Mr. Write

by Monica James

  How could any man treat her with anything but respect? Not only is she beautiful, but she appears kind and intelligent, topped off with a witty sense of humor. She is the perfect package, but it seems she’s been settling for deadbeat losers who really should be kissing the ground she walks on.

  “Surely, you’ve had some luck in love?” When she stops laughing and shifts uncomfortably in her seat, I know the answer is no. “You’ve never been in love?” I can’t believe it.

  She shakes her head and pulls in her lips.

  “Ever?”

  She raises her shoulders in a feeble shrug. “What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic. I’m looking for butterflies, but all I’ve found is indigestion.”

  This is completely none of my business, but my inquisitive mind needs to know. “There wasn’t one man who captured your heart?”

  “Nope, and it’s not from lack of trying either. I guess I’m a serial dater, trying to find true love. After”—she appears to do the math in her head—“twenty…no, sorry, twenty-one boyfriends, you’d think I’d have some luck, but I’m convinced I’m doomed to live alone with fifty-five cats. I thought Donny may have been ‘the one,’ but I was wrong.”

  Wow, that’s some track record. I wonder if she’s slept with them all. But who am I to judge?

  The air stewardess who I know far too well saunters over with my drinks in hand. When she sees Carrie, her eyes narrow into slits, and she doesn’t hide her contempt. She places the drinks on my tray table, arranging the white napkin so her number written in red pen stands out like dog’s balls. “In case you stand under mistletoe, feel free to call.” I give her a strained smile, regretting my deplorable actions. Thankfully, she doesn’t linger.

  Reaching for my drink, I toss it back, relishing the bitter burn. I don’t make eye contact with Carrie as I’m ashamed she knows the reason I have some random woman’s number on my cocktail napkin.

  “So,” Carrie says, breaking the silence. “My New Year’s resolution is to quit booze, boys, and sex.”

  The liquor goes down the wrong pipe, and I choke. Thumping my chest, I cough loudly while Carrie giggles beside me. “That’s some list. Are you planning on joining the nunnery?” I manage to get out between wheezes.

  Her giggles grow louder. “I’ve traded in my chastity chips, Jayden. There aren’t enough Hail Marys to save my soul.”

  Just when I think I’ve composed myself, I gag on…air. I need another drink. I have an incredible, beautiful woman telling me she’s decided to abstain from sex, and all I can think about is having sex…with her…right now.

  “Wow, that came out completely wrong and slutty,” she whispers from behind her hand. “I didn’t mean I sleep around. I mean, I have had sex…” Her cheeks instantly blister, and she bites her lip. “Just…I need to stop talking,” she quickly backtracks, shaking her head in embarrassment.

  “It’s fine. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re an adult. The number of partners you’ve had is…”

  She holds up her finger. “Partners? Why plural? It could be partner?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I correct quickly, afraid I have offended her. “I just meant if you had multiple partners, then that’s completely fine.”

  “What if they were at the same time?”

  I hiss in a strangled breath, certain I’ll choke to death by the time this flight ends. Just as I’m about to affirm that I’m not here to judge, a mischievous grin touches her lips. “I’m just messing with you, Jayden. What do you think, I’m some loose woman or something?”

  “Good god, no!” I’m quick to reply, horrified.

  She giggles, appearing amused by my sudden coyness. “Besides, why is it morally acceptable for a man to sleep with as many women as he likes and he’s labeled a stud while a woman is labeled a slut if she sleeps with more than a handful of men?”

  “Some parts of society still live in a prehistoric era, that’s why. For the record, you can sleep with whomever you like, and I’d still find you the most interesting person I’ve spoken to in quite some time.”

  I shut up quick smart, concerned I’ve crossed some line, but when Carrie smiles, I breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. And ditto. Hypothetically speaking, if you were a complete manwhore, I’d still choose to sit near you over anyone else on this plane.” There is nothing hypothetical about that sentence. We both know that.

  “Thank you. I think,” I add a second later. Her lips twitch, which awakens a stirring down low. Needing to change the subject as all I can think about is her admission that she’s a naughty, naughty girl, I ask, tongue in cheek, “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  She looks at my lone drink, appearing wistful she can’t have a sip before revealing her secrets. “It all comes down to eight hours, twenty-seven minutes, and nine seconds ago. And for the record, I’m not a nice girl.”

  “The twat?” I question, refusing to use his name.

  She nods with a smile. “I work at The Lonely Bird pouring drinks and waitressing. I had a late shift. Donny texted, asking what time I finished as he wanted to come over. This was a first because he usually just turns up on my doorstep unannounced. I thought maybe he’d finally come to his senses and was turning over a new leaf.

  “It was a quiet night, so I asked my boss if I could go home early. I was thrilled when he said yes. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I decided to surprise Donny and not tell him I had finished early. But I was the one who was in for a surprise. The moment I opened my front door, I knew what was happening. I shared an apartment with my friend from art school. Natalie. She knew all about my woes with Donny. She was the ear I chewed whenever he did something to piss me off. She also knew that regardless of everything, I liked him. But it appears she liked him too. Well that or maybe she disliked me enough to hurt me by sleeping with him—in my bed to add to insult.”

  I shake my head disgusted. Does nobody have any decency anymore? “I’m sorry you had to see that. I too witnessed something very similar to what you did.” I tug at the collar of my shirt, suddenly feeling smothered.

  “Thank you, but I’m not sorry,” she firmly states.

  I frown. “I don’t follow.”

  She replies without pause. “The only thing I’m sorry for is wasting six months of my life on someone who didn’t deserve my time. I needed to see what I did to pull myself from a toxic situation. If I didn’t, I’d probably be sitting home alone, waiting for Donny to call. How sad is that?”

  This woman, she is truly remarkable. This entire time, I’ve been looking at what happened with Liz as a bad thing, but Carrie is right. Wasn’t it better I found out the truth than live a lie? Liz wasn’t always a superficial cow, but people change—some for the better and some for the worse.

  Maybe Carrie is onto something. Maybe there is no such thing as a soul mate because can one person really fulfill every need you have? Perhaps there is more than one “The One,” and we find that person with change. It’s very possible that they are “The One” at one time, but with change comes new needs and different views on love and life.

  I toss back my drink, my mind running circles around this very plausible concept as it’s one I’ve never had before. I was happy with Liz, therefore, I didn’t question my beliefs, but now I see that I was living blind.

  Words, names, sentences, phrases begin materializing in my head, all amounting to a story that has never been told by me before—a story inspired by my new muse.

  “I’m sorry, I’m boring you.”

  “What?” I shake my head, clearing it. “No, not at all. I just…when you asked if I was writer, well, I am. And honestly, after finding my wife shagging someone who wasn’t me, I’ve had a hard time writing anything that doesn’t involve the words ‘die, you traitorous cow.’” She covers her mouth, muting her magical cackles. “But talking to you, I actually am inspired for the first time in months. I’ve tried to find inspiration elsewhere…” I don’t need t
o elaborate where. “But I think I too might make a New Year’s resolution.”

  “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?” She leans in close, eager to hear my pledge.

  “Don’t let yesterday take up too much of today.”

  “That’s a great resolution.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Thank you. So how does your story end, Carrie?”

  She blows out a loud breath, raising her shoulders. “Well, after finding my roomie shagging”—she attempts to mimic my accent, which has me smirking—“in my bed nonetheless, I decided to pack up my stuff and not look back.”

  “You moved out?” I don’t mask my surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow.” My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. “That was fast.”

  “Life is too short for hesitations. I’m technically homeless, so I thought while I’m figuring out my life plan, I’d visit my old holiday home in Connecticut. What better way to start the new year than with a loving family.” Her sentence is dripping with sarcasm. “So the answer to your question is… my ending is pending.”

  I like it. It’s honest, and it’s a future with endless possibilities. And I suddenly feel the same.

  “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.”

  “Dr. Seuss! I love him.” Just when I thought she couldn’t get any more amazing, she professes her love for my favorite author. “My dad used to read those books to me when I was younger.” I hear the longing in her tone, revealing their closeness has faded.

  I want to ask her what happened, but when she appears lost in a memory before switching on the TV screen and reaching for her headphones, I don’t press.

  Looking at my computer screen with nothing but a sentence, I suddenly feel hopeful that my story has only just begun too.

  Carrie is sound asleep beside me, her light breathing surprisingly soothing. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what she said. A weight I didn’t even know I had has lifted from my shoulders; the weight which stopped me from writing. Looking at the word count, I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. I’ve written 587 words. It’s not much, but they’re words I don’t hate. Words I won’t delete. And that’s all thanks to the mystery girl beside me.

  Carrie is the first woman I’ve wanted to talk to because I actually am interested in what she has to say. She mentioned art school. I wonder what she’s studying. I begin to wonder a lot of things. Who are her family? Why can’t she find Mr. Right? How can she still be single? How many men has she slept with? I hiss at the last thought. I find her both physically and intellectually attractive, a combination bound to lead to trouble.

  I feel a comfort around her, and a connection I can’t explain. I’ve only felt this way with Liz, but this feels different.

  I’m different.

  The air hostess saunters past, garbage bag in hand. “Do you have any trash, Mr. Sparrow?” I pass her my cups along with the white napkin with her number on it. Her eyes widen when she sees that I have just thrown her out with the rubbish, but I’m sure she’ll move on in no time.

  The pilot’s message over the speakers announcing our descent wakes Carrie, who peers around, gathering her bearings. When her eyes land on me, she smiles, appearing thankful that I’m still here.

  “I thought you were a dream.”

  “More like a nightmare,” I correct, playfully.

  Yawning, she stretches above her, not bothering to fluff her sleep-laden form. Her unguarded nature has me liking her even more. If she were Liz, she would be dashing to the bathroom to ensure not a hair was out of place. I once thought she just took pride in her looks, but I now know she was a stuck-up, conceited diva.

  “So what are your plans for the holidays?” Carrie innocently asks. And just like that, my original plans of staying away from her are affirmed.

  Shifting in my seat, I try to act cool. “Just working.” She waits for me to elaborate. “I’m actually escaping Seattle.” Which is true in a roundabout way. “I don’t want to say I have a stalker, but let’s just say, if I had a bunny, I’d ensure he slept inside.”

  Carrie’s mouth twitches. “You guys dated?”

  “Not exactly,” I confess, not wanting to lie. “I’ve tried to tell her I’m not interested, but…” I extend out my palms and shrug—the universal gesture of I’m royally screwed.

  She seems to feel my pain. “Some girls won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Yes, this girl is proving to be one of those girls. Any advice?”

  She moves her lips from side to side in contemplation. “You could always turn up with another woman on your arm. There’s nothing like that sight to send a message.”

  I ponder over her suggestion. “That theory is great; however, I have no doubt I’d be singing falsetto as she sports my balls for earrings.”

  Carrie bursts into laughter, the sound truly magical. “She sounds crazy.”

  “Believe me, she is.” If only she knew just how crazy things were—like me spending the holidays with her.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jasmine.” For some reason, I don’t want to taint this memory with Daisy’s name. “I’m hoping by the end of the holidays, she’ll set her sights on some other poor bugger and leave me alone.” One can only hope.

  Carrie smirks, and the sight leaves me a slobbering fool. “I wouldn’t be too sure. I have a feeling you’re not someone easily forgotten.”

  I open my mouth but close it soon after. Her comment could be construed in so many different ways. Am I unforgettable because I’ve charmed her with my debonair smile, or am I unforgettable in the restraining order kind of way?

  Again, she leaves me questioning something that would be a no-brainer with any other woman. But Carrie isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met before.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Good.” She doesn’t elaborate. She simply smirks, leaving me to question my manhood once again.

  As each minute ticks by, I know I’m wasting precious time. I want to ask her for her number, but there are so many reasons I shouldn’t. I need to sort out my shit with Daisy first because I don’t want to drag Carrie into my mess.

  “So you plan on laying low over the holidays? Catch up with family?”

  She shifts in her seat. “Something like that.”

  Her vague response has me wondering what she’s hiding. “They don’t know you’re coming?”

  “They do, but they probably wish I wasn’t.” Her confession has me frowning, but she waves off any sympathy. “It’s fine. I’m used to being the black sheep of the family. With a star athlete for an older brother, and an airhead, little Miss Goody-Two-shoes who can do no wrong younger sister, I had no other choice but to fill the shoes of the rebellious middle child.”

  I’m intrigued. The more she divulges, the thirstier I become. “In my experience, perfection is overrated. Where’s the fun in predictability?”

  “I’ll remember that when I meet my sister’s new boyfriend. He’s apparently ‘dreamy.’” She uses air quotations while rolling her eyes. “Who even uses that word anymore?”

  “Your sister apparently,” I quip, unable to stop from smiling.

  “I can’t believe we’re related. When I was younger, I used to tell everyone I was adopted. And it wasn’t hard to believe because I’m nothing like my family. My parents are high school sweethearts, and so are my brother and his Pollyanna wife. My sister has fallen in love about five hundred and seventy-two times, but this time is different apparently. He works with my father which means…I’ll probably hate his guts. My father and I disagree on a little thing called morals. This guy is rich, drives some eurotrash car, and is in love with my sister, so it’s safe to say we won’t be having any heart to hearts anytime soon.”

  “This guy sounds like a complete and utter wanker.”

  She nods, curling her lip in disgust. “Yes, he really does. He better steer clear of me becaus
e I’m nothing like my sister…and for that, I’m glad. The fact he even likes her…” Shuddering, she doesn’t need to fill in the blanks.

  “Your Christmas sounds as enjoyable as mine.”

  “Maybe we could trade families? Or better yet, boycott our plans and fly to Paris.”

  If only she wasn’t joking because that sounds far more appealing than spending the holidays with someone who is completely nuts.

  If I wasn’t already on this plane, I would have texted Daisy and told her that whatever this is, is over. It’s what I should have done when she invited me to spend Christmas with her. Too bad I didn’t grow a conscience before I thought shagging her would be a good idea.

  I was an utter twat to think this would work.

  “Paris is looking far more appealing by the second,” I say, running a hand through my snarled hair.

  “So your stalker doesn’t know you’ve left for the holidays?” Carrie innocently asks. She doesn’t know that in roughly twenty minutes, I’ll be at her mercy. Once upon a time, I would have relished at the thought, but now, the only mercy I want is for my soul.

  “She knows, but I’m hoping the time apart will have her seeing that we’re not soul mates, or in love, or with any luck, she’ll eventually get the hint that I don’t want what she does.” Harsh but true. “I made no false promises; she knew what came with the package deal.”

  Carrie’s gaze falls briefly to my lap, which has everything standing to full salute. “So you’re spending it alone? Working?”

  There is no pity to her tone, only curiosity. I could tell her the truth, tell her how I’m regretting my idiotic idea, or I could lie. “Yes, completely alone.” I may have deviated from the truth, but I can’t allow her to see what a downright bastard I am.

  Watching her innocently wet her lips and nervously brush strands of hair behind her ear awakens me. I haven’t felt this in so very long, and the feeling is almost new. I’m seeing the world with fresh eyes, and all I want to do is write about it. But I’m afraid if I tell her the truth, this newfound mojo will die in the arse, and all I’ll be left with is a blank screen—literally.