Unwritten

by Alex Rosa

  “She’s a fuckin’ trip. Her and Brandon aren’t together, but they fuck around pretty often.”

  I shrug. Talking about someone else is easier to do. “I figured, actually.”

  “Yeah, but…” He leans forward, as if he’s telling me a secret. “Brandon’s in love with her, but he hurt her really bad, so she won’t date him again.”

  My brows knit together, and it almost feels like old times when we would form our own theories about our friends while sitting on the edge of the lake.

  “Newsflash, Caiden: CeeCee’s in love with Brandon, too. She’s just stubborn.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because CeeCee plays the slut card well, but she doesn’t actually sleep around. She’s getting her fill of Brandon, pun intended.” I pause to watch Caiden look away to laugh, basking in it a second before continuing, “And she’s just terrified. Brandon can come with a lot of false promises.”

  He straightens his posture in defense of his best friend. “He’d prove it to her if she let him.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “What, are you a specialist in love now?”

  I tense as I stare into the eyes of the man who’s unfortunately taken permanent residence in my heart, whether he knows it or not. “I’m anything but. I just know my friends.”

  An awkward silence falls between us. We don’t do so well with the love topic.

  “You ready to head home?”

  I nod.

  “We okay, Hailey?”

  He’s already walking the opposite direction, as if scared of my answer. I trail after him, not having a clue what he might drive nowadays. His first car was a beat-up red pickup truck.

  “Are we, Caiden?” I hum back when we’re finally shoulder to shoulder. I want to ask him how we could possibly be okay when we have each other’s initials tattooed on our bodies forever, but I don’t.

  “I knew seeing you was gonna be… interesting. I just didn’t realize I would word vomit everywhere.”

  I laugh. Oh, God, I laugh. Then he laughs. Then his deep laughter tangles around mine, and it makes my insides turn to goo. Sweet, delicious, syrupy goo. It’s like I’m sixteen all over again.

  I lift a suspicious brow as I clamp my teeth over my bottom lip. “We’ve covered a lot of bases tonight, don’t you think?”

  This time his laughter chokes off. “We’ve always been good at covering bases, Hails.”

  Lord, help me.

  My cheeks pinken, and I must look ridiculous because his elbow comes gently colliding into my side. “Oh, come on. I was joking. You can’t be the only one allowed to freely hand out sexual innuendo-laced jokes. That wouldn’t be fair.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I make the jokes about others, not about us.”

  We make it to a navy Ford pickup, shiny and new, but not as ostentatious as Brandon’s monster.

  Confidently, he chides, “Let’s not deny we had some good times, Hailey. That would be silly.”

  He opens the passenger door, nudging his chin for me to get inside. I might be thankful, because I don’t have it in me to appropriately respond with “That we did,” and instead shoot him a wry smirk as I scoot onto the seat.

  Caiden pulls into my gravel driveway. It floods me with memories of doing this exact thing repeatedly, but years ago when we mattered. We don’t matter anymore, or at least I don’t think we do.

  By the time he cuts the engine, I’m so rattled by nostalgia that I feel another freak-out coming. “Don’t walk me to my door.”

  When his eyes go wide, like I’ve just spoken in tongues, I know my freak-out is uncalled for. I shrug apologetically.

  Something about Caiden terrifies me. Maybe it’s because I know he holds all the cards, and maybe it’s also the fact he doesn’t necessarily know that yet. He suffocates me, he always has, and I didn’t know suffocation could be so achingly sweet but still entirely hard to handle.

  I reach for the door to leave.

  “Hailey, wait—”

  It’s too late. I’m already out of his truck and power walking to my front door.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he shouts from behind me as I hear his truck door slam shut.

  Finally, a question I can answer. I turn around on the second step, my eyes colliding with his. “Actually, I have.” I lift my stare up to the billions of stars that naturally illuminate this place, and the glow of his eyes. “I’m bat shit crazy, if you must know. This place does that to me. You do that to me.”

  The crunching sounds of his footsteps on the gravel stop.

  “Let’s just blame alcohol for that one, okay?” I grit my teeth, forcing a smile. “I know it may not seem like it, but it really is good to see you.” He’d never understand how the relief of knowing he still exists is a remedy to my mind and nerves. “G’night, Caiden.”

  “Hailey…” He sighs.

  I’m already approaching my door, trying to pull my keys from my pocket, staring at my hands as I reply, “Don’t say my name that way.”

  “What way?” His wry tone is back. His footsteps sound again, then the clomping of his boots on the steps.

  I don’t want to look at him anymore. I’ve had enough for one night.

  My keys tumble from my hands and clatter loudly when they hit the wood floor.

  He leans down before I can, and instead of handing them back to me, he unlocks the door for me and opens it, waving me inside my home.

  I huff. “I hate you.”

  He rolls his eyes and walks inside. “No, you don’t.”

  “Hey! Who invited you in?”

  All I can see is his broad back, the fabric of his shirt rippling with every heavy stride. He stops in the doorway of the kitchen and turns around. “It’s weird in here without her, huh?”

  I close the front door behind me, peeking at him through my eyelashes. “Tell me about it.”

  He’s too big for my house now. He fills the frame of the door, and the room feels like it needs to expand to be able to contain his presence. He’s always been larger than life; that’s why him moving to LA with me never seemed impossible. He’s the type of person who makes the most, if not better, of what’s thrown at him. I learned at the tender age of nineteen that even he has a breaking point.

  His eyes tense as he watches me, his lips twitching under his scruff. “There’s so much I want to say, so much I want to talk about, and so much I think you need to talk about, too, but I want to be selfish. Maybe because I’ve been waiting for this moment since you released your book.”

  My heart constricts, and I forget how to breathe again. My diaphragm stops moving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shrug.

  “We need to talk about the elephant in the room.”

  “Caiden, there are so many elephants in this room that we could open up a frickin’ zoo.”

  He laughs, and the sound triggers that natural pull of oxygen. I remember writing my book and how describing him the way I did was never a lie or an exaggeration.

  “We need to talk about your book first.”

  “There’s nothing to say.” I turn away. I realize we’re in my house, and I have nowhere to run.

  “Stop it. Just because this whole town is illiterate doesn’t mean I am.”

  It’s supposed to be a joke, but my heart leaps into my throat, preventing speech.

  He shakes his head. “Wait here.”

  What a silly thing to say. Especially since nauseating fear and embarrassment have me nailed to the spot.

  He walks past me, flings open the front door, leaving it wide open as he rushes outside.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, swiveling around.

  He’s fiddling in his truck for less than a minute before trotting back inside, closing the door behind him, and strategically placing himself a few feet in front of me. He lifts his right hand holding a book. My book. I recognize it as the first edition with the old cover, before my publisher revamped it after it hit th
e New York Times bestseller list.

  His copy has my jaw dropping as I stare and examine it. It’s not worn like a book you read once and place on your shelf to collect dust. No, this one is tattered in a cherished way. The corners and edges are bent and faded, and the spine is lined with many folds of repeated use. However, what shocks me the most are all the tabbed Post-it notes sticking out from all sides in different flagged colors. If the book was larger, you could mistake it for a textbook just by the sheer number of notes that it seems to hold, but no, it’s my book.

  Speechless. I’m speechless.

  He’s watching me again, and I still can’t stop staring at that thing in his hands.

  “Are we going to be honest, Hailey, or are we going to pretend that this book isn’t about us?”

  My mouth that was still hanging open slams shut. I guess I knew this was always a possibility. My big fear was that anyone in this town would pick up my book and find out that they were the foundation to its setting, but damn it, I had hoped that Caiden would never touch it and see it for what it really is. I thought in the edits I did a good job of covering my tracks. I changed names, locations, and appearances.

  Though, staring at him now, it’s those eyes of his. They’ve always been: piercing, expectant, honest, determined, and they can see right through me. They always have.

  Nope. I can’t. I’m not ready. Not for this.

  Tonight has been too much. From seeing first loves, tattoos that tell stories, to missing Mom… I can’t talk about this right now. I think I’m ready for another good cry, and maybe more beer. It’s hard to tell.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The hell you don’t. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  I wish I could admit I have a lot I want to say, but it’s just not the right time, and for now, denying everything sounds like my best option.

  “It’s not. You’re just reading too much into it.” I lie through my fucking teeth, and I know he knows I’m full of shit.

  He grumbles, running his free hand through his hair, utterly frustrated with me, and I don’t blame him. “I’m going to let this go for tonight, because obviously you’re dealing with a lot, and we’ve really talked about so many damn things that I can’t decide if we made any progress, BUT,” he enunciates loudly, “don’t think I won’t make you accountable chapter by chapter. It might not be that obvious to anyone else, but I know this book is about us.”

  I stomp my right foot like a child, which only ignites his glorious smile. He riles me up. It’s like he pushed me down in the schoolyard to show affection. And trust me, he did that a lot.

  “I don’t know what progress we have to make, but there’s nothing to talk about, Caid. Just drop it.”

  He lets out an exasperated sigh, but reveals a comical crook to his lip. “Still stubborn as all hell.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, and nod my stubborn agreement.

  He starts for the door, walking past me, but stops abruptly before reaching it. He turns around, but his eyes aren’t on me.

  “Why haven’t you unpacked?” His eyes drag over the couch, taking in the blanket and pillows before coming back to me.

  “Uh… um…” I stammer. I shrug so hard it almost knocks me off-balance.

  He sighs inwardly before taking two steps to reach me, and I don’t know what to do, or what he’s doing. But then he grabs for my shoulders and pulls me into a rough hug. It’s abrupt, but it’s also tight, secure, safe, and brief.

  I hate it when he releases me, just like I hate his handsomely grown-up face, and his dashingly beautiful forearms, and his stupid, stupid eyes.

  “It’s going to be okay, Hailey. This isn’t over. We’ll talk more, all right? And for the record, I’m glad you’re back.”

  He asked me a question, but the pain etched on his face, and the fact he’s already turning around, heading out the door to his car means he doesn’t want an answer to it.

  What if I’m done talking to him? What if I have nothing more to say? What if I told him he can’t come here and dust off my heart from the pile of ashes it’s been sitting in and inspire everything that I thought I lost?

  Instead, I pout, standing on my porch. He shoots me a sharply crafted smirk before climbing into his truck, as if he knows I hate him for all those reasons that I don’t hate him for at all.

  His truck skids out of my driveway as if he’s running away from me as much as I wish I could run away from him, and I scurry back inside, hit with something I haven’t felt in months.

  I pull my untouched notebook from my suitcase and start scribbling words down.

  Then I hear a meow outside my window, and for the first time, I don’t care.

  I think I just found my eureka.

  Chapter Five

  Sipping my third cup of coffee as it nears noon, I listen to my agent, Janet Martinez, on the phone worrying about my focus. Little does she know I wrote nearly six pages in my notebook last night.

  “Listen, Janet, I take back what I said before. I think this might be a good thing.”

  “Are you sure? How’s everything going with your mom’s… estate?”

  Janet does not do well with feelings or emotions, even though she’s an incredible friend, and a devourer (and cheerleader) for all things romance novel. I like to call her The Queen of Introverted Love. She’s got a lot of heart, but she has a hard time verbalizing her emotions. When she tries, it’s a big deal.

  “Um. Mom stuff is as good as it’s going to get. My mom wrote in her will that she didn’t want a typical funeral, which is so like her. She hated anything sad—sad movies, sad songs, everything. She wanted a party, nothing more. Her ashes are supposed to be delivered this week, and I guess the memorial is happening at the county fair to celebrate her life. I don’t even know what to prepare for.”

  “The fair? Dang, when you said small town, I didn’t think you meant Little House on the Prairie small.”

  I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Overall, there’s so much love for her that it’s making it easier to handle, except this house. I can’t seem to face this house at all.”

  “What about the diner?” she hums, and I know there’s tenseness to her voice that she’s trying to hide. Her biggest fear is that I’d come here and never want to leave, or write again, and instead work at the diner.

  “It’s great and in good hands.” I smile, thinking of my red-haired, freckle-faced friend with a penchant for charming exes with mustaches. “And don’t worry. I never wanted to run the diner when I was a kid, and that hasn’t changed, but I’m not getting rid of it. I still need to work that part out. I don’t know what to do with any of it. The house. The diner. All I know is that I’m not ready to let go.”

  I pull a pot out from a cabinet and set it on the stove, then grab for a can opener.

  “Are you cooking?” I can hear the squeak of Janet’s office chair and picture her leaning forward in disbelief, her dark brown hair falling from behind her ears and hazel eyes going wide.

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Plus, there aren’t many options—no delivery here. I grabbed the essentials.”

  “What does the essentials mean to someone who survives on coffee and rice bowls from Panda Express?”

  I sigh mournfully. “The essentials consist of coffee, soup, grilled cheese ingredients, and wine. But damn, now I want a rice bowl.” We laugh together, and it reminds me that life isn’t terrible in LA My life is just different there, and void of erratic heart palpitation problems that come with years of baggage.

  “So coffee, a few cans of Campbell’s, cheese, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of rosé?”

  “Uh, yeah. The essentials. Your point is?” I chide, prying open the tomato soup.

  “I’m just saying, I didn’t get you a six-figure movie deal for you to be slumming it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Unfortunately, my slumming it is me working with what I know. I’d love to eat ratatouille, but I wouldn’t k
now the first goddamn thing about how to make it. We all can’t be professional Pinterest savvy cooks like you, all right?”

  “Fine, but if and when I decide to come and visit, let me cook.”

  “Sold!” I crank the stove to high.

  Our laughter dwindles, and she sighs. I already know what’s coming when she lets the silence hang a few more seconds. “How’s, ya know, the other thing?”

  Oh, the other thing, that’s what we’re calling it now.

  I pour the can of soup into the pot, letting out a grunt of frustration. “Are we talking about me writing the sequel or my ex-boyfriend?”

  “Aren’t those the same thing?”

  I slam down the empty can in the trash like I’m Michael Jordan in the playoffs.

  “Well, the good thing is, I’m writing.”

  “Oh—oh, that is good to hear.”

  “Yeah,” I groan, walking into my living room, glancing at my suitcase. I really need a better place for it than the middle of the floor. “Except I’m going to be building this book more from a fictional sense, not that I need to live it for it to be true—Gah!” I slap my palm against my forehead. “What am I saying? My first novel is fiction, too, but written from real experiences with some finesse. This time, I’m winging it.”

  A tiny condescending squeak comes from the other end of the line. “I’m guessing you saw your ex.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Did you buy ice cream, too, to accompany that tone of yours?”

  “No!” I lie. “It’s whatever. He’s moved on. He’s got a girlfriend, and I wish him well.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m just going to ignore you said that.” I walk to the front door, swinging it open to get a glimpse of the midday sun over the sea of pines. I suck in a breath, and the scent is immediately calming. “It was weird seeing him, okay? Sort of awful and awesome. I don’t know. Janet, the chemistry is so volatile that if someone were to ignite a match when we’re in the same room, we’d explode.”

  “Ooo, write that down, would ya?”

  I roll my eyes, realizing I already have. “More than anything, it was nice reconnecting, and we’re working on it.” I wrinkle my nose as I say it. I have no idea what there is to work on, and what the hell I mean. “Anyway, seeing my friends has also helped, and this town is filled with the kookiest people, too. I’ve got a lot of material to work with.”