out the door when I glance down at my phone. Still no response. Maybe Nat’s busy.
Or maybe she’s not even going to let me try to fix this.
“You talked to Natalie today?” I call out before I can stop myself. Piper pauses at the door.
“I called her on my break, but she didn’t have time to talk. She sounded kind of upset, though, do you think the professor said something to her? About her writing?”
I shrug. “Not sure. I can ask her when I get home if you want.”
“She won’t be there,” Pipes says. “She’s going to an open mic poetry reading with her writing group.”
She waves goodbye and I text Nat again, then head down to be with Adam. I leave my phone on, so I’ll know right away if she answers, but it stays silent.
17
Natalie
The Tea House is one of my favorite spots in Boulder, but even the brightly colored tiles and the soothing sounds of the fountain aren’t enough to cheer me up this morning. Monique is waiting for me inside at a table near the fountain, gazing up at one of the seven bronze statues of women frolicking in the water and looking like the cat who got the cream. Of course she’s looking happy. She didn’t get cockblocked by a bearded hipster and a creaking bed last night and then ambushed by an Amazon this morning.
Shit. I thought I’d worked out my anger on the walk over, but I guess I’m still leaning bitter. I pause before she sees me and take a few deep breaths, trying to expel the Ben drama. This meeting is not about him. It’s about me, and I need to focus and not spend the next hour eaten up with jealousy because my professor got some last night and I didn’t.
Plus, it’s hard to be mad when she’s ordered me a coffee and she tells me that she loves the chapters I emailed her.
“Your pacing is right on point,” she says. “I love the way you’re dropping clues and ending each chapter on a cliffhanger. I nearly emailed you this morning demanding the next installment, and I want you to send me the rest before we meet again.”
I have paper out to take notes, but I wish I’d asked if I could record her on my phone. That way I could listen to it whenever I get tempted to blow off writing. Because I’ve never felt anything like this before. She gets it. I had an idea, and I crafted it and slaved over it and put it out there, and I must have done something right, because Monique really gets it. She sees what I see. My characters are alive in her mind and they’ll live there forever.
It’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever experienced, and I’m just basking in it all, trying to take everything in so I’ll remember this feeling forever.
“You’ve done a fabulous job giving your main character real agency as well,” Monique says. “She is right there, pushing to solve the mystery of the dark magic. She doesn’t just react to all the crazy things happening around her; she has clear goals and she takes action to achieve them.”
Our food arrives, and I give Monique’s stack of pancakes the side eye. I would normally have ordered the exact same thing, but not today. We stop talking to dig in and I start to feel a little queasy, even though my omelet is excellent. She’s told me all the things she loves about my book, so it stands to reason that the next part of this little meeting is going to be about all the things she doesn’t like, which could be many.
Which is fine. Gives me something to work toward.
I just wish she’d just get it over with.
We make small talk about her classes and our favorite books while we eat, and by the time we’ve both ordered another coffee, I’m ready to jump out of my skin. I know that pursuing writing means I have to open myself up to criticism, but I don’t have to like it.
“I’m wondering about love,” Monique says abruptly.
Join the club, sister.
“You’ve pitched the book as Buffy meets Romeo and Juliet,” she continues. “Which is brilliant, but also implies that the love story is a driving force. The problem is, I don’t get that when I’m reading. Your heroine’s training to be a warrior. She’s actively working to solve the mystery of who is attacking her people. The only thing that isn’t progressing at all is the romance.”
Holy shit. I’ve written the story of my life.
With swords.
“You’ve set up the love interest well,” Monique says. “He’s cute, he’s got strong arms, and we know he’s interested in her. They’re working together despite all the family obstacles in their way, but they just seem to run into each other, fight bad guys, and then go their separate ways. No longing looks, no illicit kisses, no discussion of how they feel about each other. She doesn’t even admit to herself that she’s falling for him.”
“It’s young adult,” I say. “I didn’t want to get too explicit.”
“Young adults have plenty of sex,” she says with a laugh. “It doesn’t have to be explicit if you aren’t comfortable, but the feelings need to be explored. The emotions he stirs up in her. The physical reaction she has whenever he’s near.”
“I don’t know if I’m qualified to write about love like that,” I say, looking down at the dregs of my meal. “Maybe I’ll change it so they’re friends.”
Monique leans forward and skewers me with her eyes. “Nonsense,” she says. “I saw you with your boyfriend last night. There were sparks coming off the two of you.”
“That flame has been doused,” I say, sitting back in my chair. “I promised myself no distractions this summer, and I almost slipped, but I’m back on track now.”
She watche
s me carefully. “Are you avoiding distractions, or are you avoiding life?”
I gulp more coffee to avoid answering. Frankly, this is getting a little intense. I thought maybe she’d tell me I was using too many adverbs, not attempt to psychoanalyze me.
“It’s not easy making yourself vulnerable to another person,” she says. “Just like it’s not easy sharing your work with others. You’ve been very brave with your writing, Natalie. It would be a shame if you chicken out with your heart.”
She winks and turns her attention to the last few bites of her pancakes. I slump down in my seat, Ben’s last words from this morning running through my mind.
Not like it is with you.
Tapping out of all my other “relationships” has been as easy as giving up on my other “career goals.” I was never truly passionate about building tiny houses or any of my friends-with-benefits, so it never hurt to move on. Writing is different. I want it badly enough to risk losing my parents’ newfound respect and front up to a critique with Monique. I want it badly enough to put everything on the line.
And if I’m being honest with myself, Ben is different too. We’re not just friends-with-potential-benefits, we’re actual friends. I let him sleep in my bed. I let him read my book and see the parts of me I don’t show anybody else. Being with him is like writing, it just feels right, and I don’t want to let that go.
I look up and see that our plates have been cleared and Monique is engrossed in her phone. She looks up when I clear my throat.
“Sorry,” I say. “Lots to think about.”
“There always is, my darling,” she says.
“I’ve historically been better at running from life than actually living it. This,” I gesture toward my manuscript pages, “is the first time I’ve ever stuck with anything long enough to finish.”
“Well, it’s certainly working for you,” she says.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“The living feeds the writing,” she says. “My relationship with Filipe has shown me that. I won an award for a poem I wrote about a romantic interlude we had in the Parisian catacombs.” She smirks and wriggles her eyebrows, and I try to hide my cringe. I wonder if his dick is as orange as the rest of him.
