He draws in a deep breath.
“Almost no one. And since love and betrayal are powerful feelings that come with an overwhelming sense of emotional irrationality, people who don’t normally like to vacation on the dark side still want to feel like they’re normal. So that’s what I write about. The tangled, messy, uncontrollable things we say, and do, and feel when the bliss is missing and the darkness comes from inside us, not them.”
He thinks about this, his heart beating right next to my ear. It’s a steady beat. Not too fast, not too slow. He’s not tense and his arm is around me, his thumb doing this soft back-and-forth caress across my clavicle.
“Do you think,” he says, then pauses. “Do you think you’d be writing this stuff if what happened to us never happened?”
“Maybe not.”
“So why do you do it? Why not just write thrillers, or mysteries, or poetry?”
“Because what happened changed me, Con. Just like it changed you. And if I had a mass-market paperback thriller or mystery inside me, I’d at least give it a try. But I don’t. I have this shit inside me. These words, these stories, these characters. That’s what lives in my brain so that’s what comes out on the page. And you know what?” I ask, shifting my body so I can sit up a little.
“What?”
“I like it. It pays well, I never get writer’s block, and I have fans who look forward to the books. So why fight it? Why buck success and fight the natural progression of things?”
“Because this isn’t you, Kiera.”
“Like hell it’s not!” I laugh. “Look, if this wasn’t the real me, do you really think I could knock out six books a year? Do you really think I could find all these stories, and all these people, and all these words? No. It doesn’t happen that way. That’s just… not how writing works. People who fight the story inside them fail. I learned that a long time ago.”
“Yeah,” he says, turning his head away from me. “I was there when you learned it, remember?”
But he wasn’t. Not really. He was only there for part of it. The part that happened while I was with him and Sofia. That’s all he knew, that’s all he knows now.
But there were other parts. The parts with Hayes and Louise. The parts with Camille and Bennett. Parts I played and he didn’t.
My eyes involuntarily find the book, still sitting on the counter, and I wonder how much truth is actually in there. How many missing pieces will he add to the puzzle when we turn that last page?
“I’m tired,” he says. “It’s been a long day. For both of us. I’ll take the couch.”
And there it is… the dismissal.
You’d think I’d remember what that felt like because he did it a lot back in senior year, but his words tonight hurt me like a brand-new wound.
“OK,” I say, untangling my body from his. The cold immediately rushes in with our separation. “I’ll get you some blankets and a pillow.”
I feel more sad than I have in a very long time. Even though we’re together again, we were never meant to be. It was always him and Sofia. And do I really want to fight the outgoing tide when it’s so much easier to give in to the natural order of things and just… float?
The hall closet contains blankets and pillows for the off-chance a guest shows up and wants to stay. I never use them, but it’s nice to be ready for guests who need my couch for a night. I grab them and walk back into the living room, placing them next to Connor, who hasn’t moved.
“It’s cold in here,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure is.”
I turn the heat up a few degrees, but it won’t help much. The cottage is old and drafty, even with the new insulation I put in when I remodeled it after college. Things wear out, wear down, it’s just the inevitable decay that happens with time.
So I light a fire as Connor sets up a makeshift bed on the couch.
I didn’t have any grand dreams that we’d share a bed tonight. I didn’t. But I feel lonely just the same. And apprehensive about tomorrow. Because by tomorrow afternoon this storm will have passed, and the roads will be plowed, and we will be on our way to New York to face the others.
He’s staring at me when I stand up from the fire and turn.
“Good night, Kiera,” he says.
I just nod and walk away.
But then, just as I enter my room and disappear, he calls out, “Leave the door open.”
“Buddy system,” I murmur back.
The best thing about this cottage is the view from my bed at night. There’s a large window and a long wall running perpendicular to it, perfect for bed placement. I didn’t realize this when I put the bed along this wall, but the first night I slept in here after the remodel was finished, it hit me in the face like a very sweet surprise.