Page 12 of The Now in Forever

M onday morning, I pop out of bed, put on my running gear, and decide to try the full run from the house to the trail and back. I’m filling the bladder in my backpack when Ed comes into the kitchen, also in running tights.

He points to me. “Great minds. Want to go together?”

We head out the door. I catch the screen on our way out and help it close gingerly so it won’t wake Nathan and Robin.

They were up late last night, and they both have to work today.

Ed was up late too. I could hear him typing away when I passed the door.

Okay, more like pressed my ear against it, but still.

I read most of his pages. They’re good. On a line level, he is extremely talented, but I can see some places where the plot is lacking momentum.

We walk to the beach, warming up, and once we hit the sand, we start to run.

The air is misty. A dark-blue light bathes everything: the sea, the sand, Ed’s chiseled face, and his messy bed head hair.

The sand is thick and shifts under my feet, making my thighs and hamstrings work harder to power forward. My pace is slower than usual.

Ed says, “Doing okay?”

I nod, catching my breath enough to talk. “The Walrus and the Carpenter were right. Fuck this sand. ”

Ed laughs. And screams into the wind toward the crashing waves. “Fuck this sand!”

We find a comfortable pace, and my breaths even out. The sun is rising and turning all the deep blue into lollipop swirls of pink and purple.I want to ask him when exactly he’s leaving, and at the same time, I don’t.

“Are you ready to share notes today?” Ed asks, hardly out of breath at all.

“Yep.”

We run a few more minutes. He swings his arms back and forth gracefully, fists loose at his sides, and I can’t help but picture the young man in ripped jeans, skating like a maniac through the side streets of New Haven. Was he a runner back then? “When did you start running?”

Ed smiles. “A couple years ago. I’ve always had a lot of energy to burn.

I used to skate—sometimes I still do. But I landed funky on a backside nosegrind.

Caught myself right at the bottom of some stairs, sprained my wrist. I was on a deadline too, with the edits for my second book.

My editor was very nice about it all, but I could tell she was pissed.

So, I started running. I can do it anywhere, and when I find cool trails like this one, it’s not so bad. ”

I look out at the deep-purple sky, the smattering of clouds lighting up with a golden glow. “Not bad at all.”

He laughs and pushes the pace a little faster.

After our run, I shower. As I lather up, my chest feels as light as the bubbles.

When we’re dressed and ready, we’re going to meet at the kitchen table to go over our notes for each other’s pages.

I pick out a chocolate brown tank top that matches the highlights in my hair and some light-blue denim shorts and throw an oversized cardigan on.

I slip on my sandals, grab my notebook and laptop, and head to the kitchen.

Robin is bustling around, humming and stirring some eggs on the stove.

“Morning. ”

Robin spins around, putting a hand to her heart. “You startled me.”

I set my stuff down at the table. “Why are you so jumpy?” I pour myself some coffee then rummage through the fridge for the oat milk I bought yesterday.

“I’m not jumpy. Why are you so sneaky?” Robin turns back to the skillet. “Are you hungry? There’s plenty of eggs.”

I smile and walk over. “Sure. They look great.” I plant a little kiss on her cheek, and she beams. “Where’s Nathan?”

“Still in bed. He has to get online in like an hour, though, so he’s going to have to wake up now.

” Robin gets out three plates and scoops some of the scrambled eggs onto each of them.

There’s still some left in the pan. She grabs the toast out of the toaster and plops it on two of the plates then adds some strawberries.

“Wow. Breakfast in bed. Check you out. Girlfriend of the year.”

Robin smiles, but there is something very serious in her eyes. She lowers her voice. “Hattie, I think he’s the one.”

I purse my lips and nod. The one. What does that even mean?

The one for right now. The one until you get sick of each other or bored?

Until one of you stops returning texts or cheats, or the whole thing just falls apart like a pair of leggings that have been washed one time too many?

But Robin, with her giant blue puppy love eyes, doesn’t want to hear any of that. “That’s great.”

Ed walks in, laptop in hand, a worn in pair of jeans hanging off his narrow hips, and a light gray T-shirt with The Trucks printed across the middle, little white hearts around the words.

It looks so soft, I want to run my hands along it.

Robin pauses, looking into my eyes for one last meaningful moment, and then walks past Ed with her plates of lovingly prepared breakfast in hand.

“There’re eggs on the stove if you want some.”

“Thanks.” Ed sets down his computer and grabs some coffee and the rest of the eggs.

My appetite has suddenly vanished after talking to Robin.

Out the window, the tall yellow grass blows in the wind.

What is wrong with me? Robin is my best friend.

I should be happy that she is happy. Not prophesying her relationship's eventual end.

And my grandparents found true love. Maybe Nathan and Robin did too.

“Hattie? Earth to Hattie.”

I spin around. “Yeah?”

“You alright?”

“I was just lost in thought.” I sit down at the table with my coffee and open my laptop. “Let’s get started. Who should go first?”

Ed takes in a large deliberate breath and says, “I was wondering…well, there’s something…”

My stomach drops.

Then Ed smiles. “Never mind. It can wait. Let’s do mine first. Rip the Band-Aid off.”

Sifting through my notes for Ed, I start with what’s working.

A lot of it is, so that takes a while. Honestly, if he wants to write a literary fiction novel, what he already has is excellent.

But if he wants his book to have more commercial appeal, I have some thoughts on areas that could have more propulsion of the plot.

Then it’s Ed’s turn to give me feedback. “The mystery itself is great. I have no idea who the killer is. And you have some nice lines in there.”

He stops and takes a sip of coffee, and I brace myself for the “but.”

“The writing needs work on a line level in some places.”

I open my mouth to say something, which is technically against our rules—we agreed to listen completely and not get defensive—but he holds up a hand to stop me.

“I know you’re probably not to that point in the draft yet, and that’s totally cool.

Just mentioning it. I also think…” He moves his leftover eggs around on his plate, the dried-out yellow blobs making me queasy, or is it waiting for the rest of his critique?

“Well, the story is told linearly. Does it need to be? Maybe you could get more tension with a little more back and forth, maybe some creative editing. Like, did you ever read that one where the story is told backwards? I’m not saying do that, but it needs something. ”

It needs something, but backwards? I’m not Megan Miranda.

“And one last note.” He checks his notebook as if having to decipher it from his chicken scratch.

With his eyes still on his paper, he says, “It seems like maybe the main character is a stand-in for you.” His voice trails off at the end of the sentence.

Then, in full volume, he says, “I think that’s about it. Do you have any questions?”

A frown settles on my face like quick dry cement. “Could you say that last part again?”

He sighs, a world-weary, I-knew-this-was-coming kind of sigh, that makes me want to flip this table in a Hulk-filled rage. “The main character is obviously you. And that could be problematic.”

“How? How is she me?”

Ed sits back a little in his chair, crossing his leg, bringing his ankle to his knee.

He starts ticking things off on his fingers.

“Let’s see… Her name is Hallie. She has brown hair and robin’s egg blue eyes.

She’s thoughtful, observant, a rule follower, and she’s a vegan.

” He puts his hand down. “Should I go on?”

How dare he presume to know me? He doesn’t even remember our day together. So, he only knows me from a signing where he barely said two words to me and the past three days. “I’m not vegan. You just watched me eat eggs.”

He sighs. “Aren’t you a vegetarian?”

I stand, closing my laptop. “What difference does it make?”

Ed closes his notebook and looks at me with a soft expression.

“It’s your book. You can write it however you like.

I’m only saying when we put ourselves into the book, we might not be able to go deep enough to write a fully formed character.

Characters need flaws and pain and depth.

And sometimes when you are the main character, well, we end up writing what we wish we were.

On top of that, we lose all objectivity when it comes to edits.

I can’t tell you to change parts of Hallie, because it would be like me saying there’s something wrong with you . ”

What he’s saying makes sense, and in all honesty, I hadn’t intended to write myself into the book. My face is hot. It’s probably beet red. It’s such a rookie mistake, and I’ve been writing for…too long to admit. “I need some air.”

Ed is clicking at the keys on his laptop. “I sent you the rest of my notes. Look at them when you’re ready. ”

I nod.

“Hattie. I liked the story.”

His words bounce off me, a Super Ball on hard concrete.

Seizing my tote bag, I head out the door, walking toward the main road to see other people, hear other voices than Ed’s negative comments echoing in my brain over and over.

Critiques are the worst. I’d thought over the years, with various writing groups, I’d gotten better, but this one was a special kind of torture. Why should what Ed thinks matter so much? Is it because I know he’s right?

I trudge farther down the street than I have before and look towards the water. On the end of the small block, a large circular sign swinging in the breeze catches my eye.

Painted in loopy cursive, arced on the bottom of the circle, is the word Books .

I follow it like a siren call. The building is an old dusky blue Victorian house with a large porch.

From the steps, there’s a perfect view of the ocean from the railing.

More space than even my grandma’s porch.

There’s worn spots on the wooden slats, like there used to be tables and chairs out here, but now all that’s left is the scuffs.

On the large bay window is a For Sale sign and a phone number.

I step forward, cupping my hands on the glass.

Inside is lit only by the ample windows.

It’s enough to see the rows of shelves with books still on them.

Floral-patterned wallpaper covers the walls, peeling here and there.

A large chandelier hangs from the center of the room above a large circular table, empty at the moment, but I can imagine the displays that could adorn it.

The red front door has an oval glass and lead window in a floral pattern.

I twist the knob quickly. Locked. Not that if it wasn’t, I would go in.

I snap a picture of the sign then head down the stairs and take a picture of the building itself, excitement stirring in my chest and an idea percolating. I head back to Main Street.

After a long walk, I end up starving and realize it’s past lunch and I still haven’t had anything today but coffee. Maybe that’s why Ed’s critique stung so much, because I’m hangry .

The Vern is the closest place and the only one I know so far. The bartender comes over, the same one from Friday night—Superman with brown eyes.

“Would you like a Cab?”

He remembers . That’s sweet, but if I have a glass of wine on a stomach full of nothing but coffee and spite, I will wretch. “Food. I need some food.”

He laughs and hands me a menu. “We have that.”

I order a hummus plate and a club soda with lemon.

Stirring the squeezed lemon carcass around my glass, I replay my conversation with Ed over and over in my head. It needs work on a line level. I’m not even at that stage. I have to finish it first.

I open my phone to the Word app and look through his comments. There’s a particularly nice metaphor in chapter three that he’s marked with a question. “Would this character wax poetic about sunflowers?”

He’s right. That line would work better in one of the other POVs. Most of his comments are irritatingly spot on. I slam the phone down.

I shouldn’t even be messing around with my writing until I have a job lined up.

Kyle sets my plate in front of me. “Here you are.”

I try for a smile, but I’m too surly, so I just nod.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I sigh.

“Is it man troubles?”

“Sort of, but not the way you mean. Have you ever wanted something so bad, and tried so hard, and then you see someone else, and they do it like it’s nothing?

Like when you strain and nearly pop a blood vessel in your eye trying to open a stupid jar of pickles, and someone comes along and opens it like it wasn’t even stuck.

Like you’re a weakling and it just takes a normal amount of strength to crack the jar right open. And all your effort is just a waste.”

Kyle is scratching the back of his neck, looking confused. “You want pickles?”

“No, well, kind of now, but that’s not what I meant.”

“They probably opened the jar because you loosened it for them. ”

“No, it’s their jar. I haven’t touched their jar.” Too many hot flashes of that day come uninvited into my brain. This metaphor is running away with me. Stupid writer brain.

“You know what can affect jars? Everything. Humidity, air pressure, the way it was sealed at the factory. Their jar was probably easier to open to begin with or the conditions were perfect when they tried. Sometimes when things look effortless, it’s because we had some well-timed help or approached it at the right moment. ”

I sigh. “Timing.”

The door opens, sunlight momentarily blinding me.

Kyle crooks a thumb to the door. “Here’s your boyfriend now.”

It’s Ed. He takes off his sunglasses, and when he spots me at the bar, his electric eyes lock on mine.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”