Page 27 of Miss Behaved
And even though Bailey and Monica seemed completely unaware of it, both Jake and I had fallen for these women long before we realized.
I read it again and again, looking for clues, wondering why I’d fucked up, wishing the ending she wrote had been the real one. Knowing it wasn’t.
Because I left. Anacortes, Monica, my dad. Packed them away neatly in a box and told myself it was best for everyone. I honestly believed she was better without me. Happier, free to live her life without the chaos I’d bring to it.
It was the right thing to do. I knew it. That is, until her book hit the best-seller list and caught my attention.
Contemporary romance is not my thing, not even a little. But there it was, staring at me from that table in the front of the bookstore. The only book to this day that originally printed under her legal name, Lopez instead of Meadows.
Paper Heartsby Monica Lopez.
And, yes, I know that because I’ve read all of her books, like a lovesick idiot pining after the woman he left. Pretending each story was a way of her reaching out to me. As if I were the kind of man who still deserved it.
But instead of telling her any of this last night, I sat there in silence by the pool. Watched her stand and slip that dress from her body in one swoop. For a moment, I was sure I must have been dreaming, staring at her in nothing but triangles of black fabric, wanting to trace the warm glow of her skin from her knees to her breasts.
I was glued in place.
That wasn’t the Monica I remember. She was bubbly and outgoing but sexually reserved, always holding back in some way. But, for whatever reason, she let all that go. Maybe it was Tina’s talk about risk-taking, like she said, or stress from her publisher, but she slipped out of that dress and knocked my heart out of my chest in the process.
I was struck by her grace as she dove into the water. It was almost silent as her body slipped beneath the surface. Like she was a mermaid—or maybe, a siren. Everything about her was calling out to me.
She swam laps. Back and forth. Back and forth. And when she was done, she climbed out of the pool and back into her dress without so much as a glance or a word, and she headed back to her room.
By breakfast, I’m still tired as I down my third cup of coffee. The image of Monica’s curvy body haunted me all night, and even my hand couldn’t take away the pressure. Her body dripping in water played over and over again in my dreams.
It drew me to an inevitable conclusion: I never actually got over her.
“Take a number,” the woman standing near the doorway says as I walk into the first session of the morning. She holds out a giant glass bowl, and I unfold a small piece of paper.
“What’s this?” I ask.
She nods toward the rows of tables paired in twos. “Your seat.”
I head over to table number seventeen when I hear, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” over my shoulder. Her voice vibrates from my ears to my dick.
Thank you, universe.
Turning with a grin, I see Monica standing there, looking from her piece of paper to the table with a scowl on her face. She’s dressed in jeans and a bright yellow T-shirt, looking like a bottle of sunshine I’d like to warm myself up in.
For a second, I’m worried she might try to trade her number or go draw a new one, but she sits down like the good girl she’s always been. She plays by the rules, even when she doesn’t like them. I still remember the one and only time she ever cheated on a test. She was so overwhelmed with guilt that she admitted it to the teacher and was suspended for a week. To this day I’m sure she would say,My crime, my punishment.
Sliding into the chair next to her, I get a hit of her lemony-sweet scent.
“Morning, sunshine.” I smile.
Monica rolls her eyes and mumbles something I don’t make out as she takes a sip of her coffee. There are deep circles under her eyes, and I think maybe I’m not the only one who didn’t sleep well.
I can picture her tossing and turning between her sheets. If I’m going to keep blood flowing to the proper head today, I need to stop thinking about it.
“Good morning, and welcome, everyone.” A woman takes the center of the room, looking like a younger version of Nadine with flaming red hair and an intense look in her eyes. “For today’s exercise, we are going to spend some time focusing on simplicity. As writers, it’s easy to want to peel back every layer, describe every moment, but underneath all of that is the heart of the story.”
Monica straightens up, and I think I see a glimmer of excitement on her face. Watching her light up takes away any annoyance I felt toward the activity.
“How many of you have heard of six-word stories?” she asks. Hands shoot up around the room, including Monica’s. “Good, because that’s what we’re going to do today. I want you to think about whatever you’re struggling with on your current projects, and let’s play with those problems. The goal is to strip these challenges down to their barest form. Don’t focus on the project itself, or writing the book, but think about what you’re ultimately trying to accomplish and what is standing in your way. You’re going to share this with your partner, and then together you’ll come up with as many six-word stories as you can.”
She pauses directly in front of where Monica and I are seated, and I’m overwhelmed by her rose perfume.
“The goal is to get the juices flowing. If you have any questions, let me know. Otherwise, begin.”
