Today’s snip is from one of the first stories I ever posted for the fiction archive. Most of my stories are about one character and his romantic adventures. This story was inspired by the Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan vehicle You’ve Got Mail in which two mortal enemies in real life are friends online and don’t know it. In my story, a celebrity and a random person connect via a typo and neither really knows the other person very well. This scene occurs after he spills the beans about who he really is, many months after they’ve started talking.

This story is entitled You’ve Got Mail and you can read it in it’s entirety here:

His finger hovered over the mouse button. If he pressed ‘send’, their friendship changed forever. Immediately. He hoped it wouldn’t be for the worse. He closed his eyes and pressed send. And then logged out and backed away.

For all his big talk, he was the one freaking out. His heart was beating so fast he thought it might be trying to bust its way out of his chest. He was sweating and he was restless. He couldn’t sit there and wait for her response. He went downstairs and tried to get his mind off of his email and to resist the urge to check incessantly for a response.

He watched half of several shows, not paying any attention to anything, until he’d tortured himself long enough and went back upstairs and logged in.

Subject: I’ll be honest 

I totally had a freak out minute right here in my apartment. Then I thought you were lying and I felt stupid. Then I looked at your email address and your birthday and unless you’re really committed to this lie and have been hanging on to it for almost a year…

Hi. : )

How do you feel? Still nervous?

Shannon

Subject: Re: I’ll be honest

After all that ‘I don’t want things to change, and promise you won’t freak out and don’t fawn’ and stuff like that… I totally freaked out. I logged out and ran downstairs.

Hi. : )

Thank you for being here. You’ve helped me more than you know, over the last year.

I feel okay, now. Like a load off my back. And I don’t feel like a fraud anymore.

There’s some stuff you might find out, because I might tell you. Please keep it to yourself. Promise?

How do you feel? Weird? Anything?

Joshua

Subject: Re:Re: I’ll be honest 

You’re welcome. It’s been my pleasure to be here. You’ve been here for me too.

Of course, I wouldn’t disclose anything you tell me.

I feel okay. I’m surprised, but not. In the back of my mind I sort of figured something was up, because you were so secretive. You have been to Portland. I’ve seen you, here. :)

Shannon

Subject: Re: Re: Re: I’ll be honest 

Yeah, I know. I just don’t remember it much. We didn’t really spend a lot of time in each city when we toured. We get In, do some interviews, do the show, have a party, pull out.

Can I tell you something else?

Joshua

Subject: I don’t know

If I can take more news. What?

Shannon

Subject: Re: I don’t know 

I’m really selfish, about you. I shouldn’t be, but I am. I don’t want to share you. Especially since you know, now. I might be leaning on you even heavier, now. That’s not fair to you and I shouldn’t, but you ‘get me’ and that’s hard for me to find.

When you said you had a date, I wasn’t concerned with you having a good time. I was worried he would take you away from me. I know I didn’t cause your bad date but I wasn’t sympathetic when he turned out to be a tool.

If you still want to talk about him, I’m here.

Joshua

Subject: I never… 

.. want to talk about Andy, ever again. That’s over. It’s going to be awhile before I go out again. When I’d rather sit home and email random guy from LA instead of being out with a handsome guy, that’s just not fair to the handsome guy.

I appreciate your honesty. And if I may return some, it took me a long time to ask if you dated because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to think about some girl making demands on your time and making it so we couldn’t talk.

I can’t deal with that right now. I need you. So, I’m kinda selfish about you, too.

Schmaltzy,

Shannon

He grinned a stupid grin and looked around the room to make sure no one could see it. He heaved a giant sigh of relief and wilted, laying back on the bed. He felt light as a feather and so different. Today was no deja vu. He’d never lived this day before.

Thanks for dropping in!

“Do you ever think about where you’ll be in the future? Like years from now, I mean.”

JC looked up from the People magazine he was reading, left by some other patron before him. He hadn’t paid attention to pop culture in so long, he didn’t know who any of the people were. Like, who was Justin Beiber? And what was Twilight?

“Years from now?” He shook his head, suppressing a laugh and went back to his magazine. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, looking up again. He closed the magazine and tossed it back onto the pile he took it from. “I had other goals for this time in my life, the time I’m living right now. I let myself down. I let everyone down. Why get my hopes up? Why dream, when something could happen and snatch it away from you?”

“Maybe so you have something to hang onto? How do you make it through life with no dreams?”

“Easy. I live every day as it comes and I don’t plan on tomorrow. If I think about tomorrow, I have to think about the next day, and the day after that, and you know what? Thinking about day after day after day of nothing is pretty fucking depressing.”

Phee squirmed and bit down on her lip. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable. She was just so unrealistically optimistic that it made him want to scream.

“Have you ever failed at anything? Have you ever fucked anyone over? Have you ever destroyed someone’s life? I’m guessing no.”

She shook her head, confirming his assumption.

“Don’t try it. It makes you bitter and hopeless. I’m sorry I don’t live in the same world you do, where shacking up with some guy that looks like your dead boyfriend, or coddling a grown ass woman with kids who can’t clean up her own goddamn house makes you feel better about your life, but I don’t. I don’t live in that world.”

He got up, kicking his chair back in his tantrum and headed for the machines. They ought to be done washing in a few minutes and he needed something to distract him from the sensation of Phee staring him down from across the room.

I shouldn’t have said that.

He could just walk back over to her and say that. He was thinking about doing it, but his feet weren’t moving. Instead, he leaned against the table used to fold laundry, his hands shoved in his pockets. He saw himself in the reflection of the machine in front of him. His hair was puffy and standing straight up, despite the great cut from the night before. His cheeks were sunken, his shoulders slight. His face bore a sullen, woeful expression.

He turned away from the vision. The sight of his own reflection made him sick. And angry. He was such a far cry from the man he used to be.

Phee didn’t say anything else to him at the Laundromat. She found reasons to not be near him or say anything to him. She folded her laundry across the room from him, packed it neatly into the bag she had brought and waited for him to finish a few minutes later. They walked out of the Laundromat and the several blocks back to the hotel in complete silence.

At her room, she was digging into the boxes under the desk, again. Those seemed to be reserved for Davey’s things. She pulled out a shoe box and opened it, smiling at the contents. There were miscellaneous things in there, from what JC could see—a watch, a necklace, ticket stubs. And pictures. She flipped through them for a few seconds and pulled out a few, then spoke to him for the first time in hours.

“This is him,” she said softly, laying the photos on the desk, one by one. Davey was a thin, wiry man. Tall. In one of the photos, he was squinting into the sun, a half smile on his face. He looked like he was laughing. In another, he wasn’t smiling at all. He seemed serious, pensive, troubled. His eyes were blue and he had dark hair and pronounced chiseled features. He had been a good looking man.

“Davey was tall like you. Dark hair and light eyes like you. You both have high cheek bones and great, classic noses. You’re both smart, you like to read and stuff. You’re both way too serious for your own good.”

She chuckled for a moment but then the smile slid from her face. “But one thing Davey wasn’t, was cruel. He wasn’t a victim. He never had the mentality that whatever happened to him, just happened. He went after things. He created opportunities for himself.

“You probably think he was a loser but Davey was an even bigger dreamer than I am. He wanted to be more than a ratty kid from the south side with nothing going for him.  Maybe we didn’t have a place to live but he always took care of us and we had plans. Davey died trying to make me happy. I’ll never forget that.”

She slapped a hand onto the desk, sliding the photos off of its surface and back into the box. “All you’ve done so far is stick your dick in me and you think you have the right to hurt my feelings and say whatever comes to your mind because you’re mad at yourself. Maybe it’s not the Taj Mahal and it’s nowhere near your old life, but you could still be sitting on that fucking park bench wondering where your next meal is coming from and freezing your balls off.”

Phee slid the cover back onto the box and set it back inside the larger box she had pulled it from, then slid the that box back under the desk. She turned then and flounced to the kitchen area, opened the refrigerator, stared into it and slammed it closed.

She stood in front of the refrigerator, facing the wall. Only slightly did she turn her head when she said, “You don’t have to go. I want you to stay, but don’t be an asshole. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not an asshole.”

JC nodded but she didn’t see it. After a few seconds she turned and walked around him. “I need to go to the store. I’ll be back.”

“I’ll go,” he said quickly. “What do you need? I’ll go.”

She rolled her eyes while shoving her arms into the sleeves of her coat. “No. I don’t—look, I will be right back. Sit here and watch TV or read or… whatever.” She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

“Phoenix.” She stopped, her arm in mid-reach for the doorknob. He knew that would get her attention. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m really sorry. I don’t mean to disrespect you. I’m sorry for being an asshole. I’m grateful for how nice you’ve been to me and I suck for saying that to you. I’ll go to the store for you. Or with you, if you want. I owe you.”

She hadn’t turned around, but she hadn’t moved yet, either. A few seconds passed. JC heard the neighbors upstairs watching TV. The volume was up so loud, he could tell what show they were watching.

“I’m not sending you to the store. You’ll never get all the right stuff. If you’re coming, let’s go.”

JC smiled and dove for his bag, grabbed his wallet and followed her out the door. The return of her attitude, he hoped, meant he was forgiven.

The entire story can be read at my fiction archive here. 

He grunted as he moved around, trying to find a comfortable position. “I have to wear this for the rest of the game?”
“Yep! It’s your turn.”
“Hmmmm,” he mused, settling for laying across the bed, ankles crossed. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“You would ask for truth.”
“Yeah cause there’s no way I’m putting on my old band uniform.”
He laughed. “We could make a bad porn movie.”
I giggled, wiggling my brows at him. “Don’t tempt me. Go. Ask me something.”
“Alright. Why the hell am I wearing this get-up right now? Are you enjoying this?”
“Yeah, I’m enjoying this right now.”
“What, humiliating me?” He was pulling at the pants again, trying to keep the fabric from plastering itself to his skin. It wasn’t working.
“I’m not trying to humiliate you. Let’s say that you’re fulfilling a fantasy.”
His head tipped up until the confusion in his eyes met the glimmer in mine. He sat up, paying full attention, now. “Tell me.”
I grinned, my cheeks glowing red and my pulse pounding. I reached for a button on the shirt and popped it open, and then the next one and the next until his chest was exposed- manly pectorals and a flat belly. My heart beat twice as loud in my ears.
“I sort of used to wonder what it was like to be with you back then. And uh… I thought that maybe we could…”
My voice trailed off as my fingers took over, loosening the belt and slipping my hand beneath the band of the pants. I dipped my head to his lips and kissed him deeply. After a few moments, he pulled back.
“My turn.”
I eyed him while my fingers danced along his length. “Truth or dare.”

*~*

His palm shredded the thin sheet of paper as he crumpled it and tossed it against the wall. It ricocheted and rolled toward him, the news coming back around again.

She couldn’t say to my face that she was pregnant?

He was hot, then cold; dizzy, then painfully lucid. He had to sit down.

The edge of the couch just barely caught him as his knees gave out. He sprawled along the cushions, rubbing his eyes, raking his fingers through his hair, trying to stop the avalanche of thoughts crashing through his mind.

Maybe she’s just late. Maybe she’s stressed out. Maybe— He sat up, his eyes wide. Maybe the baby isn’t mine.

The front door opened and then closed. Timid footsteps crept down the hallway and then a head of dark hair appeared around the corner.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

“Hey. Got your note.”

“I see.” She eyed the tightly coiled ball lying in front of the entertainment center and, as if it was against her better judgment, edged into the room. “So… wanna talk?”

“Why don’t you write me another note?” he sneered. “Leave it where I can find it and then disappear for a few hours.”

She blanched, wringing her hands so tightly that the knuckles were a blinding white. “So you’re mad?”

A haughty chuckle escaped his lips. “Tell me something, Jules. Is this baby mine?”

“What the—“ Her eyes narrowed and she moved further into the room. “What did you just ask me?”

“You heard me. Is this baby mine?”

In the next moment, she had lunged across the room and gripped his neck in both hands. Screaming and crying and thrashing, the two were a ball of anger for several minutes until he had flipped them over, his hands pinning her arms down so her back pressed into the couch cushions.

He was panting, sweat beading above his brow. “Are you done?”

“Let. Go!” She grunted, kicking her legs in one last tantrum.

“Calm down and I will.”

“Fine. I’m done!”  He released her, sitting back but eyeing her closely. “I can’t believe you asked me that.”

“I can’t believe you left me a note like that. Why else would you not tell me to my face that you’re pregnant?”

“Maybe I thought you’d be angry, like you are right now.”

He glared at her, to which she glared back. “Spare me the melodramatics, Julia. You know why I’m mad.”

She sniffled and sat up, stifling a cough.

“You okay?”

“You weren’t concerned when you had me pinned to the couch. Don’t feign concern now.”

He sighed. Then closed his eyes. Then took a long, deep breath.  “Truce, okay? I’m concerned. Did you go to the doctor?”

“Yeah,” she answered quietly. “And it was positive. He says I’m about eight weeks along.”

Quickly, he did the math in his head. That would have been… and did we… Oh, yeah. Mardi Gras. He grinned without meaning to.

“Are you mad at me? I mean, what do you want to do?”

“Honestly?” He gently pulled her toward him. She fit so nicely, as she always had, in the crook of his arm. He kissed the top of her head and gave her still-flat belly a pat. “Right now I just want us to worry about having a healthy baby.”

“That’s what I want, too.”

Nine months later…

“One more push, Julia. One more.”

“I caaaaaaaaaaaan’t!” She wailed, but pushed anyway. Moments later, a beautiful sound—the ear piercing scream of a newborn filled the room.

His grin was bright and proud and never ending as he watched the doctors perform the routine tasks of delivery. That was, until he got a good look at the bouncing baby boy.

The blonde hair. The brown eyes.

He glanced at Julia, who seemed deliriously happy, smiling and cooing at the wiggling creature in her arms.

Julia dyed her hair dark, but she wasn’t blonde. And she had blue eyes. And maybe he was just newly born, but that baby didn’t look anything like him.

His heart sank as he backed out of the room. He’d spent months preparing for this baby and now the fear that it wasn’t his had resurfaced.

He appeared in the opening to Julia’s room and lightly tapped against the doorframe. The baby was dozing in a bassinette next to the bed and Julia, who had been dozing herself, stirred at the sound.

“Hey,” she said, smiling and beckoning him closer with a nod of her head. “Did you see the baby?”

He stepped into the room, but not very far. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Isn’t he beautiful?”

He nodded. “Yep. Good looking kid.”

Her smile froze and then disappeared. “What’s wrong with you?”

He closed his eyes, shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall. “How dumb do you think I am, Julia?” He shook his head then nodded toward the sleeping child. “That is not my son and you know it.”

“JC…I mean, I don’t understand…what…”

“I want a blood test,” he said. And then turned around and walked out of the room.

He almost didn’t notice the wide, official looking envelope in the stack of mail lying near the front door. He flipped it over, broke the seal and withdrew the single piece of paper revealing the results of the blood test. He stared at the page for a few moments, then tucked it back into the envelope.

The next day, Julia came to pick up the last of her boxes.  “Mail,” he said simply, handing the envelope to her. Her eyes scanned the page and eventually she looked up at up at him.

“I’m sorry I made you hate me.”

He inhaled. Then exhaled, then pulled her into his arms and gave her one last, long hug. “I don’t hate you. I loved you. All the way until yesterday.”

Today’s snip is from the second story I wrote entitled A Few More Points. Read the story in its entirety here or here. Enjoy!

If she wasn’t drunk, she wouldn’t have done this. Thank goodness she was drunk

I peel off my clothing, doing a little dance of joy as soon as I can take the bra off, and slip on the shorts and t-shirt he gave me. It’s a Led Zepplin tee. I make rock horns in the mirror at myself, then gather my clothes together and head out.

He rolls over when he hears the door open. “Oh. Leah. That was you, the whole time? I didn’t recognize you under all that gunk.”

“Ha ha,” I say, but I smile and drop my pile of clothes on the side of the bed and crawl back to my spot. “Thank you for the clothes. I like this shirt.”

“Keep it,” he says. “What do you want to watch?” He’s still flipping through the cable channels. He probably has every channel ever invented, and there was still nothing on TV.

“I don’t care.”

“A Christmas Story it is, then!” He gets up, grabs a blanket from a chair and comes back to the bed and spreads it over the both of us, then snuggles down against the pillows and, via some button or switch somewhere, turns the lights down.

So I’m taking inventory: I am warm. I am comfortable. I have spent a night laughing and playing games with JC. I am, for all intents and purposes, in bed with him. Under a blanket. Watching a movie. And… did he just scoot up against me and toss his arm over me? Score.

Ralphie is begging his mother for a Red Ryder BB Gun, and she’s saying no, because he’ll shoot his eye out. Other than quoting the famous line, he doesn’t say anything. He lies next to me, snuggled up against me, his arm heavy and warm and comfortable across my belly. I feel his chest rise and fall and his breaths on my arm. The hairs stand up on end and I fight a shiver.

I wonder at what point in the past I could have done this. Just shown up out of the blue to hang out with him, and he’d let me in and basically act like some psycho chick didn’t invade his house. Maybe he was just tired enough or just lonely enough or just curious enough. Maybe I was just drunk enough or just funny enough. Maybe it was all of the above.  Who knows, and because I’m kind of proud of myself for making the effort tonight, I decide that there must have been some perfect aligning of the stars for this to happen.

“So you’re not going home for Christmas?” He sounds so sleepy-his voice is like gravel. The rumble vibrates through my body as he speaks.

I shake my head. “Here is home. When I left, everyone basically said ‘see ya when you fail and have to crawl back’. I haven’t been back since.”

“Wow. That sucks.”

“It did. But now I don’t really think about it. I’m not doing what I came out here to do, but I’m making it.” Close enough. I’m a Buyer for a group of Department Stores. It’s sort of modeling. I just dress up other people in my head and buy what looks good on them. And as fake as I have to be to those bitches, there’s plenty of acting.

“Good. If you’re happy doing what you’re doing…” He pauses to yawn and shift his body. One of his legs wraps around mine. I swear I am going to explode. “… then you should keep doing that. That’s what I believe in.”

“Yep. So you’re flying to Florida tomorrow?” He nods. “Excited?” He nods again. Witty conversationalist. “Your family seems close. That must be nice.”

“Mmmhmm,” he answers. “It is. They’re supportive. As long as I’m happy.”

“And are you?” It seemed like a logical question to ask, but he heaves such a long, hard sigh that I’m worried I offended him.

“For the most part.”

“Like 99.9 percent happy? That’s pretty good.”

“Well 99.9 is technically 100. I’d go with a more arguable 93.7.”

I laugh. “So what would fill in the other… what…six… point… fuck I can’t do math at this time of the morning.”

“I’m not looking for 100 percent. I think if you don’t know pain, you don’t know love. If you never see rain, you’re never thankful for the sun. 100 percent is a fallacy but… if I could get a couple more points, I’d consider myself completely happy. Happy enough.”

“So, but… you didn’t answer the question. What would bring a couple more points for you?”

He shrugs. I don’t think it’s that he doesn’t know. It’s that he doesn’t want to tell me. And that’s okay.

Thanks for stopping by!  

This scene is from Chapter 1. My main characters have just returned from their anniversary dinner to find something not quite right about the house. They’re in the car, waiting for the police to arrive and check it out.  This story is in progress over at the NF Archive.

“Happy Anniversary,” he whispers. They are face to face, turned toward one another, as close as they can be with the center console between them.

“Happy Anniversary, baby. I love you.”

“Still?”

Serena laughs. “Still. Even more than the day I married you.”

“That was a good day, huh?”

She nods. “A really good day. But today is even better. Know why?”

He shakes his head. “Why?”

“Because,” she whispers, leaning toward him again. Her lips press into his. He closes his eyes and savors the moment. “Because there’s three of us now. We’re like… a little family.”

He smiles, mostly to hold back that one errant tear that threatens. “That’s amazing to me. You know that? You’re amazing. You’re… growing a little someone in there.”

“Yeah. And everything is going to turn out fine. Just fine. You’ll see.”

“I know. I’m just…”

“Concerned. You said that already.”

“Whatever, Serena.” He kisses her again and then pulls back. “You taste like steak sauce.”

She laughs, ready to throw a jab back at him when the driveway behind them erupts into a blaze of flashing blue lights.  ”Saved by the men in blue,” she says, opening her door and stepping out of the car.

They meet the officers in the driveway, squinting into the flashing lights. The radios clipped to their shirts send squawks of unintelligible noise into the otherwise quiet neighborhood. Down the street, darkened porches light up and front doors ease open. Nosy neighbors, wondering what’s going on at that pop singer guy’s house.

“Another break-in, sir?”

JC nods as he begins to direct the officers through the garage toward the door. Serena follows close behind. They ask JC and Serena to wait while they enter the house and walk through.  A few minutes later, they come back to the garage and open the door wide.

“There’s a pretty big mess. Someone was definitely here. Let’s walk through and see if you notice anything missing,” says the shorter officer, who whips out a notepad and begins taking notes, then grabs his two way communicator and chirps into it. ”Need a CSI unit at one-one-seven-zero-six Lookout Mountain Road, West Hollywood. Got a four-fifty-nine, possible four-eight-four.”

The dispatcher sends something back, to which the officer nods.

JC and Serena glance at each other. Serena’s eyes are wide-someone really was in their house. What if they’d been home?

JC leads the officers into the house but Serena is not far behind, her hand clasped in his. Once they reach the landing of the main floor, one 360 degree turn reveals that every room was touched. The den is a mess of pillows and magazines tossed around, couch and tables overturned, broken glass ground into the carpet. Photos have been removed from their frames and ripped in two-but not all of them. Just the ones with JC and Serena. Their wedding photo, once housed in a gilded silver frame and mounted above the fireplace is in shreds on the floor of the living room.  Several pieces look as if they have been punctured. Serena recognizes the shape of a stiletto heel.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator door stands wide open, the contents appearing to have been rifled through. An empty bottle of vintage, expensive wine sits in the sink.

“Anything seem missing, here?” JC and Serena, in full shock, only shake their heads. They follow the officers up the steps. Serena’s old office, abandoned since the move to Wilshire Boulevard, is in the same state she left it in. The guest rooms are also untouched.

“Looks like they ran out of steam, maybe,” remarked the taller officer, his pen moving quickly across the page. “We’ve got a crime scene unit on the way. They’ll need to take pictures, so don’t move anything. Shall we?” He points to the third floor. After a deep breath, they keep climbing.

Serena hopes the bedroom hasn’t been sullied, but those hopes are dashed once they step inside.  JC’s jaw falls open as he takes in the damage-every drawer in each of their bureaus is open, but only Serena’s are empty.  Piles of her lingerie, socks, and t-shirts litter the floor.  Her jewelry case-a three feet tall chest with glass doors and felt-lined drawers, is empty and laying on it’s side in the middle of the floor.

“My jewelry is gone!” Serena gasps, on the verge of tears as her eyes crawl the floor, looking for anything that might have been left behind. There is nothing. Not even the pieces that obviously had no monetary value, but meant the most to her-gone. She feels faint.  “I can’t believe this!”

She marches toward the closet and is faced with more of the same-her purses, shoes, dresses, slacks, blouses, all are sitting on the floor of the closet. JC’s side is perfect. Through the closet and into the bathroom, it is the same story. The room reeks, since her bottles of perfume have been smashed into the sink. Her cosmetics, her mirror, her hair tools… everything has been cast from the counter and onto the floor. JC’s side is perfect; his aftershave, lotion, cologne, electric toothbrush and hair brush sitting exactly where he’d left them that morning.

“Aside from the jewelry, did you have any other valuables? Computers, music players, cell phones, instruments, the like? Looks like all of the TVs and the stereo equipment made it.”

Serena glances at JC, her eyes wide. “The studio,” they say in unison, and fly down the stairs again. JC doesn’t do much work out of the house anymore, but he still has millions of dollars in equipment and unreleased songs of immeasurable value housed in a small room in the basement of the house.

The door to the studio, which is almost always locked, has been forced open with something that violently bent the door frame. The officers take note and start giving orders to the crime scene unit that has just arrived. The snapsnapsnap of photos being taken add to the squawk of radio gibberish and side conversation of the officers and technicians.

JC stands in the middle of his studio, shaking his head. The equipment and instruments sit where he left them last. The music-a tall stack of unmarked CDs that he usually leaves in the studio-is gone.  He heaves a sigh and drags a hand down his face.

“Anything missing here, sir?”

JC nods. “Yeah. Some CD’s. My music. They took my music.” There are backups in the computer, which seems intact, but that doesn’t ease any worries about his unfinished songs being leaked. “This is a nightmare.”

“Is that it? Some CD’s?”

He sighs, bracing both hands against the console. Breathe, he tells himself. “Those CD’s are unreleased songs. My music is… it’s my life. They’re very important to me.” He steadies himself and stands. “My wife’s jewelry and my music. We want them back.”

As to of this sparked a longer story… nope. It was all I could do to get these words out. I don’t particularly have a connection with the person in the photo that I chose. It was difficult to determine, story wise, what he was doing and why. At first I wanted him to be a bit of a peeping Tom but as I started editing, the story started changing, and now he’s seen something disturbing.

Here is the photo:

And here is my submission:

I remember the day I met Christine. It was cold, the middle of an unbearable cold snap. She walked in with long, confident strides. Short skirt. Silk blouse. She wanted to be noticed, so I obliged.

She said she was interested in leasing a car. Luxury—a Benz or Merc or Audi. Something foreign. I said I was interested in her number. She laughed, tipping her head back a little, giving me a great show of straight white teeth and pink tongue. It wasn’t an oh please, you peon’ laugh, though. Her laugh was like the tinkle of a bell. A sweet sound. I was hooked.

I snagged her number from her lease application and even though we aren’t supposed to do that, I started calling her once a week.  I was gently persistent. I’d ask her to meet me for a cup of coffee, some sushi, a drink. A walk. A drive. She always said no. Until she said yes.

One night, she said yes, she’d love a drink. She’d had a rough day and could use a break. I jumped at the chance, knowing I wasn’t going to get another one.

Weird thing was, Christine kept saying yes after that first drink. We kept meeting up for coffee or sushi or for drinks or for a walk. She told hilarious stories about working at the bank. The best thing we had in common was firsthand experience in how eccentric and stupid rich people could be.

“You want to roll your funds to this account? The one with all the fees and the fat commission for me, when this other account could give you the same thing? No problem,” she’d say, then laugh and buy us a round. “Courtesy of the fat fucks on Seventh Ave.”

After a few months, it was just understood that we’d get together a few nights a week. Always drinks. Sometimes dinner. Sometimes sex. Actually, a lot of times, sex. We always went to her place, because mine is a dump studio out in Long Island City. I got pretty comfortable in her high dollar Manhattan condo. I might have started dreaming about falling in love with her and living there and spending every night trading stories about the weird, bored, filthy rich.

And then one day…

It was a Friday night. Mid summer.  I was expecting her to meet me at Geisha for drinks and Sushi, but it was an hour past our usual rendezvous time and Christine was a no show.  Over an hour later, I left and headed to her place.

When I got there, I saw her car in the lot, and could see her living room lamp from the street, but she didn’t answer the buzzer. She didn’t answer the phone. So I did something a little eccentric and weird—I scaled the building, using the fire escapes. And when I got to her floor, I stepped onto her balcony and peered into her living room window.

What I saw… I wish I could unsee.

It is just barely dawn when I leave my house every morning. The sun is but a sliver of light on the horizon. The grass is wet with dew and the air smells fresh and clean, not stale and full of the fumes of everyday life as in the afternoon. The moments just before sunrise are my favorite time, really. Before me stretches an entire day with which to play and perfect. It cannot and will not be repeated, but heaped upon the other days it is part of a set. How today goes might sway my week one way or another.

Just before sunrise this morning, I got in my car and started it up and set my music to play. Oddly, I need it loud and thumping, crashing through the quiet. As I point the nose of my Camry through middle and upper class neighborhoods, my left foot taps and my head bobs in time with the heavy rhythm and strong lyrics of Ludacris, Eminem, Kanye West and Jay-Z. My daily journey is mostly side streets and one long jaunt where the homes are worth millions, set back from a winding road lined with trees already full with the bursts of red, orange and yellow that scream the arrival of autumn.

This time of year finds me despondent and reflective. Contrary to popular belief, it gets cold here in the south. The air takes on a chill during the fall, causing an intense craving for salted hot chocolate and apple cider and candles that smell like pumpkin and vanilla. Wreaths of dried leaves adorn doorways; cartoon witches and goblins hang in windows. And everywhere, it seems, people are coupling up, walking hand in hand through drifts of fallen leaves.  Something about autumn makes me take particular note of cute and cozy groupings of two. They bring my mind to thoughts of You.

Not You, singularly. You, collectively. The One(s) That Got Away.

I have reached an age at which there is a threat of possibility that I may never walk hand in hand with someone, or glance up — or over– at him with a twinkle in my eye and a subtle smile on my lips. Memories of relationships past to come to mind and the thought creeps in alongside them: was there One That Got Away? Was there more than one? Was I too picky or obstinate? Not understanding? Too much of a prude? Not enough of a prude? Was the timing wrong? Was I in the wrong place at the right time or vice versa?

Or were we just not ready? Or not right for each other? Or just… not right?

What may bother me the most is not that You aren’t a part of my life anymore.  It isn’t that I don’t see  Your smile and hear Your laugh or have intimate moments with You to look forward to.

It’s the Unknown. I have no way of knowing if there was something real between us. If, had we given it more time and effort, it could have turned into something great; if lust would have given way to a deep, comforting, fulfilling love. I have only my thoughts to keep me company, my imagination to fill in the blanks of what might have been. I never consider the alternative–that we might drive each other mad and run in opposite directions and crave an expedient and forever end to us.

This is heavy thinking for such an early time, just before sunrise, while the world is waking up. I suppose I allow it because deep thoughts of people who have blown into and out of my life wake me up. In a strange way, they give me a goal– to take what happens today to heart, because I don’t know what tomorrow might bring and if, two years from now, I might be driving down the road thinking of the people I know and love today as the One(s) That Got Away.

This is from All I Wanna Do, a novel length serial about the ultimate fan girl fantasy– meeting, dating, and falling in love with a member of the band… except that it’s not as glamorous as one might imagine.  In this scene, my lovebirds have had their biggest blowout yet and Serena has temporarily moved out, expecting JC to come after her. But he doesn’t and now she’s stuck. This conversation is between her and his brother:

“We weren’t really talking about kids. Not seriously, anyway.”

I tried not to remember JC’s flippant comments during our vacation about our girls and boys and my futile attempts to stop picturing them in my head-bright blue eyes, mops of thick brown curls, pretty voices. Sweet little people. Like their dad. Who was I kidding? Of course I wanted that with him.

“I’m sure everyone’s asking how you’re doing and stuff. But I haven’t. So how are you?”

“Life sucks right now, to be honest.”  I shoveled a mouthful of omelet into my mouth but I couldn’t even taste it. I had no appetite since there was no one to pick on my appetite, anymore.

“Yeah.  The house is different without you. You know I didn’t mean what I said, right? About moving out?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” I said, my eyes  flicking up at his. “Actually, I was pretty sure you meant it. And it was okay to mean it. It wasn’t fair to turn everything upside down, for me. It was about more than what you said, though. I’m just having a hard time adjusting and with JC not here… and he wasn’t even home before he told me he was leaving again. I just… I thought maybe…”

“You know what?”  Tyler leaned forward, his hands tightly clasped in front of him. He was rarely serious, but this was one of those rare times when there was no impish smile or glint to his eye.

“You’re a smart girl, Serena. Your brain is big, and you make sure everyone knows it. You’re sensible and practical and down to earth and real. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and you’re real independent and self-sufficient and that’s all well and good, but sometimes it’s not about being independent and proving that you don’t need help and you don’t need anyone. Sometimes it takes being a strong person to realize that while you can do everything yourself and be a lone ranger, it’s not half as meaningful as building something with someone else.”

“I know that and I miss building with him, but I-”

“You want it your way or not at all.”

“And so does he,” I shot back. “And I don’t know what his hurry is, but the harder he pushes me, the less I want it his way. He runs over me with his opinions and his plans and when I was there, in his house with nothing that’s mine but the clothes on my back, I just felt… trapped by everything he is.”

He nodded slowly as he listened. After a few beats of silence, he asked,  ”So, how do you feel right now? Any better than trapped? Things looking up for you, living in Lara’s guest bedroom?”

“Okay. That’s enough. I hear you. I do. I just. I gotta figure this out.”

I stabbed the fork into the not even half-eaten omelet and slid out of the booth.

“Well, you better figure it out fast. He leaves tomorrow.”

The image of rain has been rolling around in my head for quite a while. I was trying to figure out if it was supposed to be metaphoric or symbolic, but it just wasn’t coming to me. I guess I was trying too hard, because last night I cued up Youtube and listened to the sound of rain (my writing soundtrack lately) and started writing. Still not quite what I was going for, but it has been haunting me for a long time, so maybe now it’ll leave me alone!

Check it — The Nature Show, The Rain Dance:

The day dawns grey with full, heavy raindrops that beat against the window pane in steady rhythm.  The music of nature calls to him in his sleep, the sound wrestling him from deep, satisfying slumber. Two crystal clear pools of blue focus on the droplets that build, join, cascade down the outside of the patio doors. They pond on the deck and seep through the cracks to the pavement below.

He yawns quietly, stretches his arms and the muscles across his back and shoulders. He scissors his legs between crisp sheets before sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor. His toes dig into the carpet and he yawns again, trying to muster the strength to stand.

The mood and style of the day is comfort and warmth. It’s just going to be that kind of day. He slips on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and pads out of the bedroom.

He bounds down the stairs, not toward the movement in the kitchen or the scent of coffee, but to the living room where the sheets of rain and the dark sky have created a cave-like atmosphere. He heads for the window and pokes a finger between the curtains to gaze out at the weather. The raindrops splash into the pool and bounce back. A never-ending river swirls down the drains in the concrete.

He steps away from the window and takes up his favorite spot, a well-worn corner of the couch. The cushions have a permanent indentation from where he has sat, day in and day out, for over ten years. There is mumbling about replacing the couch (or at least the cushion), but he ignores it. He has molded and shaped this corner to his liking.

He stretches out, his legs crossed at the ankles, feet resting on the matching ottoman. He doesn’t turn on a lamp or the TV. He’s watching the Nature Show. Listening to the Rain Dance.

“Hey. You’re up early.”

Her voice is gentle, feminine and melodic, beautifully lilting with just enough grit underneath to send his heartbeat into a tail spin. He has always loved the sound of her voice. She sits on the edge of the couch and slides an arm around his shoulder. She drops a kiss on the top of his head. She smells like peaches.

“Rain woke me up,” he replies, nodding toward the window. The view is a blur.

The house groans as the air kicks on and a breeze wafts through the room. She deserts him, in search of the temperature gauge and when she comes back, she doesn’t sit next to him.  She moves in front of the fire place and in minutes, the room is lit by the dim glow of flames.

His eyes never leave her full, round backside as she passes, yet again. He grins and taps his appreciation. She giggles and playfully smacks him back.

When she returns, she holds a super-size serving of coffee, still so hot that a tendril of steam licks the lip of the ceramic mug. In her other hand is a saucer bearing a single pancake, doused with butter and sprinkled with powdered sugar.  A candle stands in the middle, lit and glowing and flickering in the air.

He smiles and sits up. She loves doing this kind of thing, on this kind of day. He closes his eyes and blows out the candle, takes the saucer and the mug from her and gestures for her to sit with him. He savours the bold taste of coffee, the sweet taste of the pancake and the comfortable feeling of her smashed up against him.

“Did you make a wish?”

“Didn’t have to. They’ve all come true.”

He can’t see her face, but he feels her smiling. “Happy Birthday,” she whispers. “Sorry it’s so gloomy.”

He sets the empty saucer on the end table next to him and drops an arm around her. She curls into him, where she fits perfectly. Her arm slides across his belly; her cheek rests over his heart.

“It’s actually not so bad,” he says, sipping his coffee, watching the Nature Show. Listening to the Rain Dance.