by Damian Bloom
I rub my weary eyes. It’s a miracle I don’t need glasses yet.
I study my reflection in the large patio windows beyond which lies the dense darkness of the night. The less responsible part of me lustfully licks his lips at the thought of Luis and I repeatedly hanging out. Alone. At my place. But I’ll do my best to keep this side of me in check. Being aware of it is the first step, I suppose.
Luis and I settle on Monday night, when he gets off work. Apparently, neither of us is an early sleeper, so that should give us at least a few hours of talking. Maybe we’ll even manage to get started on some writing. He did mention he prefers to learn by doing.
It wouldn’t hurt to brainstorm a plan and some goals for whatever it is we’ll be doing together. Although I’m terribly tempted to simply wing it. At the end of the day, there’s plenty of things I can teach him. And, who knows, I might learn something from him as well.
Luis
Adam’s decision leaves me feeling delighted, but more anxious than ever.
I’m happy because this can only spell progress for me. Since my birthday, I’ve been trying to honor my decision to take writing seriously by putting in daily effort. Every night, before going to sleep, I power my antiquated laptop, which now only works when plugged in, and I pull up a Word document that I’ve optimistically named “Something.” So far, its contents are more of a big ol’ depressing nothing. Nothing but the disoriented ramblings of an amateur who doesn’t know where to begin.
Each attempt that I make faces me with the extent of my inexperience. I’ve got no clue what makes a story, let alone one worth reading. What’s the right structure for a novel? How do I build believable characters? And how the hell do people fall in love?
But my ignorance isn’t limited to the craft, and that’s what worries me most. As little as I know about fiction, I know even less about real life. I’ve lived so little, I now realize, and so distractedly. I wish I knew how to notice life more.
Peter’s incredibly sweet and supportive, just like I expected. The other day he gifted me a writing craft book, and while I can’t say it was exactly life-changing, I did learn that journaling is apparently something that many successful writers seem to have in common. So, in my desperation to think of myself as a serious writer, I’ve been keeping a journal. Sadly, it hasn’t helped much with my creativity, like I hoped it would—I’m rarely struck by an idea that’s not drab and overused.
However, writing is not the main reason I’m anxious. I’ve been freaking out about Grandma’s vision again. But this time, Adam’s been sucked into my worries. I don’t want to get ahead of myself and stress over made-up scenarios, but hanging out with him can spell nothing but disaster in the context of my inevitable upcoming heartbreak. Especially after that coffee shop visit that has physically, mentally, and emotionally destabilized me.
I don’t know if I would make such a fuss over my unusual attraction to Adam if it weren’t for my current paranoia.
On Saturday, I visit Grandma Hattie after work. For a while, we read in two comfy armchairs, but I struggle to focus. Eventually, she slams her book shut with a thud and fixes me over her glasses. “What’s wrong?”
“Hm?” I come back to the here and now, eying her like I’m seeing her for the first time today.
“What’s the matter with you? You haven’t flipped a single page in the last thirty minutes.”
I drop the book, allowing it to slide off my legs and onto the armchair. There it is again—that trace of guilt on Grandma’s face. She knows I’m stressing out over her vision. For the first time, I truly pity her for having to bear this “gift” she can’t control. “Have you ever been wrong, Grandma?” The question’s lathered with hope.
“Did I see anything that didn’t happen, you mean?” She pinches her chin thoughtfully as she rakes her brains. The ticking of the kitchen clock travels through the old house, but this time, it doesn’t feel like it’s click-clacking inside my head. “Let me get the notebook.”
This means she’s exhausted the big, memorable visions and needs to dig into the more obscure ones—the ones not worth committing to memory.
She returns holding a leather-bound journal with time-yellowed pages.
While Grandma Hattie might not be fond of her ability, she treats it with the respect due to unexplained phenomena. Which means that she’s acknowledged and recorded every vision she’s ever had in her small notebook.
She thumbs through it, eyes darting over the pages. So many glimpses into the future, now part of the past. Watching her riffle through the many pages of the notebook, her visions don’t seem like such a rare occurrence anymore.
“Oh,” she finally exclaims, pressing a finger to a few lines of immaculate handwriting. “Look here.” She chuckles. “I had this strange vision when your father was fifteen, saw him roaming around New York City by himself. Gave me quite the scare, but it never happened.”
That’s a bizarre vision to have, indeed—Dad being adventurous. My father plans the color of his underwear based on the day of the week. I can’t picture him being any different even as a teenager, and the idea of him running away to New York City by himself is laughable at best.
My chest warms up with a ray of hope. “That’s good, right? Then things aren’t set in stone like I thought.” There’s hope. “Maybe you were wrong about this, too. No offense, Grandma. Or maybe there’s a way to keep the vision from coming true.”
Grandma nods absent-mindedly as she resumes leafing through the journal. Eventually, she reaches the end and closes it with a dissatisfied pressing of the lips. I suspect what she’s thinking: years of visions and only one didn’t come true—a ghost of a chance. But I’m not ready to let go of this morsel of hope I was handed.
I give Grandma a big kiss on the cheek and rush home in a wonderful mood.
“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Keith says when I prance into the house. “What’s gotten you in such a good mood?” He squints at my face, then brings his face closer like he might sniff the answer off of me. “Are you in love?”
“Even better,” I say, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m not, and there’s a chance I won’t be, either. For a while, at least.”
Tonight, I finally feel like I can start Adam’s second book. Now that I know I stand a fighting chance against fate, I think of the man with renewed courage. Even if he’s supposed to break my heart, I promise myself I will not let it happen.
Ultimately, all I have to do is not give in to my attraction toward anyone other than my clear true love. I’ve got years of practice under my belt. If there’s anything I know how to do, it’s how to be picky about men.
Around eleven, Peter sticks his head into my room to wish me good night, and finds me toweling off my freshly washed hair and humming a cheery tune.
“You seem happy,” he notes.
“That’s because I am,” I say, then give my brother the lowdown on the latest developments in the heartbreak case, mentioning the funny vision that never came true.
As soon as his brows furrow, I sense the first signs of trouble. “I don’t like that look.”
“I remember Dad telling me about this once.” Peter strolls over to the window, leans against the sill. He picks a paperback off my desk and flips through the pages mindlessly. “It was right after that time I sneaked out in the middle of the night to go to Roger Dalton’s party. You probably don’t remember, but Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me go, so I tried to do it behind their back.” He slaps his forehead and snickers at the memory.
I don’t remember the incident, but it sounds like something Peter would have done in his rebellious teen phase.
“I barely made it out of the house before they caught me. The whole stupid thing got me grounded for a month,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I think Dad felt bad for having to be harsh with me. That’s when he shared the story of what’s probably his only act of rebellion.” Peter frowns again, like it’s hard to believe that happened. “I guess it was his i
dea of bonding. He told me about this one time when he used all the money he’d been saving up for months on a clandestine two-day trip to New York City.”
My stomach clenches. “All alone?”
Peter shrugs. “Sounds like it. I don’t know, Dad’s weird.”
I feel fumes coming out of my brain as it tries to make sense of this. I was having the perfect evening, and now Peter, without intending to, has crushed my spirit in less than five minutes. “But it makes no sense. Why would he do that?”
Peter swirls around in my rolling desk chair. “If I had to guess, he was probably tired of being the good kid. He craved some adventure, so he went looking for it.”
“He ran away?” I clutch my pillow, press it to my chest, holding on while the world becomes strange and confusing around me again.
“Only for a couple of days. Grandma would have never let him.”
“How could she not know?”
“Uncle Tony helped him. He’d already moved out and told Grandma Hattie that Dad was at his place for a ‘brother bonding weekend’. Grandma never found out. That’s why she thinks the vision was false. Dad did say she was impossibly overbearing in the days leading up to his trip, hovering more than usual, and that she kept suspecting him of trying to run away to New York City. He never said it was because of a vision, but—” Peter’s mouth drops open. “Do you think she ended up accidentally giving him the idea?”
“Poor Grandma. She seemed so convinced she’d prevented it. Well, at least nothing bad happened, and Dad got to live his Catcher in the Rye moment and be a rebel for once.” I sigh. “How come you remember all of this?”
“Would you forget something like this? Dad’s an even bigger square than you. I would have never thought him capable of something like that.”
In another part of the house, Eric is singing again, but tonight, I’m not calm enough to sit and admire his voice.
“You know what this means, right?” I ask my brother.
He raises an eyebrow. “What?”
The verdict scratches at my throat before I spit it out. “It means that Grandma’s visions have never been wrong.”
Peter attempts to change the subject, but my mind is numb and following the conversation proves to be a challenge. Needing to be alone, I pretend to be tired, and then, blankets pulled up to my chin, I think about what’s to be done. Before he leaves my bedroom, Peter tries to encourage me, but it’s clear that he’s still not taking things seriously.
I’ve already accepted Adam’s generous offer to help. I would have had to be both the stupidest and the most ungrateful person alive not to. And now, it would be too awkward to backtrack.
I stare down at the middle of the floor, at a circular pool of moonlight. Maybe Adam doesn’t have to be a source of worry. I’ll just meet up with him a few times, learn as much as possible from him, and then we’ll part ways. Then I’ll let Adam fade away like a simple memory of a hot-as-hell author that was nice enough to give me some tips at the start of my career.
Streetlights paint random shapes onto my ceiling, and as I wait for sleep, I trace them with my gaze and make another promise to myself—whatever happens, I will not, under any circumstances, allow myself to fall for Adam.
9
Adam
On the day Luis and I start our so-called training, I try not to do any writing, so I don’t tire myself out. The morning and afternoon drift by in a trip to the gym, some grocery shopping, and a few hours of reading. The day proves to be one of the most relaxing days of the past year, and I manage to power through about two hundred pages of a horror novel I found in Mrs. Bertha’s bookstore on my last visit.
Fifteen minutes before Luis is supposed to arrive, having just stepped out of the shower, I take a good look at myself in the mirror. My hair could use a trim, but I don’t dislike the wild look I’m unintentionally going for at the moment. There’s something reckless about it while, at the same time, it manages to make me look more mature. Still swollen from today’s workout, muscles protrude in my arms, chest, and shoulders, all of them noticeably larger than they were mere months ago. All the hours I’ve spent in the gym for the past few years have been paying off looks-wise.
But most importantly, I’m bursting with energy. There’s no denying it: I’m in the best form of my life. At thirty-three, I feel younger and more alive than I ever did.
Although Luis never ended up telling me what his type was, I don’t think my chances with him are that bad. Would be, I mean. I don’t think my chances with him would be that bad if I were to shoot my shot. Which I won’t.
Even so, I haven’t missed the way he looks at me. Sometimes, if I stare into his eyes for too long, I worry I’ll have to scoop him off the floor.
As I pull a pair of pants on, I wonder what’s hiding under Luis’s clothes. I’ve spent several nights already imagining the answer to that question, nearly feeling his tender skin under my fingers.
I rummage through the closet for a shirt. What if I stayed shirtless? I visualize Luis blushing again like the first time we met, sticky eyes glued to my chest.
I chuckle at my own mischief. No. No games. I said I’d stay clear of the guy.
I choose a simple dark-green T-shirt and drag it on at the same moment as Luis rings at the door.
His hair is messy in a calculated way, and he smells nice—coffee and cologne. “Hey,” he says, handing me a polystyrene cup. “This is for you.” He’s wearing a bright yellow hoodie and a broad smile, looking like a ray of sunshine in the early fall night.
I take a whiff of the steam rising from the cup.
“It’s a double espresso,” Luis says. He then lifts his other hand, which clutches a paper bag sporting the same logo as the drink—a minimalistic sketch of a hazelnut. “And a croissant. It’s still good, fairly fresh.” He rubs the back of his head. “It’s soft, at least.”
I pat his shoulder. “Thanks, Luis. That’s nice of you.” He’s sweet. Too sweet, Adam, I warn myself. The kind of sweet you no longer mess with, remember?
Stepping away from the door, I make room for him to come inside. As he squeezes past me, I take a deeper whiff of him. He follows me to the kitchen, his movements jerky and unsure like he hasn’t been here before. “Pick your poison,” I say when I open the fridge.
Luis glances over the options. Lined up in the fridge door, there’s soda, water, and beer. “I’ll have a Coke, please.” The shelves are full of plastic containers filled with the meals I prepared today. He notices and points to them. “What are those?”
“My meals,” I explain, chuckling at his expression.
His eyes widen, then brush over all the containers as he tries to count them. “For how long?”
“The rest of the week.” After closing the fridge, I stroll over to the kitchen island. The Coke fizzles when I pour it into a glass.
Luis takes a seat on one of the bar stools that line up the island and gratefully receives the glass I hand him. “That’s unusual,” he muses.
“Not for a gym rat. It’s important to match your efforts outside of the gym with your efforts inside of it—make sure you eat enough calories, hit your macros…” I grab a water for myself. “It’s science, really. Very exact. So I like preparing my food in advance to make sure I eat right. It saves me a lot of time.”
“You don’t like to cook?”
Luis’s gaze distracts me for a moment. His eyes are so clear that they sparkle and light up something inside of me. “I like to eat.” I grin. “No, I can’t say I like cooking too much. But, you know, since I can’t eat pizza every day, it’s necessary. Do you like to cook?”
His eyes glint with spontaneous excitement. “I love it. But, uh, I’m sure the stuff you eat is a lot healthier. I’ve got a humongous sweet tooth.”
Reaching my arms out over the island, I lean forward, and my biceps bulge for attention. “Don’t worry, I’m not nearly as strict with my diet as I probably should be. I’m a bit of a sucker for sweet things myself.” I dro
p a wink and a playful smile at the end of the sentence. Luis looks away. I tingle when the sharp claws of lust scratch my spine from the nape of my neck to the base of my back.
“It really doesn’t show.”
I perk up. “Was that a compliment, Luis?”
“Like you don’t already know how you look,” he says with a roll of the eyes. He seems to regret the turn the conversation took. When he bites into his plump lower lip, I wish I could do the same thing to it. And oh, so much more. “I mean,” he continues, “you can tell you take excellent care of your body.”
“Thanks. Do you like working out?”
Luis takes a moment to consider his answer. “No, not really.” It surprises me, given his figure—while not muscular, Luis’s body is slender and tight. He’s got his age to thank for that, I suppose. From the corner of his eye, he sneaks a look in my direction. “But can I just say…you look nothing like what I thought you’d look like.”
I bite down a laugh. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” Then, shrugging, I say: “I really like weight-lifting. I like how linear and predictable it is. If you know what you’re doing and put in the effort, you’ll get the results you want. I wish more things in life were that predictable.”
Luis nods.
“It’s like a real-life RPG game, in a way,” I go on, “where your lifting numbers are your stats. And every time you move on to heavier weights, you level up.” My face spreads into a broad smile. “I can’t tell you how incredibly rewarding that feels.”
After fishing the croissant out of the bag, I cut it in half and share it with Luis. He was right about it still being soft. “This is delicious, Luis. Thanks again.”
Like last time, I guide the young man to my writing space, and he seems to melt under my hand when I brush it over his waist. Without intending to, his body shows me how much he loves it when I touch him.
Where else would he let me lay my hands?
Our writing space consists of a circular table I’ve pushed close to my usual desk, flanked by two chairs. Luis sits down and gazes dreamily at the garden on the other side of the window, resting his chin on his hand. His lips are rosy—freshly and gently bitten. They must be as soft as pillows.
