Writing Mr. Right

by T. K. Leigh

  “My father didn’t have it easy. I couldn’t imagine having to raise two kids on my own.” I looked to Drew, Alyssa and Charlotte beside him. “But everything happens for a reason. My Aunt Gigi always says that God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle. And my dad handled raising us with more enthusiasm than I think we deserved…at least I deserved. All little girls look up to their fathers. He’s our point of comparison for all men we meet in our lives. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my father set the bar very high. I wish I had told him that.”

  I looked around the crowd, seeing tears trickling down so many people’s faces. I couldn’t help but think my father would have hated this. He didn’t want people to mourn his passing. He would have wanted them to celebrate his life.

  “If you’ve ever been to the café, you know my father loved his jokes. Whenever someone came in and looked like they were having a rough day, he’d work his magic.” I smiled warmly at my memories of sitting behind the counter with him, watching him interact seamlessly with everyone. “I certainly have some of my favorites. I’m sure you all do, too. Who wants to share one?” I asked, completely going off my prepared speech.

  An older man toward the back raised his hand, then stood up. “What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup?” He paused. “Anyone can roast beef, but nobody can pea soup.”

  A small chuckle rippled through the audience. It warmed my heart. As the laughter died down, someone else stood up. Then another. And another…until nearly everyone had shared a joke, including Alyssa and Charlotte.

  “Why don’t teddy bears ever order dessert? Because they’re always stuffed.”

  “Why did the scarecrow keep getting promoted? Because he was outstanding in his field.”

  “If money doesn’t grow on trees, why does every bank have so many branches?”

  “Two men broke into a drugstore and stole all the Viagra. The police better be on the lookout for two hardened criminals.”

  With each joke, the laughter became louder and louder.

  Aunt Gigi stood up, the tears that had been flowing freely replaced by a bright smile. “What car does Jesus drive? A Chrysler.”

  Drew raised himself from his chair. He always hated my father’s jokes. Now I think he realized the importance of them. “It’s game seven of the Stanley Cup. A man makes his way to his seat on center ice. He sits down and notices the seat next to him is empty. He leans over and asks the person on the other side of the empty seat if someone’s sitting there. The man tells him no, the seat is empty. ‘That’s amazing,’ the man says. ‘Who would have a seat like this for the Stanley Cup and not use it?’ The other man responds, ‘The seat belongs to me. My wife was supposed to be here with me, but she passed away.’ ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ the man offers. ‘Couldn’t you find someone else to take the seat? A relative or friend, perhaps?’ The neighbor shakes his head. ‘No. They’re all at the funeral.’”

  The audience roared with laughter. Once it all died down, I approached the podium again. “When I was younger, I remember asking Dad why old people had so many wrinkles. He told me it was a way to show they lived a good life. Each wrinkle was a memory they wanted to keep close for when they had trouble remembering. My dad had a lot of wrinkles.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Because of that, I know he had a good life. Thank you for being a part of it.”

  I offered the crowd a small smile, then returned to my chair. Drew draped his arm over my shoulder, planting a soft kiss on my head. “I’m proud of you, Molly Mae. Dad would have been proud of you, too.”

  I looked into his eyes, struggling to keep myself together. “Thanks, Drew.”

  “You bet, kid.”

  I snuggled into his chest and clutched Brooklyn’s hand, reveling in their warmth, kindness, and support. It was more than I deserved, but I was grateful for it.

  After the service ended, I played the dutiful daughter, mingling and sharing stories with the rest of my father’s friends. A few of the staff from the nursing home even made an appearance. I’d been concerned Noah would show up. I didn’t know if I could stomach seeing him. Not today. I didn’t think I ever could after everything.

  As I listened to one of my father’s childhood friends regale the crowd with a humorous story of my father stealing bras off of the neighborhood clotheslines and hoisting them on the flagpole at the high school they attended, a movement in the doorway of the function hall caught my attention. I shot my head toward the entrance, my back stiffening. The air rushed out of my lungs when I saw Noah standing there in a dark suit and that damn blue tie.

  Blinking repeatedly, I turned back to the small group. “Will you please excuse me?”

  My father’s friend nodded, then continued with his story, tears of laughter dotting everybody’s eyes.

  I scurried away, slipping into the women’s restroom. I knew it was childish of me, but I had no desire to speak with Noah. I still couldn’t forget his look of hesitation when I begged and pleaded with him to do something to keep my father alive. I couldn’t help but think if he had put my needs first, my dad might still be here.

  As I was about to lock the door, it burst open. Noah came barreling inside, startling me.

  “Noah, what are you—”

  “I need to talk to you, Molly, and it appears this is the only way that’s going to happen.” He widened his stance and crossed his arms, blocking the exit.

  My eyes narrowed. “Now is not the time. This is my father’s memorial,” I hissed.

  “Then, by all means, please tell me when the right time will be! I waited until the service was over to come here. I’ve tried seeing you countless times over the past few days! I’ve barely been able to eat! I can’t sleep! I’ve been so worried about you, but you just keep shutting me out.” He approached me, placing his hand on my bicep. “Please, talk to me,” he begged, his voice soft. “I’m falling apart without you.”

  Closing my eyes, I shook my head, struggling to fight my body’s impetuous reaction to his skin on mine.

  “I love you, Molly.”

  I flung my eyes open. The same unsettled feeling that formed in the pit of my stomach the first time he’d said those words returned. “No, you don’t,” I shot back, freeing myself from his touch. “What you feel for me… It’s not love. Real love isn’t real life. If you really loved me, you would have done something to keep my father alive, but you didn’t.”

  His jaw tightened as he ran his hands through his hair in obvious frustration. “You know damn well I couldn’t intervene. You’re just trying to find any reason to push me away. You’re hurting and you’re scared, but you can’t stand there and say what I feel for you isn’t real.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve never felt something so real in all my life, Molly.”

  “Is that true?” I peered at him through curious eyes and took a measured step toward him. A serene look passed over his face, our chests almost touching.

  “I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t.” He lowered his head toward me, licking his lips. “I know you feel the same way about me. That’s why you’ve been taking your grief and anger out on me. Because you love me, too.”

  “Noah,” I exhaled, then closed my eyes. His lips nearly brushed with mine before my expression hardened. “You couldn’t be more wrong,” I hissed, pushing against his chest. “You think this is real?”

  Every voice in my head yelled at me to stop what I was about to do, but I was still hurting. And I wanted Noah to feel the same pain that was ripping me open.

  “Of course it is.”

  “Nothing about us is real. The feelings you think you have for me are based on a lie,” I confessed, an ache in my throat.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I used you,” I sneered, my lips forming a tight line. I tried to fight back the tears rolling down my cheeks. It pained me to do this, but I couldn’t stop the words that fell from my mouth. “The book I’ve been working on is a forbidden romance. I had writer’s bloc
k. Nothing helped. I tried everything that had worked in the past, but I was still completely uninspired…until I began spending time with you.”

  His eyes widened, his jaw dropping as he absorbed what I was telling him.

  “That’s why I spent time with you. Because I was able to write again. That’s why I kissed you. That’s why I fucked you. And now that my book is done, I don’t need you anymore,” I choked out through my tears, barely able to say the words.

  “You… It’s not true. You’re just saying that because you’re upset.”

  I shook my head. “It’s all true. Every last word.” I avoided his gaze, not wanting him to see through my lies, to see that I had developed feelings for him…feelings stronger than I ever thought possible.

  “You can think that all you want, but your eyes don’t lie, Molly. I see the love in them. I see the desire. I see the passion, the yearning, the hunger. You can’t fake that.”

  “All the guys I slept with before you, even your buddy, Daniel… I used them, too. I’ve been doing this for years. You don’t know how good I’ve gotten at making people believe I have feelings for them. And that’s all I did with you.” I swallowed hard, my chin quivering at the notion. “It’s not my fault you’re too blind to see what’s been right in front of you all along.”

  “I’m not blind at all, Molly. I see you. I see you so fucking clearly. I see a woman so scared of being in love, she’s lying to herself about her feelings. Even if what you say is true, I don’t give a damn you got close to me because of a book. If that’s the reason, I’m grateful. As much as you want me to believe otherwise, at some point, this stopped being about your book and became something bigger.”

  I shook my head, vehemently denying his accusation.

  “You know damn well you care about me, that you love me.”

  I began to shake my head again, caught by complete surprise when Noah cradled it between his hands. He crushed his lips against mine, trapping my body against his. I tried to fight him, banging my fists against his chest, but I was no match for his strength.

  He pulled out of the passionate exchange that left me breathless and lightheaded. “Tell me you feel nothing!” he bellowed. My knees almost buckled at the hunger in his eyes. People could probably hear us, but neither one of us made an attempt to reel in our overwrought emotions. “Tell me you don’t feel even so much as a tingle or spark every time our skin meets.”

  I simply stared at him, unable to form any words. This time, my brain refused to let me admit something that wasn’t true.

  “Tell me each time our lips touch, it doesn’t make you crave more.” He brushed his lips against mine softly. A current ran through my veins, my body betraying me. “Tell me that I never gave you an orgasm so intense, you fucking cried.”

  Memories of the last time we were together flooded back. The passion. The emotion. The power. The tenderness. Noah was right. I was scared. Fear always made people do things they’d regret. Just like fear made me push Noah away when I should have been running toward him.

  “Tell me you don’t care about me and I’ll go,” Noah’s husky voice whispered. “Tell me you’d rather throw it all away.”

  Biting my lower lip, I took a deep breath, pushing out of his embrace. “There’s nothing to throw away.” I met his eyes, struggling to get the words out. “Because I feel nothing.” I spun on my heels and scurried out of the bathroom.

  As I darted through the function hall, Drew and Brooklyn attempted to stop me, but I didn’t listen. I couldn’t be there anymore. I just wanted to curl into a ball and have my daddy assure me everything would be okay. But that was no longer possible.

  Tears streaming down my cheeks, I stormed out of the building.

  “You know what, Molly?” Noah’s voice called out as I hurried down the busy sidewalk. It was a perfect September day. The sun was shining and there was a crispness in the air. It was the type of day my dad always loved.

  I stopped and faced him, remaining silent. He stepped toward me, and I straightened my spine, doing everything I could to rebuild the wall he had disassembled, brick by brick, over the past several months.

  “I thought you were this beautiful woman with an even more beautiful soul. So many of my patients are abandoned in nursing homes, their family forgetting about them. Here was this young, vibrant woman who made sure to take the time to visit her father every single day. Where’s that woman? Because that’s the Molly I’ve been dating these past several months, not the Molly I see today. The one who’s just trying to make other people hurt like she does.”

  “That woman was a lie, Noah.” I turned around, feeling like someone had just ripped my heart out as I looked on with morbid curiosity.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  With a deep breath, I glanced at him over my shoulder. “So it goes.”

  He shook his head, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You don’t…”

  Observing the disheartened look on his face, I knew he remembered our conversation that very first night together, the meaning those three words carried.

  “So. It. Goes,” I repeated, more firmly this time. Then I continued down the sidewalk toward my apartment. I expected him to run after me.

  He never did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I SIPPED MY COFFEE as I stared at Brooklyn sitting in the reading chair in my living room, her eyes scanning the final page of my manuscript. Three weeks had passed since I’d last seen Noah. I tried not to think of him too much. Instead, I’d hidden myself away in my apartment and completely rewrote Avery and Jackson’s story into what my publisher wanted…sexy, sinful, sensual, with no love. It was now a story of Avery’s sexual awakening instead of an emotional one.

  Sighing, Brooklyn placed the last sheet of paper on top of the pile that had accumulated throughout the morning as she read the final three chapters of the book I’d finished in the middle of the night.

  “And?” I raised my eyebrows, anxious for her opinion.

  “It’s good, Molly.”

  “But?” I could sense there was more.

  She scowled. “But it’s not nearly as good as the original story. There’s no connection here. It was pretty much just a lot of really kinky sex. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a stapler the same way again. Still, it’s nothing special. The original was full of so much love and passion, it jumped off the pages and held me hostage. I felt like I was part of their story. I went to bed dreaming about them. I didn’t here.” She met my eyes, a guarded look on her face. “I want to feel their love again.”

  “Their love was a farce,” I argued, unsure of whether I was talking about myself or the characters I’d made up.

  “You can’t honestly believe that.”

  “Why does everyone say that?” I shot back, jumping off the couch. I paced in front of her. “There was nothing real about Avery and Jackson’s feelings for each other. Avery simply felt bad for him because of his mother’s mental state. Jackson used that to get in her pants.”

  “But somewhere along the way, he fell for her. It was a real connection that I know both characters felt, regardless of what they tried to convince themselves and everyone around them. You…I mean, Jackson and Avery love each other. And I’m not just talking about a high school fling kind of love. I’m talking about big, fulfilling, soulful love. A love to put all other loves to shame. A love unmatched even by Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy.” She narrowed her gaze at me, then softened her voice. “You’re just too proud to admit it.”

  “If he really loved me, how could he just let my father die?”

  Brooklyn jumped off the couch. “He had no choice! He’s bound by the ethics of his profession, Molly! You’re just using this as an excuse to push Noah away. You’re scared, I get that, but don’t throw away something many of us would do anything to have.” She lowered her eyes. “Including me.”

  I glowered at her, my jaw clenching. I seemed to be having this same conversation with everyone lately�
�Drew, Aunt Gigi, Brooklyn. These were people who were supposed to support me no matter what. All they had been doing was trying to convince me I was wrong. I wanted to surround myself with people who would encourage me, not tell me I was just one big fuckup. I wanted people to agree with me that maybe, just maybe, my mother had been right all along. That she may have been onto something when she insisted that real love wasn’t real life.

  Tired of feeling like an intruder in my own life, I grabbed my purse and headed toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Brooklyn called out.

  “To see someone who’s not going to berate me for being me,” I answered, my face flushed with anger. “I’m going to see my mom.”

  I slammed the door to my apartment and darted down the stairs before she could talk some sense into me. I swallowed hard when I nearly ran into a moving truck parked in the street. I continued past it, doing my best to ignore it. I couldn’t stomach another reminder that everyone had abandoned me.

  Hopping into my car, I cranked the engine, plugged the last address I had for my mother into the GPS, then pulled into traffic. It was somewhere in western Massachusetts, about ninety minutes away. I just hoped she hadn’t moved since my birthday in February.

  I didn’t know what possessed me to think this was a smart idea. I had little to no communication with this woman since she left us all those years ago. What made me think she’d want to see me now? What made me think I needed her now, especially when my actual family had been nothing but supportive throughout the years?