Page 15 of Booked on You
I don’t know how to process this feeling.
I came here to be alone so I could write and be invisible. Now, I’m suddenly going back and forth with a man I don’t know, but I want to learn everything about.
As I pace the room, I speak nonsense into the recorder. After ten minutes, I sit and open my laptop again. This time, there are no playlists or playlists-about-playlists or self-bribes involving retail therapy or secret Pinterest boards.
I glance over at the mug one more time, then open my document from yesterday, the new one I started. The cursor blinks like it’s waiting to be impressed. I stare at it for a second too long, then type a sentence. My fingers find the rhythm before my brain has time to interrupt.
Helena sitsat the edge of the bed, heart slamming against her ribs, and tries not to look at him like she’s already memorized every inch of his skin. However, she’s alone. For now.
I pausebecause I can’t deny Ezra is on my mind. Thinking about him gives my words a heartbeat. I close my eyes, knowing I shouldn’t use him as inspiration, but I’m not able to help myself. Now that the thoughts about him are there, I can’t seem to push them away.
I type faster, and the action writes itself.
Unexpectedly, the hero arrives. He walks toward her, slowly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to touch her. And she lets him. She doesn’t deny herself the experience. She doesn’t run. She doesn’t make a joke, deflect, or apologize for being too much. Helena willingly takes everything he offers her, like she’s starved for attention from men.
She is.
Fuck. I am, too.
The story pours out of me. It’s full of heat and hesitation, and too much space between their mouths and not enough time to explain why they’re so careful about crossing the line.
Who cares that my two characters just met?
I pause, fingers hovering above the keys, my chest tightening around something I don’t want to name.
I was writing about Ezra, and I can’t help but recall the way he looked at me. Even the thought steals my breath away.
I sit back against the couch. The words on the screen almost feel like they belong to someone else, like I’ve finally admitted something too true, and now I have to decide whether I’m brave enough to keep going. This book wasn’t supposed to be personal. I’d promised myself I’d never put my real feelings, desires,needs, and fears onto the pages again, but ignoring the essence of who I am stopped me creatively.
Here I am, behind on my deadline, fantasizing about the man who rented me this cottage.
After a deep breath, I start typing again because it feels right. When I hit the bottom of the page, I read the scene again, and then a third time.
I didn’t outline or build the sentences with practiced control or massage them to be perfect.
They just happened.
This feeling that’s overtaking me is different. I’m not sure if it’s panic or awe. Maybe both.
This scares the hell out of me.
The media will find Ezra.
They’ll learn about this cottage and my getaway.
Rumors will spread.
I cannot do this to him.
However, this is the best thing I’ve written in years.
The scene burns under my skin and leaves a mark. It came from somewhere inside of me that’s real. Helena’s breathless want. Her surrender. The fear of being too much, too late, tooeverything. It’s not fiction.
I close my laptop, then begin to pace the room.
This is what happens when I get too close, and instead of holding it in my hands, I flinch.
Over the past two years, every time I wrote, it was about heartbreak, about a cheating piece of shit who I thought I’d marry. Each time I wrote, I fell apart and mourned the loss of the family I wanted to have with him.
