Page 16 of The Now in Forever

I spent the last week trying to unravel some of my plot problems and avoiding Ed.

Not that I’m upset with him, really. I just needed some space after the critique.

And it felt like he was going to talk about our long ago day together, which means then he’d want to talk about six months later, and I’m not ready for that.

I needed time to process my feelings without being influenced by his electric eyes and intoxicating citrus scent.

Waking up extra early so I wouldn’t bump into him on my runs, working in my room, at the coffee shop in town, and at The Vern.

Kyle even started plugging my laptop in for me behind the bar when it was running low on battery.

Every time I sit to work on fleshing out my main character, I hear another voice instead.

A young woman working at a bookstore, desperate for something to shake up her life.

I push the voice away. She won’t work in my mystery.

I applied to three more jobs, most of them in Portland. One closer to my grandma, for a middle school, and I honestly don’t want it, but it would be nice to be close to her.

Work on my novel has been slow. Rereading Ed’s comments, I realize they are annoyingly insightful, well thought out, and just stupidly right. I don’t know how I couldn’t see it myself. My main character needs a fatal flaw. Right now, she is too perfect, too flat, one dimensional.

I’ve been working on an exercise where I’m writing her diary from when she was a kid.

None of it will make it into the manuscript—probably not, anyway—but hopefully it helps me understand her better, and while we may share some of the same traits, I need to make her separate from me.

I was up late last night working on it and am getting out the door for my morning run a little later than usual because of it.

Warming up with a little, stretching and a walk on the beach, gets the blood pumping.

Too excited to wait any longer, I begin my run.

The sun is already lighting up the sky in streaks of gold, with one long bloodred cloud slashed across the horizon.

I’m staring at it and nearly run into Ed standing in the middle of the beach, phone pointed at the horizon.

“Whoa!” I stop mid stride, arms windmilling like a cartoon. I usually think of myself as a pretty graceful person, but around Ed, it’s like I’m doing a bad impression of Mr. Bean.

Not that it matters, because Ed doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes fixed on the sky. “Look at that.”

“It’s beautiful.”

I continue running, and he falls into step next to me, tucking his phone into his waistband pocket. “And a little terrifying. It looks like the end of the world.”

Looking again at the red slash, dark gray clouds rolling in from far off in the distance, it does look ominous.

Ed keeps talking. “You know the saying? Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning?”

“You think everything looks like the apocalypse.”

Ed laughs. “You got me there.”

We run in silence until we get to the trail. Ed clears his throat. “Have you been avoiding me?”

“No,” I say automatically, but even to me it doesn’t sound convincing.

Robin and Nathan went on a trip to visit Nathan’s family.

They left yesterday but should be back for the Fourth.

Anh and Melissa should be here by then too, and we’ll finally all be together.

So far, this celebration of our twentieth year of book club has been lacking in girl time.

It’s just been Ed and me in the house since yesterday, and it was pretty blatant I was trying my hardest not to be in the same room with him.

“Are you pissed about my comments on your work?”

“I’m not mad.” I sigh, not sure how to explain without making him sound like a jerk or me sound like a baby. Maybe I am being a baby.It’s not really what I’m upset about at all, but I’m going to take the out. "It takes me a while to acclimate to feedback. I’ve just been letting it sink?—”

And just like that, I’m airborne. I wasn’t looking where I was going, too focused on choosing just the right words, and my foot hit a root.

Bracing myself, I thud to a stop on the dirt trail, my bare knees taking the brunt of the fall.

I roll onto my back, and Ed is by my side in the dirt before I even open my eyes.

“Holy shit. Are you okay?”

My pride stinging more than my scraped knees, I open one eye, then the next. “I’m fine.” I go to sit up, and Ed put his hands gently on my arms.

“Slowly. Did you hit your head?”

“No. I just tripped on the root.”

Ed runs his hand up my calf slowly to the delicate tendons behind my knee, and suddenly my scrapes don’t hurt as bad, my body distracted with other more pressing sensations. My breath catches in my throat. He blows the dirt off my knee lightly, and goose bumps cover my arms.

“Does that hurt?”

I don’t remember what pain feels like anymore. “No.”

When I study his face, it’s the same as that day ten years ago but so different. Somewhere along the way, his jaw got squarer, his face and body less gangly and more muscular. He looks like a man. He is a man.

His eyes are fixed on my knees. He grabs his water bottle from his running belt. “I’m going to pour a little of this to get the rest of the dirt off, okay?”

“Okay.” The cold water stings my knees, and I suck in a breath as he does the right and then the left. There’s the pain. I remember what it feels like now. Ed pries a little rock off the left knee.

“Just scrapes. I think it’ll be okay. We should probably walk back and get you a Band-Aid or three, though,” he says with a warm smile.

He stands and offers me his hand to help me up.

As I take it, I’m surprised how unsteady I am on my feet.

I pitch forward, and Ed catches me in his arms. His hands are on the small of my back, mine are on his chest, his muscles solid under my palms. I look up into his face, just inches from mine.

His citrus and spice scent, his warm arms, and the pain in my knees scrambles my brain.

I lean forward, reaching my lips up to his.

Ed’s eyes are warm, but he quickly pulls back.

“Can you walk?” he says, keeping his hand out for me in case I can’t. I trudge a few steps, my cheeks burning. I can’t believe I was going to kiss him. And he’s going to pretend like it didn’t happen, like I didn’t just try to make out with him on this trail.

“I’m fine.” I stride ahead, with a little limp in my step, but for the most part okay. Physically, anyway.

“Hattie.”

I whip around; his face looks pained. “What is it?”

Ed rubs the back of his neck. “Nothing.”

We return to the house, and I shower, the hot water stinging my knees.

After I dress and grab some breakfast, I open my laptop and dive into revisions.

My story is about a woman named Hallie who works at a bookstore.

She finds her boss dead in his office. Ed suggested adding another employee into the mix.

Maybe they could even team up. I wonder if he recognized the bookstore as the one we worked at together in Old Town.

No. Probably not. He seems to have the memory of a goldfish.

I try incorporating some of the character traits I’ve come up with through the journal exercise, but to be honest, I’m sick of the sight of these words. This story isn’t working, and it feels like no matter what I add, it’s missing that spark of magic .

Closing the document, I open a new one. Usually, I’m an intense plotter and never start a draft until I have all my beats meticulously planned out, but today feels different.

It feels like I’ve stepped outside my life, sitting at this window seat with ominous black clouds rolling in.

I give in to the voice that’s been whispering to me. I type a new story.

I write for hours, until my leg falls asleep and my stomach snarls at me for food.

It’s after four already. I skipped lunch because it hadn’t occurred to me.

Shutting my laptop, I stand up. I already have three new chapters and the beginning of a love story.

It’s a story about love but also about our attachments, how we see ourselves, and timing.

June finds an old book hidden underneath one of the shelves.

It’s stuck, so she pulls it out, and when she does, a man appears.

He is handsome, tall, with dark messy hair that looks like he’s attempted to tame it with styling product, but it still escapes over his brow.

His cheeks are high, his jaw razor sharp, his eyes mossy green.

Okay, so Ed may have been some of the inspiration.

But it’s not a straightforward love story. She can only see him when the book is open.

It’s new for me. A whole book and not one murder—well, at least I don’t think there will be. Sliding my sandals on, I grab my bag and head to The Vern for some food, lightly tiptoeing past Ed’s door. There’s no need. His room is wide open, and he’s nowhere to be seen.

A huge gust of wind nearly yanks the door right out of my hand as I open it.

I grab an oversized wool cardigan with large wooden buttons from the coat rack and head out, ducking my head against the weather.

The walk takes me twice the amount of time, partly from the wind, partly from my banged-up knees.

The Vern’s door, which is usually wide open, is shut tight and for a moment I worry they’re closed.

But the door is unlocked. Kyle spots me and smiles.

He motions to the empty stool in the corner, and I have a seat.

“Let me guess, a hummus plate and lemon water or wine?”

I frown. “Am I that predictable?”

Kyle shrugs. “I don’t know if I’d say predictable.

You like what you like, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

” There’s a spark in his brown eyes when he says this, and not for the first time it occurs to me Kyle might be flirting with me.

I bask in it. After this morning's humiliating display, it’s nice to have a man, an attractive man, show open interest in me.

But it’s nothing. He probably flirts with everyone.

I inhale deeply. “You know what? Today is a different day. I’d like a margarita on the rocks and the black bean nachos.”

Kyle raises his eyebrows. “Okay. Coming right up.”

He puts in my food order then gets the tequila while he asks me, “What makes today different?”

“I started writing a new story, in a new way.”

“You’re a writer?”

He hands me my drink, and I take a sip, the tartness biting the back of my jaw.

I always hate talking about my writing to strangers.

Honestly, I’m shocked I brought it up today.

I never know what to say. I write stuff.

Does that make me a writer? But I haven’t published anything except a handful of short stories when I was in college.

I take my craft seriously though, and I think some of the novels I’ve started are great.

“I am. I teach English—well, I did before my school closed. Anyway, it’s not my job, but I do write.”

“That’s cool. I’ve always wondered what you were doing on your laptop. So, what made today different?”

I shrug. “The storm. It’s like there's a new smell in the air. It feels charged.”

Kyle’s face shifts, and he excuses himself. He goes straight from behind the bar down the hallway to the patio. I sip my drink and idly scroll my phone. After a few minutes, people file in from outside, drinks in hand, some with plates of food. Kyle must’ve closed the patio.

One of the last people to file in, holding a sweaty tall can of Rainier, is Ed.