by Leisa Rayven
He glances at me. “Is checking my phone part of your duties? Do I need to start paying a secretarial fee?”
I focus on my computer screen, adjusting the rough timeline for our writing sessions. “Nope. I didn’t touch your phone. The insistent beeping gave it away.”
“Hi, it’s Jacob Stone,” he says quietly into the phone as he walks to the opposite side of the apartment. He keeps his voice low, but unfortunately for him, the lack of walls means this place has amazing acoustics. Even from a dozen yards away, I can hear him clearly.
“Uh huh.” He glances over at me. I act like I’m not watching and listening. “I can’t get there this morning; I’ll swing by this afternoon.” He pauses for a second, listening, then says, “Yeah, okay. See you then.”
Wow. Such a smooth talker.
He hangs up before walking back toward the bed.
“Everything okay?” I ask, blithely. “Will your booty call survive without you?”
“What makes you think it’s a booty call?”
“The only reason a phone rings that many times is because someone really needs something. A guy friend would never call that much.”
He slides the phone into his pocket, then grabs a couple of notebooks from beside the bed. “For the record, I don’t do booty calls.”
“Oh? So, you’re a monk these days?”
“No. Just not really into meaningless sex.”
“That’s new. You used to bounce from woman to woman without breaking a sweat.”
“Yeah, then I became an adult.” He walks over and stands beside me. “What about you? I don’t see an engagement ring, but I have no doubt you’re making some poor guy miserable in your spare time. Are you as bossy in bed as you are in business?”
“I’m not talking about my sex life with you.”
“Is that because you don’t have one, or …?”
That one hits too close to home, and my face blushes hot.
“Oh, I see,” he says. “You’re having bad sex. Got it. So, I take it your taste in men hasn’t improved since dating my step-brother then.”
As if this conversation has prompted it, my phone beeps with a text message, and of course, when I flip it open, I see it’s from my boyfriend.
I think I’m angling it away enough that Jake can’t read it, but when he whispers, “I’m headstrong? How dare he? Also, his name is Phillipe? Mon Cherie? Mon dieu!” in a deep, mocking voice, it’s clear I’ve failed.
I turn the phone upside down and point to the easy chair. “Sit down, and zip your lip. We have work to do.”
He folds his large frame into the shabby chair opposite me and leans his arms on the sides. “So, ‘ow long ‘ave you been dating zeess Phillipe person?” His French accent is ridiculous. He sounds like Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast.
I pretend I can’t hear him. “I think we should aim for a weekly goal of ten-thousand words. I’ve done up a rough deadline of three months for the first draft, but I’m sure Serena will want to check our progress before then.” God, just thinking about spending three months with him has made my armpits cry. “Of course, I can do light editing as we go, so hopefully the second draft won’t take too long.”
When I don’t get a response, I glance over at him to make sure he’s listening.
He cocks his head. “So, what I’m hearing is that Phillipe is a total snore. Got it.”
I exhale. “Did you hear anything about our schedule? Or are you solely fixated on making fun of my boyfriend?”
He looks offended. “You don’t believe I can do both? Well, that’s just hurtful.” When I glare at him, he pulls out his phone and starts tapping the screen. “Ten thousand words a week, three months, light editing, I got it.”
“We’re working. Can you put the phone down?”
“Can I? Yes. Will I? No.”
“Are you that intent on inflicting yourself on the nearest hottie on Tinder? Or are you sliding into the DMs of some of your faithful fans?”
He stays focused on the screen. “Neither. I’m on a new app called Whiner. It locates the most insufferable nag within a four-block radius.” He looks at me in mock-surprise. “Holy shit, would you look at that? It’s pointing right at you.”
I’m about to go off when my phone rings. It’s Serena. After placing my laptop down on the table, I head out to the landing before taking the call. I close the door behind me for good measure.
“Hi, Serena.”
“Good morning! I thought I’d call to see how your first day is going.”
“Oh, fine,” I say, trying to sound untroubled. “We’re just sorting out a few details before our first writing session. You know, laying the groundwork and all that.” Constructing the scaffolding upon which our mutual torture machine will be built.
“Good to hear. How’s Jacob coping?”
I want to reply that he’s coping by annoying the crap out of me, but I bite my tongue. “He’s okay, I think.”
“Are you guys getting along? Over the years, I’ve discovered that the best editor/writer relationships involve a certain amount of chemistry. Are you feeling anything?”
“Ahhh, I’m definitely feeling something, yes.” Severe irritation. Mild disgust.
“Great. Well, the best piece of advice I can give you is to try to get to know him first. It’s hard to draw words out of someone who’s a complete stranger.”
Perhaps, I think, but it’s even harder when you’ve know them for most of your life.
“Jacob is new to novel writing,” Serena continues. “Try to by patient with him.”
I almost laugh. Being patient with Jake has never been my strong suit. Looks like I’ll be getting all sorts of on-the-job training in my new role.
“Will do, Serena. Thanks.”
“You’ve got this, Asha. Make me proud.”
I take a breath and try to absorb her confidence. If I can last a week without murdering Jake, then I’ll be proud as hell.
After we sign off, I head back inside to find Jake holding a notebook and pen, looking at me expectantly.
“When you’re finished with your personal calls, we should get started. Man, your unprofessionalism is spectacular. Get it together, Tate.”
God, give me strength. I grind my teeth as I sit and place my phone on the table. While I drain the last of my lukewarm coffee, I try to collect my thoughts.
I’ve sat in on enough author meetings with Serena and edited enough manuscripts to know that getting the most out of an author usually involved a combination of ego stroking and discipline. If I tried that with Jake, he’d laugh me out of the room. The best I can do is just be straightforward and hope for the best.
“Okay,” I say. “First, we need an introduction to bring us into the atmosphere of the book. Some sort of declarative statement about why you’re writing. Are you trying to work through your issues? Maybe describe your emotional turmoil since the breakup.”
He nods in understanding then frowns. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I reach into my bag and pull out my well-loved version of Eat, Pray, Love. It’s one of my favorite books, and if I wasn’t mostly broke, I would have jumped on a plane the moment I finished reading it and taken my own around-the-world sabbatical.
I hold it up to show Jake. “Have you read this?”
He gives me an incredulous look. “Of course. What self-respecting man hasn’t read an in-depth psychological treatise on the romantic odyssey of a neurotic white woman with attachment issues and a lady-boner for culturally appropriative armchair philosophy.”
I blink a few times. “I don’t even know if you’re joking right now.”
He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankle. “I’m not. It was one of the only books
at a kibbutz where I stayed for a few months. The choice was between that or an abomination written by Sean Penn, so …”
“Great. So, I see your journey kind of like Elizabeth’s, but in reverse. She was inspired to travel the world to find herself after a bad breakup, while you traveled the world to find yourself, met your soul mate, then had a bad break up.”
“A simplistic version of the truth, but okay.”
“From the start, we need to become invested in you as a person, so we can sympathize about your heartbreak.”
“We?”
“The readers.”
His face stays placid, but I notice his fingers curl around the arms of the chair. “So, you’re including yourself in that group? Because I’m pretty sure you’re incapable of sympathizing with me about anything.”
“If you want someone who’ll overlook your personality disorders and treat your ego with kid gloves, then you could always request a different editor.” I give him a bright smile.
“I could do that. It’s becoming clear that Mussolini would go easier on me. But if I requested someone else, wouldn’t that kill your credibility? I mean, being taken off your first solo project would make you … now, what’s that term the kids use these days? Oh, yeah … an epic failure?” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Do you want to be a failure, Asha?”
The quiet serenity in his expression makes my face flush hot. He’s Biff to my Marty McFly, taunting me and calling me ‘chicken’. And just like Marty, my reaction is hard-wired and predictable.
“I don’t fail, Jacob. Ever.”
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, but, okay.” He sits back and crosses his legs.
I swear to God, if my brain were a case of dynamite, this whole apartment would be a charred mess right now. That we’re together in this bizarre push-pull arrangement makes my head spin.
I breathe out through my teeth. “Pick up your notebook and pen, before I beat you to death with my laptop.”
He grabs the items off the table and looks at me expectantly.
“As I was saying, we need to give the readers a jumping-off point, so they can relate to you and your … emotional devastation.” I admit, it feels good to describe him that way.
“You don’t have to be so perky about it. I understand that seeing me suffer is like a day at Disneyland for you, but try to disguise your enjoyment.”
“It’s not that I enjoy seeing you suffer. It’s just refreshing to see your ego take a hit.” I pull my computer into my lap. “So, let’s try a quick exercise. Write down the first thing that comes into your head when I tell you to write your story. For the sake of the exercise, start with ‘once upon a time’. It should only be a paragraph or two. Go.”
Jake puts down his coffee cup and slides his butt to the edge of the couch so he can rest his notebook on the table. He frowns at the blank page for a few seconds, his pen hovering over the paper.
I have an urge to take a photo of him in this moment; to capture him in the middle of his creative process. I’m sure Sidney would love some behind-the-scenes material to use for social media and promotional purposes. Of course, that would require me to own a phone with a functioning camera.
“Stop it.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“Don’t look at me when I’m trying to write.” He stays hunched over the notebook. “I can feel you staring, and it’s weird. I usually write alone. It feels like you’re watching me masturbate.”
A shudder runs through me. “Oh, gross. Plus, did you just equate your poetry to wanking? Probably isn’t the first time that connection has been made, I suppose.”
His expressions darkens.
I hold up my hands. “Fine. Wank in peace.” I stand and wander around the apartment, trying to step lightly, so my footfalls don’t echo too loudly in the empty space. It’s strange to walk through an apartment filled with see-through walls. Is this what it’s like to be Superman?
I stop near his bed and glance around. I wouldn’t call his style neat, but it’s certainly tidy. All of his stuff is in piles that are orderly, if not organized. There’s an asymmetrical stack of milk crates he’s turned into a DIY storage unit. As I move closer, I see an early Nikon digital camera in a box with a collection of lenses, along with a stack of black-and-white photos. I pull them out and leaf through them. Most are travel pics, and I must admit, just like his Professor Feelgood photos, these have a level of lighting and composition that make them more than just amateur snaps. They’re artistic. They capture a moment in time, along with a punch of emotion: a street market in what looks like India; an ancient, toothless Asian woman throwing her head back in laughter; a small child and a skinny dog hugging on a door stoop, each looking hungrier than the other.
I’m marveling over how impressed I am by Jake’s photographs when I come across a picture of something so rare, only a few people have ever witnessed it. It’s an image of Jake smiling. Not only that, but I’d go so far as to say he looks … joyful. He’s lying in bed, and it’s clear from the angle of the picture that it’s a selfie. Beside him, a woman with tousled, blonde hair is burying her head in his shoulder, seemingly camera shy. I can’t see her face, but it’s clear from the way she fills out her tiny black bikini that she has an amazing body.
Hello, Ingrid. Nice to finally meet you.
I go back to studying Jake’s face. It’s been so long since I’ve since him smile that wide, I’d completely forgotten about the dimple in his left cheek. It only ever came out when he was full-on laughing, which was almost never.
Underneath the pic are more of the same; Jake laughing as Ingrid hides from the camera. I wonder what was going on in this moment. Was he always this free with her? Is that what made him fall in love?
I hear a noise and turn around to see Jake standing right behind me.
“What are you doing?”
I freeze and cringe. I couldn’t feel more shameful if he’d caught me rubbing his underwear on my face. “Uh … snooping?”
He takes the photos from me. “At least you didn’t try to lie about it, I suppose.” His tension leeches into me. “While you’re at it, do you want to see my browser history, too?”
With a heavy sigh, he flicks through the pictures and stops on the last one. In it, he’s throwing his head back, and Ingrid’s face is in his neck. Is she kissing him? Biting him? It’s hard to tell.
“So, I take it that’s Ingrid?”
They look like any young couple in love, except I know Jake, and being that relaxed with someone wouldn’t have come easy. He’d have needed time to get to know her; feel comfortable with her. She would have needed infinite patience to break through all the static he carries in his brain.
“Yeah,” he says, looking over the image. “That’s her.”
He stands still for a moment, and the way his eyes glaze over makes me wonder what’s going through his head. Does heartache always stop you in your tracks? Does it bend time and take you back to the exact moment someone punched a person-shaped hole in your chest?
“Where were those taken?” I ask, moving a little closer.
“Bali. It was the week we met. Everything was still new, and … pure.”
“She looks beautiful. What I can see of her, anyway.”
His thumb moves along the side of the photo. “Actually, she had a huge scar on her face from a car accident. That’s why she’s hiding her face. She hated having her picture taken.”
I look back at her, shying away from the camera. “Oh, my God. The poor thing.”
“Yeah,” Jake says with a sigh. “Her face may have only been a four, but she made up for it by having a body that was a full-on ten.”
I flush with anger on her behalf and punch his arm. “What the hell, Jake?”
He pulls away from me. “Damn, Asha, it was a joke. Like everything else, her face was goddamn perfect. I’m not allowed to make fun of the woman who destroyed me?”
I must learn to take everything he
says with a grain of salt. I should know by now that he’ll make a joke out of anything, even the woman he loves.
“So, this Ingrid must have been a pretty spectacular woman to crack your flinty facade.”
“She was,” he says, flipping through the pictures again. “Is.”
“Were you being serious yesterday when you said you’re not going to contact her? And what if she does turn up and beg for forgiveness? Could you get over the hurt she caused and take her back?”
He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “Look out, princess. For a moment there, you actually sounded interested.”
“I am interested.”
“But just for the sake of the book, right? Not because you care about my wellbeing.” He turns his back on me and walks over to sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know if I’d be willing to risk everything again. Not after how it felt the first time.”
He glances over at me, maybe expecting I’d ridicule him for being so open. It’s tempting, but honestly, the expression on his face is so raw, I feel sorry for him.
He shrugs. “Loving someone is the easiest thing in the word. Making them love you back is the hard part.”
I nod, and he looks away. For a few seconds, he seems lost in thought, staring off to the side of the room, brows furrowed.
“You ever lose someone you truly loved?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say, looking at the floor. “Once.”
He nods. “Right. Jeremy. Stupid question.”
Even stupider assumption.
My next words are out of my mouth before I think them through. “How’s he doing these days?”
His focus flicks to me, lips pressed tight. “You really want to know?”
I don’t, but some sick part of me enjoys seeing Jake become uptight about his brother. They always had a fierce rivalry, and when Jeremy and I started dating, it only got worse.
“I’m vaguely interested.”
In a second, all of Jake’s vulnerability is gone. He stands and walks over to the milk crate storage unit, his movements sharp. “You seriously want to discuss my stepbrother? We had a pact to never talk about him again.”
“We’re not discussing him. I’m just wondering if you two ever mended your relationship.”
