Chapter 16
I’m sorry. I was speaking tongue in cheek, but my remarks didn’t translate well on the page. For what it’s worth, you have met your goals in this story, and already exceeded them. I’m proud of you.
As for the scene, though, and to stay on point, if you are going to have a kissing scene, you need them to kiss like normal human beings. Have you ever considered that . . . you don’t like to write about a kiss because you’ve never actually experienced a good kiss?
I stare. The man took my ardently felt monologue, gave it a polite pat on the head, and told it to go play while the adults stayed on task. And the task is my pathetic ability to write a kissing scene. Which has turned into an oddly sensitive personal subject on my history and ability to kiss.
Fine, I write. Since today is all about my romantic ventures, apparently, no. My former boyfriend was my first, and last, kiss, and to be completely honest here, I always thought doing laundry would be a better way to spend time. So there. Perhaps, since you’re so “good” at it, you should just write the scene for me.
I tap the period so hard with my pen it splotches and drop the manuscript on the stack of books beside the chair. Roughly I blow out the candle. Turn off the string lights. And make my way for the door.
So. Sam has had wonderful make-out sessions with glossy Giselle. That’s fine. That actually makes sense, really, given I can’t imagine any other reason he would’ve stayed with her on and off all these years. Giselle. Passionate with her words, passionate kisser.
Isn’t. That. Just. Great.
My mood follows me all the way home. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the reminder that I’m finally at the finale of my manuscript tries to push its way to the forefront and cheer me up, but despite how hard it rallies, the encouragement only lasts a moment before another brooding thought forms.
Sam has kissed Giselle. Probably a thousand times.
I fumble with my keys to the front door.
Oh, but remember! You’re going to make your deadline after all!
He’s probably addicted to her siren-like ways. Can’t help himself falling for her over and over again for this very reason. Maybe that’s how she does it, in fact. On their off seasons, she corners him in some very unsuspecting way and grabs him by the collar, making him yield to her with her silky locks that fall perfectly over one eye and raspberry lip gloss.
Just three more days until you send it in! You’ve done it!
And no matter what happens between us, she’ll always be lurking in the corners, ready to steal him back.
“Savvy, you okay?”
I look up to find I’ve been standing in the middle of the living room, a disgusted expression creeping over my face.
“You look like you might be ill.” Olivia, per usual, cycles on her Peloton, her finger holding a page in place.
“Fine,” I say, rearranging my face into an easy smile. “Fine. Just . . . thinking about a conversation at work.”
“Oh, good,” she says, looking genuinely relieved. “I couldn’t have you missing out on the fundraising banquet.”
In another context, one could construe the words as a sincere sentiment. Like a sister saying, Oh, I’m so relieved you feel well. After all, you are my sister and best friend, and I’d hate to go to any fun event without you. But I know better. I know what she’s really thinking.
The Steps-4-Life fundraising banquet happens at the end of every February. It serves as both a motivational moment for Olivia to step onstage and rally everyone into finishing their step-a-thon challenge strong and—with little silver bowls set at the center of each table—a place for the wealthy and fit to give back to the community and keep the program going. My job is kind of like the senator’s family’s job. We stand behind her during her speech, smiling and looking pretty.
“And don’t forget we’re wearing warrior blue,” she adds.
I frown. “I told you, Olivia. I don’t have anything in ‘warrior blue.’ And I don’t have time”—or money, I think to myself—“to go shopping. Can’t I just wear the red dress you had me get last year? I’ve only worn that one once.” Last year. For this same dull event.
Olivia’s frown deepens into one of disgust. “Red isn’t in the palette, Savvy. The theme colors are warrior blue and victory white. And we have to match. You’ll be onstage for pictures. Don’t you want to look nice in the pictures?”
She cycles faster, concerns over the color of my fabric revving her up. “And I’d be happy to let you borrow one of my dresses. It’s just . . .”
She trails off, and I finish for her. “I know. You’re a size 2, and I’m an elephant.” I turn toward the hallway.
“You wouldn’t have to feel that way if you just let me help you!” she cries out from behind me, over her own speeding, spider-web legs.
For the rest of the evening I finish up some edits for one of my authors and then work through my own manuscript on my computer, reading and rereading with the most critical eye I’ve ever had on it. And yet, by the time I click off the lamp and crawl into bed, I feel certain. Finally certain.
My manuscript is ready.
All except the final scene.
* * *
The next morning, I drop by the ARC room before the coffee is even brewing in the breakroom, and the halls are fresh and polished with the lemony scent of Pine-Sol. I don’t know if I am actually expecting anything miraculous to have happened overnight, but still, the desire to know if my mystery editor has responded is too strong to let me wait.
I won’t write the scene for you. But . . . maybe I can help.
I’m pretty sure at that moment I look like a praying mantis. A praying mantis with enormous eyes bugged out of her head.
He can . . . help.
Me.
To write a kissing scene.
It’s not the words exactly that I’m so focused on but the three periods in the middle. But dot dot dot maybe I can help.
My cheeks begin to grow hot. My forefinger and thumb get a bit slippery as they hold the page.
And how . . . exactly . . . does he want to help?
Surely he doesn’t mean . . .
There’s no way . . .
Absolutely not.
I put the tip of my pen to my lip. Hesitate over how exactly to word my response.
Yes, I’d love that!
I scratch out the words as quickly as I write them. No need to sound desperate. Also, who does that? It’s like screaming, Kiss me! I want you to kiss me! in someone’s face just before they kiss you. Awful.
So . . . what do you mean? Like . . . you want to kiss me? Like we’re in second grade?
Ah! The moment I write my attempt at lighthearted sarcasm I feel an overwhelming surge of embarrassment and cross it out so frantically I rip a corner of the page.
Finally, after much pacing around the room, I find my reply.
I can use all the help I can get. What do you have in mind?
There. And before I can convince myself to blot it out again, I leave.