It Happened on Maple Street

Tim

Tim,

I’m going to try my best to get this out here. Where I am with you. I can’t explain why I care about someone I’ve not heard from in thirty years. Last night I was awake, completely and totally consumed with fear. I’m afraid, because my feelings for you override reason.

I crave our conversations right now. I want to be there for you. It’s something I feel, this desire to be there for you. Beyond that, I have no idea.

I hope this all sits well with you.

Tara

Okay, sunshine. Since we’re putting it all out there . . .

I know there is something eating away at you. It’s standing between us just like I told you it would. There’s a secret between us.

Tara, whatever happened to you, to change you, please tell me. This will help you let your demons go once and forever. I know what happens when the sun goes down and the house is quiet. That’s when they come out.

When I send you e-mails, you respond to certain aspects of my conversation only, and just kind of flow past other things. You don’t tell your life history or inner thoughts to just anyone. I get that. But you can with me. I want you to. I don’t want Tara Taylor Quinn. I want Tara.

Hope this helps, and as always, any time day or night, you can call me, for anything.

Tim

Tim,

You’re right in that there are many things I don’t say. I’m blocked. I didn’t do it consciously, and I can’t seem to consciously unblock me, either. Something happened. I know what. I just can’t talk about it. Or even think about it.

And yes, at the moment, I’m all TTQish again. For one thing, I have a couple of business calls to make this morning. And for another, TTQ is very secure, safe, accomplished, and I feel strong when I’m her. People don’t walk on her—they respect her. (Except those who hate her, and I’m okay with that.) I want to be her someday.

Oh wait, I am her. The only problem is, she’s just the surface me.

Tara

And with that I took myself back. Or at least that’s what I told myself as I sank down into the book Monday morning. I was hiding. I knew it. Tim probably knew it, too. I just couldn’t stop myself.

I also hadn’t considered, for one second, the idea that I’d ever have to visit the James part of my life again. Tim had wanted me to swim in the deep end, but what he didn’t understand was that I was in way over my head.

And didn’t know how to swim.

Twenty-Two

THAT NEXT WEEK TIM AND I TALKED EVERY DAY, SOME-times several times in a day. And between phone calls we sent text messages, emailed each other, and got on instant messaging on the computer whenever we could, too.

We told each other everything about our daily lives. He knew how many pages I wrote each day. What I had for dinner. And what time I went to bed at night. He knew if Elaine’s kids were home or with their father. And whether or not she and I had found any time to talk. He knew when I heard from my writer friends.

He knew I was dreading the phone call to my mother to tell her about Chris. Mom didn’t even know that Chris and I had maintained separate rooms.

I heard all about the ball games he went to and the buddy he occasionally had drinks with. I heard about the fence he

was fixing, the tools he was designing, and the living room he was getting ready to paint. I heard when he washed his truck or needed to clean his bathroom. And I always knew what he was making for dinner. I even knew when his clothes were clean.

And I knew that he wanted to have sex with me. Innuendo was seeping into our conversations. Covertly at first, and then more boldly.

I played along as best I could. What could it hurt? It was only conversation. We were a continent apart. But I felt like a time bomb that was going to explode. I just didn’t know when.

What we didn’t do was speak of love. Any kind of love.

The following Saturday, one week after we’d had our talk about our exes, I went to the office early, needing to work on The Baby Gamble, the romance that was due to Harlequin by the fifteenth of the month.