by Hazel Parker
I didn’t even know this guy’s name, and obviously, it was a far cry from being able to say anything about him other than he was handsome and funny. But there was a certain feeling stirring in me that gave me hope that he was a little different than most of the guys I met. Most Brooklynites and New Yorkers had a “take charge” attitude to a fault; they were bold, but always to the point of going past good manners. Just once, I wanted a guy who knew how to balance being bold with being polite.
No, I couldn’t say that I knew for certain this guy would be that. But I had reason for hope.
“Not at all,” I said. “In fact, I could use some conversation for my work. Why don’t you grab yourself a drink and sit down?”
“Your work, huh? You a reporter?”
I smirked.
“A reporter of a different kind, let’s say. Go ahead.”
“Oh, perfect. I’m Jack, by the way.”
“Jack,” I said, trying the name on. It came seamlessly from my mouth. I almost wished I had used the name in one of my fantasy novels. “I’m Lilly. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Lilly, likewise. My friends call me Biggie, so you can call me that if you want.”
“Biggie? Like Biggie Smalls?”
“Not nearly as cool, but yes.”
I laughed. If only he knew that I wasn’t looking for someone who was “cool.” If only he knew that what he had just said was a point in his favor.
“Well, I like Jack. It’s more authentic. It’s hard to find that in the world these days. So it’s OK if I call you Jack?”
“Absolutely, Lilly.”
Oh, the way he says my name. It makes me feel good.
I watched him as he went up to Lisa and tried to figure out where I knew him from. The name didn’t mean anything to me—Jack or Biggie were not names that rung any bells. I knew of some Jacks from high school, but none spoke like he did or, frankly, were as nice as he was.
His personality reminded me of plenty of people, but if I wasn’t going to place him by his name or his face, then his personality wasn’t going to help, either. Perhaps he was related to someone that I knew? I just assumed that at some point, if we kept talking beyond this, I would find out.
As it was, I didn’t normally talk to strangers, but I figured Jack would give me the chance to relax a bit after having concentrated so much all day on my writing. It would give me a chance to decompress, think about what I had written, and maybe even generate some ideas for my writing. Plus, as a writer, I frankly didn’t socialize as much as I should have; any little bit I could have done to get myself out there was a good thing.
Jack came back with a small latte, looking like he hadn’t added anything.
“You like it black, huh?”
“I know that if I add sugar or cream, it’s going to give me headaches. So, yeah, I like it black.”
It’s not sweet like you. Luckily, I wasn’t so crazy as to say something that direct quite so soon.
“So, you said you’re a reporter of a different kind?” Jack said. “What does that mean? Are you like an agent or something who files reports for her office?”
“If only,” I said. It would probably pay better and more consistently than what I make now. “No, I’m an author.”
“An author!” Jack said excitedly. “That’s cool. I don’t meet a lot of people like that.”
I know a ton of people like that, I thought, though I did a poor job of reminding myself regularly that it was the world I inhabited, so of course I would know more people like that. Whatever Jack’s world was, he would know far more people than I ever would.
“Well, we probably won’t be the coolest people you ever meet—”
“Luckily, I’ve learned the so-called cool people are usually just arrogant jerks.”
Jack, you become more impressive by the second.
“What sort of stuff do you write?”
“Oh, fantasy.”
“Oh, cool. So like Star Wars?”
“Not quite. More like…Harry Potter but grittier? It’s more urban fantasy. My current book is called Fires of the City.”
“Ohhh,” Jack said as if I had just revealed to him the coolest book title that anyone had ever produced.
Of course, Jack wasn’t aware that I barely made enough money to make ends meet, that I often became frustrated by the people who didn’t realize the themes and motifs that I put in my story, and that there were plenty of writers who were producing more commercially viable fiction that were outselling me by ratios well above ten to one, if not twenty to one.
But to Jack—just like it was to most casual readers—any author was a cool author. And I guess for at least one…happy random meeting, if not a date, I could at least enjoy it.
“So tell me about Fires of the City. Sounds intense. I’ll admit I’m not much of a reader, but—”
“Most people aren’t; it’s fine.”
“Well, I should read more.”
He’s too sweet. No way this guy is from Brooklyn. Of course, he has the accent, so…
“Well, everyone should read more, but I know time gets in the way. In any case, Fires of the City is about a city that gets engulfed in hell, but in reality, it’s about how a person can do good things even while they’re going through hell. It’s complicated, and I’m not nearly as good a speaker as I am a writer, but the basic idea is that everyone thinks you have to have a good soul to be a good person. But my book is to push the idea that bad people can be driven by their demons to do good things.”
The look on Jack’s face was one of confusion, which didn’t surprise me. I liked to think that I could write a pretty damn good novel, but ask me to produce something resembling an elevator pitch for any of my books, and I always found that I either lost the listener halfway through or I ran out of time in trying to do so.
“Damn,” Jack said, perhaps unable to say anything else. “Damn. Most of the people I hang around are meatheads. Kind of nice to be hanging around someone so smart!”
He let out a boisterous laugh that was a little excessive for the current situation, but it was so sweet of a laugh that I didn’t mind. It was the kind of laugh that, had I heard it while writing, would have driven me absolutely insane. It would have taken me out of my writing and made it difficult to refocus.
But when it took me out of nothing and put me into a happy place, it was hard to complain. In fact, it was quite easy to appreciate.
“Well, if struggling to make ends meet for your love is smart, then I guess so,” I said with a casual smile.
But Jack didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. I was curious what kind of a job he had—the way he was dressed, with a black, sleeveless jacket, a white undershirt, and jeans suggested that he did not come from the fucking awful world of finance or law. He didn’t seem like some pseudo-intellectual dipshit from one of the nearby universities. He instead seemed…
He almost seemed like a guy who was too smart for the job that he had, but because of life or personal choice, he had no desire to move from said job and was content to keep himself happy in his current situation. That personal ease that he seemed to have with himself was, well, yeah, it made me a little jealous. But in a good way.
“Well, we all have to pay our bills somehow, and better to do it by doing what you love. Who’s your main character? And how did you draw inspiration?”
“His name is Kris,” I said. “And I drew inspiration from someone I knew in high school. A tormented soul, but someone who seemed to mostly do things for good.”
The name Kyle Stone flashed to mind, but I didn’t see any reason for Jack to know who Kyle was. Kyle wasn’t the mayor or a senator; I think he worked in some small representative role on the city council or something else. It wasn’t the type of job that would have put him on TV, that was all.
“That’s cool,” Jack said. “Well, hopefully Kris’ tormented soul finds peace at the end. Wouldn’t want him to be miserable the entire time!”
“Not at al
l,” I said. “Well, I don’t want to spoil anything for you—”
“And I do want to read the book, so maybe I shouldn’t be asking such spoiler-filled questions!”
Again, that boisterous, happy laugh. The timing could not have been any better for you, Jack. If it had happened before I started writing, I would have tried to push you away. If it happened during writing, I would have resented you. Come by here four or five minutes later, and I would have been long gone.
I guess I’m not going to complain about this timing.
“Well, we can talk about other things,” I said. “But it will have to be another time. I’ve got a cat back at the house named Spawn that’s waiting for me—”
“Like the comic book character?”
That honestly might have been the moment that I knew that I couldn’t let my interaction with Jack end right there. I would have to go home, but I couldn’t not see him again.
“Yes! Yes! Oh, now that’s rare. But anyway, I really appreciate your interest, Jack. Most people wouldn’t take the time to sit down and learn about my stuff.”
“Well, why wouldn’t they? You have an interesting story.”
I smiled and knew, just knew, that I was blushing. I wasn’t ashamed at all to admit that Jack was making me smile like an idiot, and I wasn’t at all ashamed to admit that I wanted him to ask me out.
I could have done it myself, but I was too shy. The most I could do was leave him my business card or my website, but that just felt a little too business-like, as if I was ignoring what he really wanted from me. It was sending him a message other than the one that I wanted to send to him.
“Where can I find your books? Or is this your first one?”
“Oh, no, no, I have other books! Here.”
I handed him a card that had my personal website on it. It also happened to have my full name, Lilly Fuller. And yes, I used my real name as an author.
“I hope to hear how you like my books, Jack.”
Among other things. I never even got to learn about you tonight. We have to meet again so I can know more about you.
“No doubt,” he said. “Have a good one, Lilly.”
I just loved how he said my name. How he made my body glow warm with his smile. How it felt like I needed to be on the other side of the table, not sitting across from him.
It had only been a brief visit, one that couldn’t have lasted longer than ten minutes or so, but it was one that was unlike any other I’d had with most guys here. It wasn’t crass; it wasn’t abrupt; it wasn’t awkward.
It just felt right.
I pushed open the front door to Brooklyn, feeling mighty good about how things were going. I was finally reaching a point where my book felt like it could take off; I had met an awesome guy, albeit one that needed to take the hint and ask me out after reading my books; and now, I was going to retire from the world for the evening and not have any problems until the morning.
Just before I walked away from P.M. Coffee, I looked across the street and recoiled in surprise.
Kyle was at the pub outside, eating alone on the patio.
I was frankly too tired and too exhausted to walk over and start a conversation with him, but the sight was a little unsettling. Did he know that I was at the coffee shop? Was it just a coincidence? The shop had blurred windows, which afforded a decent level of privacy, but I had only arrived a few hours before. Maybe Kyle had seen me walk in.
No, it just had to be a coincidence. It just had to be odd timing for me to have discussed how he had inspired my character, only for him to appear. It wasn’t like he had a thing for me, anyway; seeing him at the other coffee shop earlier in the week had been friendly, but I didn’t pick up anything that suggested he was into me. Maybe it was just because I wasn’t looking for it, but I felt pretty confident about that.
I guess time would tell. It was still much too early to say.
But I could say that Jack had made me feel pretty good, and that meant that today was going to end on a great note, no matter how unsettling it might have felt to see Kyle across the street right after having him fill my mind.
Maybe you can find the spirits within and temper the fires, Kyle. Maybe you can get an ending like Kris did in my book.
Chapter 3: Biggie
It was supposed to be a walk to clear my head.
It wound up introducing me to a woman that I immediately saw as my Christine, my Amelia, or my Carrie. It wound up introducing me to a woman as smart and creative as anyone I had ever met, at least as far as actually being an artist for a living. It might just have been the thing I needed to help my sanity as we tried to figure out the Kyle problem.
For now, though, it was something else—a welcome distraction, but one that I tried to nevertheless shake as I sat in the coffee shop, pondering the best approach to take with Kyle.
Unfortunately, the dialogue with Lilly had proved too enjoyable and too memorable for me to just cut it and move on. She was sticking in my head, for better and for worse, and I figured there was no point in trying to fight it right now. For as long as I was awake tonight, I might as well dive deeper and do more research.
After about half an hour of writing down ideas on my phone and realizing that that was going to be a completely unproductive session, I opened my web browser and went to the website Lilly had given me.
Immediately, my jaw dropped.
Fires of the City was just one of the novels she had written. She had seven others, a four-book series and a three-book series that she had written over the last decade. She had, according to her biography, started to write at the age of eighteen. Now thirty-two—though that wasn’t exactly something I was going to ask her to confirm—she had found her groove writing about fantasy worlds in the modern setting and the blur that came from straddling the boundary for each.
Yeah, I was pretty impressed. Heaven knew I wasn’t about to produce anything so creative and compelling as she did. Heaven knew I was probably never going to produce anything creative, period.
I skimmed through the novels she had written, from The Elder Legends to The Skies of Saragorn, and though I couldn’t even pretend to understand any of the references or legends she had produced, I could tell that she wrote at a professional, high-quality level.
It was incredibly awe-inspiring to be around someone who was chasing their dreams as ardently and productively as Lilly seemed to be doing. I didn’t know of anyone else who was chasing something so uncertain and yet with so much conviction as her. The only question was why the hell I hadn’t asked her out at the coffee shop.
Really, now that I thought about it and realized how much I liked her, I did feel like a pretty big fool for doing so.
I had her email address now—it was one of the most prominent parts of her webpage, encouraging her fans to send a message. Emailing her for a date, though, didn’t seem very gentlemanly. It also felt like the coward’s way of asking someone out; if I wanted her to go on a date with me, I needed to do it in person, or at least over the phone.
Still, I clicked on her email and waited for my own email to open. It auto-populated her address, and for perhaps the first time ever, I became extraordinarily self-conscious about how I wrote my email. I proofread it about three times for errors and mistakes before I finally hit send.
Hey, Lilly,
This is Jack from the coffee shop earlier tonight. I’m looking at your work right now, and I can’t get over how awesome it looks. Seriously! I wish I could write something even a tenth as good as what you have.
I know that we both had to go our separate ways tonight, but I would love to see you again. I think that it would be a delight to get to know each other more, and I would love to make another chapter in our stories. Let me know if you are interested.
Best,
Jack
There was a part of me that, upon hitting send, immediately wanted to recall the letter. It felt too corny and not creative enough at the same time; to have said “love to make another
chapter in our stories” might have been the most groan-worthy thing a man had said to her in some time. For that matter, it sure felt like an awful lot to say for someone I’d spoken to for no more than ten minutes.
On the other hand, it was awfully short and kind of dry. I’d edited myself to that point, wanting to avoid the word “date” or the phrase “take you out” as much as I could. But was that the right approach for the woman who wrote words for a living?
Possibly. But all the same, it was something that I just had to try.
After all, if Lilly was good enough to distract me from the world around me and the crisis impending with Kyle, then she was good enough to send that initial email off to.
* * *
As soon as I woke up the next morning—far earlier than I had anticipated, the mind still running too fast for me to get good sleep—I rolled over and checked my email on my phone. As my email app pulled up, I told myself that there was just no way she would have responded by now. It would have been nice, but she was a busy woman, and artists were notorious for being terrible at communication.
It lifted my spirits, then, to see that she had written back almost immediately after my message to her. I briefly felt chagrin at not having checked before I fell asleep the night before, but depending on the tone of the letter, maybe that would turn out to be a blessing.
Hi, Jack!
You are far too kind of a soul to say that. I simply do my job to the best of my ability, and if people like it, wonderful. So I very much appreciate the kind words from you, thanks :-).
I would love to meet up with you again! You name the time and place, and I will go along with it. Just don’t pick mornings; that’s my writing time. But otherwise, I am game.
I couldn’t even begin to express how much relief I felt at seeing that. Certainly, I felt great joy at reading those words; there was a giddiness at what was to come, one that maybe was unique to me given my usual optimistic attitude. But for the most part, the fear that I was going to get rejected was no more. That was out the door, and I didn’t have to worry about anything in the short term.
