Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Natalie Charles

  At least Marcy liked my manuscript. She called a week after I sent it, and this time she didn’t even call me a dirty bitch. “I stayed up all night with it,” she said. “Jase is hot as hell. Starr is adorable. Very sympathetic.”

  “I was thinking of changing the ending.” I stretched out on my bed, setting a pillow below my stomach. “Something a little more tragic.”

  “Tragic? Like what? I thought the ending was perfect. I liked it.”

  “Something, I don’t know. . . . I was thinking there was some room in chapter nine for Starr to talk to that priest. You know who I mean? And he could give her something. Say, a roofie. Rohypnol. Then she’d take it in chapter twenty-three to fake her death, and when Jase sees her, he’s so distraught he’s lost her that he kills himself with a knife. A dull, rusty knife. Then Starr wakes up and sees Jase is dead, and stabs herself. Then they’re both dead.”

  Marcy was silent for a few beats. “I hate that ending.”

  “Too Romeo and Juliet? All right. Fine. Let’s say that Starr drowns herself, and then there’s a duel where Axel is out to get Jase, and Axel has a poison-tipped sword—”

  “No. No Hamlet. No Romeo and Juliet. This is erotica, not your British lit midterm.”

  “But then that leaves Starr and Jase living happily together.”

  “Happily for now, yes. That’s appropriate for erotica. Suicide is not.”

  “I just gave you the ending of one of the most romantic works—”

  “No. Think about reader expectations.” Marcy issued a quiet groan. “I was going to ask you about the Mr. Wrong who’d inspired you, but now I’m reluctant. I sense that may have ended badly.”

  I rolled onto my back to stare at the ceiling in my bedroom. “You’ve always had good instincts, Marcy.”

  “But this isn’t the end of your writing. Coco Claiborne still has a little more smut in her, right?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. Coco Claiborne had brought me a decent amount of trouble, but then, I still liked her. Plus I knew for sure that she had a few more books begging to be written. “It’s not the end of anything. Give me a few months, and I’ll get you the sequel.”

  I TOLD Dr. Bubbles that I’d gone ahead and filled my gap. He looked at me like I had two heads. “You know, that gap. The one that James left when he dumped me.”

  “Ah. Right.”

  “I filled it. With gratitude, and creative challenge, and love. And then the love exploded in my face because it didn’t like what I’d accomplished with the creative challenge.”

  Dr. Bubbles’s face wrinkled with concentration as he tried to translate. “Your boyfriend—”

  “Ex. Very ex.”

  “He didn’t like that you were writing erotica?”

  “I guess he didn’t like that I wrote about someone who sort of resembled him but was a little more dangerous and exciting. But that’s what readers expect! It’s what I had to write.”

  Dr. Bubbles made some notes on his pad. “Do you wish that he was more dangerous and exciting?”

  No. I didn’t. I’d considered this before and wondered if Eric had a point, but I knew he didn’t. He was totally wrong. “No. Eric’s very strong, but kind. And funny. I like him the way he is.”

  I didn’t need whips and handcuffs in my life, or men who stormed around like grown children. I was vanilla, and I preferred the company of well-adjusted adults. The fantasy was fun, but it was nothing more than that. Writing erotica felt like unleashing my brain and letting it run around. It was good exercise, that’s all.

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “No. Sort of.”

  “Do you think you should tell him?”

  “No. Because it doesn’t matter if I like him the way he is. Not until he can like me the way I am.”

  “Which is how?”

  A kindergarten teacher who writes erotica. Not the prettiest girl in the room, but passable. Nice, but not all the time. Private and social. Devoted to her family while believing them to be a smidgen insane. Desperate and terrified to be in love. A bit of a foodie, always. “I thought for a while that I had dual personalities. But I think I’m just multifaceted,” I said.

  Dr. Bubbles said gently, “So you’re human. That’s not a pathology.”

  I guess it wasn’t. But sometimes being human made life so complicated.

  CHAPTER 21

  ERIC HAD A HEADACHE. In the last week since they’d broken up, he’d been popping aspirin like it was candy. He rubbed at the hinge of his jaw, opening and closing his mouth to loosen the muscles. It was no use. He reached for the bottle of pills on his desk.

  It wasn’t the first of his relationships that had failed, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. There was no need to wallow in it, and besides, hadn’t he been attracted to the way Aletta kept him guessing? Hadn’t he wanted to figure her out? Mistake number one.

  When he’d received the e-mail, complete with a message to someone who must have been her agent, or maybe her editor, Eric’s first instinct had been to send Lettie a friendly reply telling her she’d sent the e-mail to the wrong address. Good thing he read on, because otherwise he would’ve missed that glimpse into reality. The thought of the e-mail still made his gut tighten:

  To: eclayman@noahwebsterelementary.ct.ed

  From: alittleosbourne523@gmail.com

  Subject: Erotic Novella

  Dear Marcy,

  Here’s my next book, with a few hours to spare! Woo-hoo! The synopsis is attached, but basically it’s a star-crossed-lovers story about Starr and Jase. Jase is Starr’s contemporary but also her boss, and being found together could spell doom for both of them. I think it’s better than my last one. Let’s just say I was lucky to recently find the right Mr. Wrong to help me work through the love scenes!

  Off to sleep. Talk to you later.

  Lettie

  The right Mr. Wrong. She’d told him right there in his office how wrong they were for each other, and then she’d changed her mind, and he’d never understood it until then. He thought back to how she was in Bar Harbor, picking up strange men, trying to find material for her books. . . . He felt used.

  The thing was, he liked her. A lot. Maybe he even loved her. But he couldn’t be with a woman who wanted him to be rugged and tough and dangerous—what would that mean? That they’d have to have sex in the car all the time? That he’d have to get a neck tattoo? His ex-girlfriend had complained that he was too boring for her. Well . . . yeah. He liked stability. Maybe he wasn’t always boring, but sometimes he was, and if he was going to be with someone, he needed her to understand that this was okay. Life wasn’t an erotic novel.

  So he’d been planning to tell Aletta that he didn’t appreciate the way she’d approached their relationship and that they should take a break. Then when he got to school and Gretchen had pulled him aside and asked him point-blank if he was sleeping with Aletta, he almost lost it. “Of course not,” he’d snapped. “Who said that?”

  Gretchen lifted her eyebrows and cocked her head at him. “A little bird told me. I realize it happens, but it’s not smart. And to not have disclosed it . . . ” She paused. “I’ll be frank. I won’t tolerate that conduct in my school. It undermines my authority and yours, and while I realize this isn’t the case with other principals in the district, it’s the way it is with me.”

  Eric’s muscles went rigid, but he tried to keep his voice level and calm. “I told you, it didn’t happen.”

  She searched his face and then sighed. “I always thought she had her eyes on you. She’s apparently going around talking about it, because this other teacher ran straight into my office.”

  Eric felt cold at the revelation. “Aletta is telling people that we’re sleeping together?”

  It was a betrayal of the worst kind. He’d trusted her. He’d thought she’d keep their relationship private, as
they’d agreed. But no. She’d not only written a book that made a fool of him, she’d also been talking about it in the faculty lounge. He still felt sick. All of his years of hard work, all of the effort he’d put into his reputation, possibly gone.

  And so he’d lied. “Gretchen, nothing’s happening between me and Lettie. It’s some terrible misunderstanding, but she’s nothing to me.”

  Not his finest moment by a long shot, but telling the truth would’ve been messy. Aletta had deceived him. He didn’t see why he should put both their careers at risk for a relationship that had been built on deception.

  In the end, he suspected that Gretchen didn’t believe him. It would be just like her to punish him by making him write a letter of reprimand for Lettie’s file—a task he still hadn’t been able to complete. He started typing:

  Aletta Osbourne overslept and arrived at school twenty-five minutes late. She was reminded that she is to notify the principal or vice principal of her tardiness.

  He sat back and stared at his computer. It all seemed so inconsequential. Aletta was a good teacher who cared about her class. She shouldn’t be punished this way. He’d always been a person who followed the rules, but this rule sucked.

  Eric rose and walked to Gretchen’s office. She was staring at something on her computer. At least she wasn’t drinking. She looked up. “Yes?”

  “Gretchen, I want to talk to you about that letter of reprimand I’m supposed to be writing for Aletta Osbourne. Basically,” he folded his arms, “I don’t think I should do it.”

  “You think I should do it, then?” Her lips curled. “It would be nicer coming from you.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. She’s a good teacher and an asset to the school. She was late one day—so what? It’s not an ongoing problem.”

  “It’s what the handbook requires,” Gretchen said flatly.

  “I realize that. But it’s not a great rule in this case. It’s punishment for its own sake. She didn’t do anything deliberate or irresponsible. She overslept. She’s human. It happens.”

  Gretchen folded her hands on her desk and eyed him. “She went around telling people she was sleeping with you, Eric. She failed to follow protocol when she was late. The woman’s a mess, and between you and me, she’ll be a tenured teacher at Noah Webster over my dead body.” She pointed one finger at the top of the desk and tapped it firmly as she said “my dead body,” emphasizing each word. “Now. Go write that letter so I have documentation when I tell her she’s not welcome back. If you can’t do it, I will.” With that, she turned back to the computer screen.

  The blood rushed through Eric’s ears as he went back to his office, the words echoing. She’ll be a tenured teacher at Noah Webster over my dead body. He could go back in and tell Gretchen the truth, that they had had a relationship, except he doubted that would help anything. Then Gretchen would say that Aletta had exercised poor judgment by sleeping with her superior. Gretchen was determined to get rid of her.

  He closed his door behind him and set his hands over his face. Something in him moved, and it hurt. Gretchen was determined to hurt Aletta, and he felt sharp anger in his chest. Because he still cared for Aletta. Deeply. Even if they were wrong for each other and he was too boring for her, he would never want to see her get hurt. He had to set his ego aside and act like a man.

  He’d screwed up. He could’ve done more to protect Aletta, or told Gretchen that she’d called him when she knew she was going to be late. He’d been too angry.

  He had to figure out how to fix this.

  A WEEK before Christmas, I decided I’d had enough moping around the house and I called Faye to join me on a road trip. This time, it was my turn to give orders. “Leave the twins with Win. It’ll be a girls’ day.”

  She sighed into the phone. “I don’t know—”

  “Come on, when was the last time we did anything fun like this together?” Never, I thought. We’d never done anything fun together. So it was high time to start.

  We took my car, and I drove. Faye brought snacks in a little cooler. “I have peanut butter and crackers—”

  “Those orange crackers?”

  “Mmm-hmm. And some oatmeal raisin cookies and fruit snacks. I even brought a chocolate bar.”

  “You realize it’s only a few hours away, right? And I’m not a toddler?”

  She tore the chocolate bar wrapper and broke off a square. “It’s a day off. I’m on vacation.”

  As we drove up to Boston, we talked without interruption. Things with Win were going well, she said. Dr. Lewiston and his wife were listing their house for sale and moving to Florida. “It’s for the best. Win and I still see a marriage counselor, and I think it’s helped.” She broke off another square of chocolate and bit off the corner. “I want our marriage to work. We both do. Somehow we lost our way, but we’re going to find it again.”

  “I’m really happy to hear that, Faye. So we’re not worried anymore about inheriting Dad’s serial marriage gene, right?”

  “Whether I have it or not, it’s not going to control me. Besides, Dad’s happier than I’ve ever seen him! I went over a few weeks ago and the front door was unlocked. On purpose.”

  “The transformative power of love.”

  “Sadie’s writing erotica now. Their sex life is probably pretty good.”

  I shot her a look and tightened my grip on the wheel. “Let’s agree to never talk about Dad’s sex life again.”

  Breaking up with James had done more than leave a gap in my life. It had shattered my sense of myself. I wasn’t convinced that anything positive would come out of breaking up with Eric, not when our month together had been so intense and full of promise. But whereas after James I’d focused on self-destruction, after Eric I was determined to focus on healing.

  We reached Boston just before noon. I parked at the Prudential Center so Faye could go Christmas shopping. “Where are you meeting?” she asked.

  “At the Public Garden. It shouldn’t be long.”

  We established a meeting time, and I headed out into the cold December morning.

  And there was James, standing by the wrought iron gates to the gardens, wearing the familiar gray wool peacoat with the matching suede patches on the elbows. Funny how he’d worn it for years, and I’d forgotten about it. He waved when he saw me and brought his gloved hands up to his mouth to heat them. I’d wondered what we’d do when we saw each other again, if we’d do that awkward dance where we tried to determine whether it was appropriate to hug or kiss or whether we should shake hands. But he pulled me into a tight hug without a thought. “It’s so good to see you.” His breath was warm against my ear.

  “You must be freezing. Should we grab lunch?”

  “There’s that place over here—”

  “Yes, that’s what I was thinking, too.”

  We chose a café on Newberry Street, one of our favorites, and ordered tomato soup with a decadent grilled cheese panini stuffed with brie and pear. We asked after each other’s families and work. He had a heavy teaching course load but was happy. He’d have more time to work on his dissertation in the spring. I pointed to the silver band on his left finger. “Married already?”

  He twisted it in place. “Still engaged. We have a date in the summer.”

  I shifted in my seat and took a breath, because this was the reason I’d come. “I want to apologize for the way we left things when you called. I’m happy for you, and really, you did the right thing by calling off our wedding. You have to be who you are. No one should try to change that.”

  Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how tense he was. His forehead and shoulders relaxed and his eyes softened. “I hate that I hurt you. I care about you. I always will.”

  He reached across the table to squeeze my hand and, I don’t know. He must have turned on a faucet, because I started crying. Not ugly crying, just stream
ing tears. I pulled my hand back and rubbed at my face. “Shoot. I’m actually wearing mascara today, too.”

  He chuckled softly and looked down at the food he’d only picked at. “My fault. I shouldn’t have told you that I care about you.”

  I found a tissue in my purse—I’d been carrying them everywhere lately—and attempted to clean up the damage. “No, it’s okay. These are relieved tears.” I pushed my plate aside and leaned both elbows on the table. “I’ve spent a long time believing that I’m unworthy of love. Ridiculous, right? Illogical. But our brains don’t process everything logically.” This was another thing Dr. Bubbles had taught me. “Instead, when something bad happens, we make up stories to explain it. We’re natural storytellers. When you left me, the story I told myself was that the world is dangerous and that I am fundamentally unlovable, and so if I try to love someone, that is an unsafe position to be in because they will not return my feelings. They will leave me. And yes,” I added, “I’ve been seeing a therapist for some time.”

  There was a long pause. “I hate that I did anything to make you feel that way.”

  James’s forehead creased with pain, and when I saw it, I softened still further. He wasn’t bad or unloving. He hadn’t “betrayed” me by being true to himself. The story I’d told myself was utter and complete bullshit.

  “No,” I said gently. “You didn’t make me do anything. I made myself feel that way. But I don’t anymore.”

  We ordered coffees and shared a piece of pumpkin spice coffee cake with pecans. When we parted ways, I kissed him on the cheek and he promised to invite me to the wedding, and it was all okay. I’d loved James for a long time but, sitting there in that café, I didn’t feel that love I was afraid I would feel. I felt affection and nostalgia but not love. Maybe he was right about us growing apart. If we’d been married, we would’ve been miserable.

  In a big way, I also felt like I was finally over myself. The James Incident was not about me and my awkwardness, or that Sears Portrait photo of me and Faye. It was about James.