by Brea Brown
But on the outside, I’m as calm as the surface of a lake on a hot, still, stifling day. I have to remain motionless, because if I move, I’ll start to shake. And sweat. And blush.
He sits back in his chair and places his hands on top of his head. In this midst of this extremely stressful situation, I manage to notice that he looks tired. He also needs a haircut. Yep. My world may be coming apart, but I can see that his hair is feathering out over the tops of his ears. And for some reason, I care.
“Come on,” he interrupts my musings on his coif as he curtly gestures with a nod of his head toward the now-idle iPad. His tone is mild as he asks, “What the hell’s that about, huh?”
This calm, laidback Lucas Edwards is freaking me out. It’s like dealing with a stranger, and trying to figure out the best way to respond to him is quickly exhausting me. He’s laying traps, a minefield of them, surely.
“Ummm…” I hum noncommittally.
“That’s crap.” Again, he nods toward the table so there’s no misunderstanding.
Okay. Whew. So, I know for sure that he hates it now. Which is what I wanted, right? I didn’t want him to like the changes. I wanted him to say, “The old way was better.” Still, his blunt assessment stings. I know it’s crap; I intended it to be crap; but only I can say it’s crap.
I lift my chin. “If you say so…”
“Oh, I do,” he says, making a sound that takes a while for me to realize is laughter.
First pity and now ridicule? Uh-uh!
Instinctively, I find myself defending what I know to be the worst work I’ve ever done.
“Whatever!”
Okay, it’s a lame defense, one used by every person under the age of twenty-five when they have no true defense. It’s a defense I should have outgrown by now. But… I can’t think of anything else to say.
His expression turns to one of undisguised scorn. “‘Whatever’? That’s all you can come up with? And here I was thinking what I read was a well-crafted joke. Now I’m reconsidering. Maybe the person who retorts with, ‘Whatever,’ doesn’t know how to write any better than that.”
I mentally shake it off, roll my head on my neck, and take a deep breath. Meanwhile, in reality, I remain frozen, inside and out. Now’s not the time to get emotional. I still don’t know enough about what he’s thinking to let down my guard. And I have to renounce my defensive nature so I can see the plan through.
Coolly, I say, “Oh, well… that. Yeah. I mean…” I shrug helplessly. “Your idea didn’t work. I wasn’t… feeling… it.” I try not to sound too eager when I add, “I think it’s safe to say the original version was much better.”
“Ah.” He rolls his eyes. “I see.”
His know-it-all smugness immediately gets my back up. “You don’t see anything.”
“I see enough.”
Suddenly I’m sure he doesn’t know the truth. He’s bluffing, trying to get me to confess to something that he doesn’t even know the first thing about.
I laugh at him. “You’re so full of it.” When he puts his arms down, resting his hands in his lap, relief that my secret’s still safe makes me blurt, “You know, I can’t write in this stupid city.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Temperamental?” he questions sardonically.
I don’t appreciate his smirk, but I want to take advantage of this rare good mood he’s in. “Something like that,” I admit. “I’m staying with my friend, Gus…”
“Your ‘friend’?”
“Yes. My very gay friend. And he lives in an apartment the size of a mini-wheat.” My description earns another one of his barking, rusty-sounding laughs. “And his neighbors have three settings: sleeping, screwing, and screaming. So I tried to write in some other places—you know, coffee shops and libraries and even a park—but… it’s hopeless. I’m blocked.”
“That much is obvious. So… what do you want me to do about it?” He stands and picks up his iPad, which he carries to his desk and slides into the front compartment of a leather laptop bag that’s already holding a computer probably worth more than what my dad paid for my first car. With deft fingers, he zips and snaps and clasps everything closed as he states, “You provide the writing; I provide the editing. That’s how this works. I can’t help you until you give me something decent.”
“I gave you thirty-six chapters of ‘decent’ to begin with. You’re the one who’s obsessed with fine-tuning it.” I stare at my nails as I say this, so I don’t see his reaction to my statement.
I don’t need to see it, anyway. The now-familiar impatience in his tone when he says, “That’s my job,” gives me a good idea of what his face looks like: he’s wearing the “something-smells-really-bad-in-here-and-I’m-pretty-sure-it’s-your-writing” expression.
Resigned and hating myself for it, I reply, “I know. But…” Don’t you dare say it, Jayne, you stupid idiot. Do not trust him, just because he smiled a few times and has managed to have a conversation with you that doesn’t involve shouting. “…I feel like I’ve forgotten how to do my part of the job.” Jane, you moron.
“You’re burnt out,” he declares as if it’s the most harmless thing in the world.
“That’s not good, though!” I lament, taking my cues from him and packing up my stuff. He’s obviously getting ready to leave. A glance at the futuristic clock on his desk tells me it’s after 5:00. “You act like that’s something as harmless as being hungry or tired.”
“It is,” he says shortly. “And I’m late. So, here’s my advice: no writing for a week. Unless you become inspired, that is. But don’t make yourself sit down and write.”
“But—”
He sweeps past me to his office door and turns off the light. The room is still surprisingly bright, thanks to the west-facing windows. “But nothing. I have to go.” He doesn’t move, though, until I join him in the empty outer office, which has been abandoned for the night.
“I just want to get this thing to print,” I say, my voice on the verge of a whine as we walk together to the elevator.
“And you think I don’t?” He stabs fiercely at the “down” button and readjusts his bag on his shoulder. “But you can’t force it. It has to happen in its own time.”
“Screw that. Anyway, that sounds very un-editorial of you. You should be cracking the whip.”
He waits to reply until we’re in the elevator and he’s pressed the button for the lobby. “You can’t beat a dead horse, Jayne. And if you ever use a cliché like that in a book, I’ll make you wish you were dead.”
Okay. So much for the warm fuzzies I was starting to feel.
*****
It’s the first day that I can remember that I haven’t written anything. Nothing. No edits, no proofreading, no revisions, no… nothing. I feel like a tweaker who needs a fix, only my dealer is a laptop, and it’s sitting across the room from me, tempting me from its padded case.
I know, though, that if I open it, I’ll wind up sitting there, staring at the screen, frustrated by my ineptitude. That frustration will eventually build up to the point of panic and then evolve into despair, finally cooling down to resignation that I’m never going to write another word again.
I’ve realized that—big deep breath—Lucas Edwards was right: I need a break from it. It doesn’t have to be a long break; just enough to recharge my batteries. If I stop thinking so much about it, the creative juices will flow once again. (I hate that disgusting term, but my inspirational pulse is so flat that I’m resorting to banalities that nauseate me.) I’m like a person who’s obsessed with meeting Mr. Right and looks for a potential husband in every man she meets, until she deems the search hopeless and stops looking. That’s when she finds him—or he finds her—in the most unexpected place. At least, that’s how it happens in books and movies.
But sitting here, staring at the four disconcertingly-close walls in Gus’s apartment, is decidedly un-Hollywood. I honestly don’t know what else to do, though. Gus is at work. I suppose I could wander the cit
y and explore, but it’s not as fun doing stuff like that alone. I’m alone all the time in my real life; here (which I somehow don’t count as part of my real life), I don’t want to be alone.
Yet, I feel more alone than ever.
When Gus gets home from work each night, I greet him like a dog with separation anxiety would. Last night, I could tell it was starting to freak him out. He took the gin and tonic (his favorite) I had waiting for him and nervously eyed me like I was an escapee from a nearby loony bin who’d dropped in randomly on the first apartment she found unlocked. I could see this, but that didn’t mean I was able to keep my rambling mouth in check as I hopped from one unrelated topic to the next.
I know all too well that when Gus thinks you’re acting certifiably insane, you’ve reached an advanced level of nuttiness. And when he refrains from coming right out and telling you you’re crazy, that means he’s possibly poop-his-pants afraid of you. I’ve seen him react this way to homeless people on the subway and some of the residents at his Nana’s nursing home.
Hence, I woke up this morning determined to stop being the crazy friend that Gus regretted inviting to stay with him. I’ve been here long enough, anyway. We’re starting to develop little weekend routines, which makes our current situation feel too much like a permanent living arrangement-in-the-making, so it’s time to find my own place, despite my fear of loneliness. And anyway, just because we don’t live together doesn’t mean we won’t see each other. We’ll simply have more than ten feet of personal space.
I was excited about the prospect of living independently again, too, until I started inquiring about the cost to rent my own tiny slice of Boston. It’s a tad more expensive to live here—or anywhere within a 100-mile radius of here—than it is in the Midwest. Okay, so… maybe this calls for a shorter-term commitment. But the rates at the hotels I called knocked the wind out of me, too.
I’m sitting on the futon, trying to catch my breath and decide what to do when my cell phone rings. “LUKE-ASS” flashes on the screen.
“Mr… Lucas… hi,” I stutter like a moron. I still don’t have any idea what to call him… to his face. “Dr. Edwards” has already been shot down; “Mr. Edwards” seems too formal; “Luke” is too informal; and “Luke-Ass” is probably inappropriate, although it’s my new preferred private name for him, because it works on so many levels. So many.
“How’s the writing coming along?” he jumps right in without returning my greeting.
Defensively, I snap, “What?! You said… I mean, I’m not writing, remember?”
In his usual clipped, serious manner, he replies, “Yeah. I was testing you. Anyway. Listen. I’ve decided what you need is a change of scenery. I’m sure this whole experience is overwhelming, is it not?”
“Well, I’m not some country mouse wandering open-mouthed around the city, if that’s what you mean.” What is it about this guy that makes me all sweaty and irritable the minute I hear his voice?
“Good God,” he says impatiently. “Is that what I said? No. I didn’t. I was referring to the publishing experience. And how it’s intimidating to the uninitiated.”
“Maybe,” I reluctantly admit. “But I’m fine.”
“Except you can’t write, which is sort of a problem.”
“Yesterday, you acted like it wasn’t a problem.”
“I was trying to be nice!” His tone is anything but.
This guy is hopeless. “I don’t need you to be nice; I need you to give it to me straight.”
“You always act like I’m too mean or something, so I decided to go gentler on you yesterday…”
“You don’t have to baby me, alright? I’m a professional writer. I can take it.” As I say this, I’m already reaching for my laptop bag. I should be writing!
“Okay, okay. Calm down! Good God… What the…? You’re breathing right into the phone and killing my ear!”
I freeze and then transfer the phone from between my shoulder and head to my hand so that I can hold it in a position that won’t funnel my breath directly into the tiny mouthpiece. With my free hand, I try to stealthily unzip the laptop bag.
“Jayne…” he warns.
Giving up the pretense of being sneaky, I go back to frantic mode, not caring how loudly I’m breathing or unzipping or panicking. “Don’t ‘Jayne’ me, like I’m a child! I’ve wasted the whole morning not writing because of your crappy advice. And by the way, you’re terrible at being nice, so you should stop wasting your energy trying to be nice and save it for important things, like… like… helping me finish this book!”
“If you’d sit still and shut up for one second… Hey! What do you mean, I’m terrible at being nice? You’re impossible to please!”
“I’ll have you know my standards are pathetically low when it comes to you.”
“Then you’ll be stunned when I offer you the use of my currently-empty beach house in Marblehead!” he shouts.
Oh.
This statement brings me up short. It takes a few seconds for me to reconcile his furious tone of voice with the generous offer, but when I realize how convenient this is and how it’s the answer to so many of my problems right now, I quickly shout back, equally-testy, “Fine! I’ll take it!”
“Good!” he replies, his voice still crackling angrily. “I’ll tell Sally to send a car to come pick you up.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to be ready then!”
And with that, I mash down the button to hang up on him. Damn, I miss the days of slamming a receiver down in someone’s ear! There was no better punctuation mark to a heated phone conversation than the clang of plastic on plastic and the faint ring of the bell inside the mechanism as it dinged its protest at being treated so roughly. These dainty “beeps” that cell phones make for every function are highly unsatisfying.
I hate you! Beep. You can’t even draw it out to be a beeeeeeeeeeeep. It tones for the same length of time no matter how hard you hold down the button. Lame!
I used to be a phone-thrower, but the person you’re mad at has no idea you’re throwing your phone, so the only person you’re punishing is yourself when you have to spend hundreds of dollars to replace your broken phone or whatever your phone hits (my windshield was the costliest—and last—victim of one of my post-phone call tantrums, which happened—ironically enough—after a conversation with my auto insurance carrier).
Now that I’ve kicked my phone-chucking habit, I’ve taken to sticking my tongue out at the device after hanging up with someone who pisses me off. This behavior is less gratifying, but it’s also a lot less expensive.
I do it now. And since I’m alone, I yell, “You’re a marblehead, Luke-Ass!”
Oh, gosh! I have to pack!
Chapter Seven
Who is Lucas Edwards, and how the heck can he afford to own one of these places? It’s a question I keep asking myself when the houses get bigger and bigger as we drive closer and closer to the water. Knowing what little I do know of real estate prices in this area, I have to assume these mansions are worth millions, maybe tens of millions. And even though the Towncar pulls into the sand and gravel driveway of one of the smaller homes on the avenue, it’s still gigantic, and it’s on an ocean-front lot, so I know it’s not bringing down the property value of the houses around it.
If I had to guess—and I’m not very good at these things—I’d say the Victorian-style home is five times bigger than the house where I lived with my parents and two sisters. Some of its more impressive exterior features are its huge bay and dormer windows, the giant wraparound porch, and the ocean-view gazebo large enough to fit a dance floor and a five-piece band. And that’s only what I can see as I peer at the property from the car window.
“Oh my effing gosh,” I whisper reverently.
The driver clears his throat, which I take to be my not-so-subtle cue to stop gawking and get my butt out of the car. I open my door and step onto the driveway, which I now see is made of sand and seashells, not gravel.
The dri
ver, who I’m beginning to think is mute, also gets out, but instead of merely standing there, staring, he goes to the trunk and retrieves my two puny suitcases. I shoulder my laptop bag—I’d never entrust it to someone else or stow it in the trunk and risk being separated from it in an accident—and follow Silent Tom up the shiny porch steps that are painted the same grayish blue as the sky before a storm.
I’m armed with a key and the alarm code, but apparently so is Tom, because he doesn’t wait for me to unlock the house. He sets my luggage down, opens the door, and expertly disarms the alarm. When he starts up the stairs with my suitcases, I say, “Oh! Don’t bother with that. I’ll, uh… take them up myself when I figure out which room is the guest room.”
Speaking for the first time, he answers in a heavy Boston accent, “Miss, I was given specific instructions regarding your room,” before continuing up the seemingly-endless flights of white wooden stairs.
I hurry to catch up to him, feeling guilty that he’s carrying my stuff. I wouldn’t necessarily call him “old,” but he’s older than I am by a couple of decades, at least. Plus, the guy’s a driver for a black car service; he’s not a butler. This whole thing is making me feel uncomfortably bourgeois.
Again, we resort to silence. The only sound is the clomping of Tom’s polished shoes and the slapping of my flip-flops on the immaculate stairs. At the top of the second flight, he looks wearily at me when I mutter, “I would have been content to stay in the basement,” so I quickly amend, “But this is nice. I bet there are some great views up here.”
He doesn’t confirm or contradict my speculation. Instead, he leads me down a hallway carpeted in a pattern designed to make it look like the rug’s been here for years, when it’s obvious by its lack of wear that it’s brand new. The wide hallway is paneled in more white wood—this time narrow beadboard wainscoting—and the top half of the walls features a pearly gray paint, reminiscent of the inside of a clamshell. Very beachy in a masculine, non-pastel way.
