Page 43 of The Write Place

I laugh lightly. “Oh, we were going to talk about that on Tuesday, but since you asked, Walton is writing letters to his sister back home. He’s on an expedition, and his boat is stuck. Victor tells Walton his story, so we are actually experiencing it through his eyes, even though most of it is Victor dictating the story himself. It is a little confusing, but if you stick with it, I think it’ll make sense.”

“It’s called a frame story.” Daniel’s voice comes from behind me, and I jump a little, turning to allow him into the conversation. “It’s a literary device a lot of writers from that time period used to tell their stories, especially stories that have a supernatural or fantastical element.”

I nod, smirking at Aimee. “That’s Tuesday’s lesson in a nutshell. Maybe I should let Mr. Evans teach it?” I ask jokingly. Aimee giggles.

“I’d like to see him try. Last time he tried to teach us something, Justin and Warren practically ate him alive.”

Daniel looks offended, but I can tell he is only teasing. “Excellent hyperbole, but that’s not what happened,” he protests. I pat his arm, placating, but I immediately realize my mistake as the heat from his forearm jolts through my still-cold hands, and I gasp a little. A muscle in his jaw ticks at the sound, and his gray-blue eyes meet mine.

“Are you staying, Miss Mac? I can get you a drink if you like.” We jump a little, as if we had both forgotten she’s there.

“Oh, no, I should get home and start reading.” I lift my stack of books again as if it’s proof.

“Stay,” Daniel says softly. “It’s not every day you run into a friend at a bookstore,” he adds, slightly emphasizing the word “friend.” His eyes are burning a hole through me.

Friends. Friends. Friends.

My feet are glued to the spot, and I’m feeling that dangerous, magnetic pull from him again. I swallow, looking at Aimee, who is clearly ecstatic at the possibility of us both hanging out here. I smile, defeated.

“Okay, sure. I can read here if it won’t bother you. Can I have an herbal tea, please, Aimee?”

“Of course, Miss Mac!” Aimee bounces to the carafes to make my tea. I sit next to Daniel at his table and open one of my books. He starts typing, and we sit that way in silence. Aimee brings my tea over, and I thank her. Clearly having no other customers any time soon, she disappears into the bookstore.

Daniel flips through my choices of books, looking at the covers. “I’m disappointed. Not a six-pack in sight.”

I groan. “It was one book that I didn’t even buy myself, and I fully admit was terrible.” I narrow my eyes at him, but he just smiles wryly and opens his laptop.

“Aimee asked me to sign a few copies of my books,” Daniel says, not taking his eyes off his screen. I raise my eyes from my book.

“And did you?” I ask.

He nods. “Least I could do. They’ve been giving me free coffee all night.”

“All night?” I ask, incredulous. “Can they honestly afford to give you multiple sugar free caramel lattes with an extra shot and extra whip?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You remember my coffee order?”

“Isn’t that a thing friends do?” I’m trying to keep it light, but I draw back a little when I remember just how tentative our friendship is.

He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think it is.”

I pause for a minute, then clear my throat. “Well, you remember mine.”

“It’s black coffee. Doesn’t take a ton of brain cells for that one.” He raises an eyebrow, and then adds, “And I wasn’t really planning on staying friends for very long.”

I breathe in sharply. “Daniel, please.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, turning his attention back to his computer screen. I look at him for a moment longer, then try to start reading again. I shift to get comfortable, folding one foot underneath my other thigh and leaning forward on the table, one hand holding my book open against the tabletop and one hand wrapped around my tea, allowing it to warm my still-cold fingers. His laptop keys click quickly and quietly, and the rhythm of it is so soothing that it’s not long before I find myself lost in the pages, feeling the warmth of the tea and the bookstore thaw out the cold parts of me. As I sip my tea, my eyes glued to the page in front of me, I can’t help but notice how nice it is to sit here with him, doing something that we each enjoy together.

“I have to point out,” he slides his eyes to me, “that I guessed you were a fan of Mary Shelley the night we met.” He says it as if he’s been holding it back all night.

I scowl. “Do you have an I-told-you-so dance move you’d like to show off?”

“Maybe,” he admits, his eyes sparkling with mischief. I laugh, and he smiles, too.

We go back to our separate activities, and this is how the night continues—me reading and him typing, with one of us breaking the silence every so often to tease or muse about something. I look over at him once when I sense the keys clicking a little more furiously than they had been, and I see that reverent expression I noticed the first day he was taking notes in my classroom. He seems completely engrossed in whatever words are on his screen, and there is a softness to his face, almost like he feels completely sure of whatever is flying from his brain, through his fingertips, and onto the page. I spend a lot of time talking to my students about authorial intent and the feelings good writing evokes in readers, but I haven’t spent a lot of my life thinking about how authors themselves must feel about their own writing. I like this glimpse into the process of creation more than I care to admit. It makes me happy to know that the words I will no doubt relish whenever I get the chance to read them have also made Daniel feel self-assured and confident. I shift my gaze to a spot in the distance as I start to wonder about some of my favorite passages from old books I’ve read over the years and whether the authors shared Daniel’s admiration for their own words.

I don’t notice when the keys stop clicking, but when the silence registers, I break my trance, blinking rapidly. I catch Daniel studying me, and my face heats. He doesn’t look away or smile, he just keeps looking at me as if he wants to bottle this moment and keep it with him. I wouldn’t mind a bottle of this moment, either, actually.