“What are you writing?” the bartender at Atomic asks me. I’ve been camped out here for the last several hours, damn my 70 year old house and its faulty wiring. As soon as my raise comes through — if my raise comes through this year — I will absolutely have the whole place gutted.
Honestly, I’m getting real sick of losing power every time a squirrel farts outside.
Hrmmm, that might be a line I can use, I think to myself before realizing that Alan is still waiting for an answer.
“Total drivel,” I say. “It’s my Nanowrimo novel, and I just didn’t get a handle on it this year.”
“But you’re finishing?” he asks.
“Hoping to.” I sigh and shake the mostly-empty beer can in front of me, trying to decide whether I want to order another or get out of Alan’s hair. I’m not driving, and there’s still plenty of sunlight left to get he home if I decided to have one, maybe two more. “Give us another love, won’t you?”
“Why do I think your main character is English this year?” Alan gets another beer out of the fridge and cracks it open in front of me. “You know,Katie, you don’t have to finish. Nanowrimo is between you and your brain.”
“Thank you,” but I have to finish this year. I just…I haven’t finished a Nano since Doc died, and I feel like I owe it to him. So yes, as much as I hate this damn disjointed piece of crap, I am going to see it to fifty-thousand come hell or high water.” I take a swig out of the fresh beer, not even bothering to pour it into the glass I now see Alan has placed in front of me. “Also, Welsh.”
“Welsh?” Alan asks.
“My character. Well, one of them. Honestly, I’ve started and stopped so many mini-stories this year, I don’t know who’s doing what half the time. I think they’re all related though and…”
I stop talking, suddenly struck by brilliance. Of course, it didn’t have to be a cohesive narrative. I just had to tie enough threads together. Just like Richard Curtis did in Love Actually.
“Katie, hey. You okay?” I feel a warm, wet hand fold over my own but I don’t dare look at Alan. Instead, my gaze is focused on the early holiday shoppers in the bookstore portion of Atomic Books and Bar…millions of stories literally and figuratively pass through these two rooms every year, and the one thing, the one person they all have in common is the man who is quietly repeating my name in what I can only assume is an attempt to get me to “Snap out of” whatever funk I’d fallen into thinking about my first love.
It works. Shaking my head I turn my attention back to Alan and smile.
“Welcome back. Go anywhere good this time?” he asks with a smile of his own.
“Heathrow,” I murmur, looking up and locking eyes with his.
And that’s when it happens; I see Alan for the first time. Really truly see him. His long beard, his plaid shirt, and the blue backwards baseball cap that covers his bald head. He’s basically a hipster Luke Danes, and suddenly, I am here for it.
Alan slides his hand off of mine, and for the briefest of seconds I am tempted to grab it back. To tell him that this is okay. That it’s been five years since Doc died and that I didn’t lose power earlier…something he would have realized had he been paying attention to the notifications BGE wasn’t sending. I wasn’t here because I’d lost power; I was here because it was the sixth anniversary of the last night I had come close to winning Nano. The next day, Doc was dead in a motorcycle crash, and I’d never written a decent word again.
I’d walked in this afternoon determined to get out of the house and write. Distract myself and cross the finish line no matter how bad the words are. I’d been coming here a lot over the last six years, and it always seems to have been the one place I could write even a paragraph. Every time I came in, Alan always came over to refill my drinks…first coffee, then eventually he built the bar. It was his COVID project, and I watched it come alive over Facebook updates.
I take another glance at the bookstore then back at the surface of the bar. At Alan’s neat black-painted fingernails. He’s a great guy, and if I’m wrong, I could seriously ruin everything.
“Alan, what time do you close tonight?” I ask. If I’m going to pull this off, I need to do it before midnight. Just in case the curse comes through again, and I lose all my mojo.
“I can keep the bar open until 2 AM. But that’s only if you have a safe way of getting home.”
“Do you count as a safe ride?” I ask. I’d gone for neutral, but judging by his reaction, I’d accidentally flipped the switch over to full-blown sex kitten. With a cough, I add, “I mean, I always feel safe…God, I’m a dork and…”
“Yes, you are; and yes if you need me, I’ll take you home.” The door chime dinged in the front and Alan peeked around the door. “I need to go up front,” he told me. “Honor system what you’d like from the bar and we’ll settle up later.”
Okay, I say, eyeing a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. With a chuckle, Alan reaches over and grabs both it and a corkscrew.
“You’ve got that glint. You’ve figured out how to fix the book, didn’t you?” He asks.
I shrug. “Maybe not the whole thing, but I’ve got enough to pull it together. It’s actually been something that’s been festering for a while I guess. It just revelations itself tonight and considering the date…Anyway. Thanks for the wine and the use of the room.”
And he leaves,and I write…and write…and write. The words flow out of me as I pull together the story of a broken girl who stumbles into a bookshop on a rainy day two weeks after her fiance died. She’s met with tremendous kindness from the shop owner who just pulls up a chair and listens as she pours her heart out. And then, he gets up and brings her a book. And the girl begins to notice that he does that a lot; always seeming to get it right.
And that’s how she slowly falls in love with him. And two years on, she thinks she might tell him that she’s got these feelings, but before she can, the world shuts down. And that’s when they really fall in love. Because they’re writing emails and texts to each other. And they’re vaxed and back, and … nothing. No first moves on either side.
Great, I think. “Write what you know is terrible advice to a romance writer.”
I check the word count and see that I only have to write a thousand more words to make it to fifty-Kay. Suddenly, I realize that’s the choice isn’t mine to make. Maybe, if I’m creative enough, it might not even be Alan’s. It could be a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book where tens of readers year after year pick whether or not Kitty and Adam (I’ll change the names later) will end up together or if the magical powers that made Adam such an empath are directly related to the curse that permantly keeps them apart and are only revealed in the epilogue.
Hrmmmm….better not mix beer and wine next year.
But maybe I don’t need tens of readers to decide their fate. Maybe I just need one vote from the right person.
So I create one last chapter and title it: The One Where Alan Writes the Sequel…..
Without giving too much away, why doesn't your employer allow you to move? It's post-2020, unless your role within the day to day operations is fully in-person or it's licensure, I don't think they have a hold on you. It's either licensure or they're being a dick.
If it's licensure, I wouldn't. The risk if you get caught is greater to you than it is to them. Don't do it.
If they're just being a dick, well, let's just say I'm real sorry to hear that your Grandma Sue won't be with us much longer. In fact, that's what you want to talk to your manager about tomorrow... You come in wearing the same clothes as today, just a little more rumpled. You smell like alcohol (sorry, Dry January...ya tried) and your eyes are bloodshot. You explain that you got "the call" last night and your Grandma Sue—
Note, it is imperative that you keep calling her "Grandma Sue." If someone calls you out on having "run out of Grandmas later," you can always go back to "I always said it was 'Grandma Sue,'" and then make up a story about a favored neighbor or maiden aunt... your Grandma Sue doesn't have long to live. You pull out a photo don't be stupid, definitely go deep for the source. Start a fight on your FB Neighbors Page, and then peek someone from the mutuals of the dipshit that says the stupidest thing. Theirs are usually open. (Not personal knowledge. I was a big fan of Catfish back in the day.) Right, so you pull out the photo of a sweet bake-ya cookies lookin' gal and ask for a little time off. Like, a little more than the PTO you have, but maybe you could work something out where like, you're available while she's sleeping (and you hint that she's pretty much always sleeping...which boosts your argument that the moments you get are even more precious), so you could still be available to the company while you're not at doctors' appointments. And we know what doctor's appointments are...interviews!! Why interviews? Because you, my friend, are moving to NYC and finding yourself a brand new job! One that allows you to work where you want to work for people who support you doing it! Now, here's the extraction plan... Don't even start looking for a job for at least a week, week and a half or so. This will come up later. Be attentive but slightly distracted. Poor Grandma Sue. Speaking of: you're family, not the doctor. If anyone tries asking you invasive questions, report them to HR and shut that shit down. You're going through a tough enough time as a family thank you and you can't keep it all straight. But do familiarize yourself with…
I wake up bleary eyed, and pad over to Reddit. The edible of the night before still working through my system.
Wait what? RIP, my inbox. Apparently I gave some advice to a guy last night who wanted to know how he could work from NYC for an employer who wouldn’t let anyone do it. I’d outlined a whole extraction plan starting with a mystery illness, wanting to spend precious time with a dying woman, how to get photos and how to time what when to maximize your efforts. I even advised him on what to call her for plausible deniability that it was his actual grandma and reminded him to take the minimum bereavement. It was snarky and well, brilliant.
And I’m not even a lawyer. I made a mental note to pick up some more of those edibles and enjoy the inbox-read later, when a notification catches my eye.
Because it’s not a Reddit envelope, this one is from my work email. Which is weird because I didn’t think he had this address.
My open it and my blood runs cold. It’s my ex boyfriend. A man I have barely thought of in 7 or 8 years.
Hey, Pippa…
So, nice work on the Reddit thing last night. I promise I haven’t been stalking you. Just, my dad saw your post and asked if it was you because it sounded familiar.
He says hi, by the way. Anyway, I thought about you and looked you up and well, I’m taking a shot on how your company…
I scan a few paragraphs until I get to Dio’s “So anyway…”. He always TL:Drd with that. Went on for another few paragraphs, but usually started wrapping it up.
So, anyway….my dad and I saw the post where you called me a literal son of a devil and we were thinking we need to chat.
No, you’re not in any trouble. He just wants to know how you knew.
If you’re reading this, the big C got me. No, not Claire, the other one. There are so many things I wish I could have done, including you, but I guess when the sand runs out…
I hear the toilet flush and hastily put the note back down on his hospital bed. Moving back to the door, I position myself as if I was just coming in when Tim emerges from the bathroom. He’s not wearing underwear under the gown and I get a full shot of his ass as he crosses back to the bed.
“You know, Mr. McNamara, it’s okay to wear boxers,” I say just as he’s settling back in. He startles and nearly falls back out of the bed. I rush forward to settle him and pull the guard rail back up.
“How much did you see?” He asks, and I raise a sardonic eyebrow. “Right, well. I’m sorry. I, um, didn’t realize you were coming today.”
Tim McNamara is 35 and probably won’t see his 36th birthday. Fuck cancer, am I right? He’s been on the ward for three weeks, and despite a steady stream of friends and family visiting, I’ve never seen or heard him even mention a “Claire.” I want to ask, but there’s a line of professionalism I can’t cross. In fact, even hinting that I saw his butt is kind of pushing it.
“You didn’t think your hospice nurse would show up today?” I ask.
“Weekends are a thing, Nurse Rachet…RACHEL,” he says with a wink. “And before you put it in my chart that I’m having some sort of brain fog, yes I know it’s Tuesday. But, hey, maybe Tuesdays and Wednesdays are ‘your weekend.’”
This he says with air quotes, so I know he’s actually with it. Confusion tends to reign when patients get close to the end, so Tim’s attempts at reassuring me are nice. I check his vitals, update the chart making no mention of the brain fog or the lack of underwear, and am about to send our dear boy into a sweet, sweet, morphine-induced nap when he shakes his head.
“Do we have to do that right now?” He asks, and I pause. “My pain level’s a three.”
It’s not. There were tears coming out of his eyes when I took his temperature (under his tongue if you must know), but I put the needle down. “And if you weren’t lying about it?”
“Eight,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want meds yet. I don’t like being loopy when new people come to visit.”
I don’t like this idea. I don’t know who those new people are, but if he’s an eight, and visiting hours won’t start up again for another 45 minutes, he’s going to be much worse off than if I gave him the shot. “What about a half dose? Bring you down to a five.”
He nods, and I pick the needle up again. As I’m inserting it into his arm, he asks, “Nurse Rachel, how old are you?”
“Twenty-seven,” I say.
“I was 27 once,” he murmurs wistfully. “Twenty-seven was a good year. My ass looked great at 27.” He sobers quickly. “Sorry. That was inappropriate.”
“Highly,” I agree. “But it’s okay. Lots of folks like you are inappropriate.”
“The walking dead?” He asks.
“Assholes,” I deadpan.
Tim’s laugh reverberates around the room, and I get the briefest glance of how gorgeous he must truly have been. Tim McNamara with cancer is handsome, Tim McNamara at 27 and in the prime of health must have been devastating.
As he laughs, the letter slips off the bed and lands on the floor. I pick it up and hand it back to him. There’s no mistaking I read it now. “So, is Claire the new person coming today?”
He sobers and shakes his head. “I haven’t seen Claire since we broke up. Two days after we entered this exciting new chapter in my life. The new person is my grandma. She’s in a home in Michigan, and my Dad went to get her this morning.” Choking back a sob, he adds. “She’s 90, and I’m going to die before she does.”
Housekeeping clearly hasn’t stocked the tissues, so I run to the bathroom and grab a wad of toilet paper. He takes it in one hand and grabs my hand with the other. I sit down on the side of the bed, careful to not jostle him as Tim clutches my hand and cries the most heart wrenching sobs I have ever heard.
“Thank you,” he says when he’s finally done. “I…um…thanks.”
“No problem,” I say. “So, I’m going to assume that you didn’t write that note to your grandma. Want to tell me about the woman who it’s meant for?”
He squeezes my hand again and looks at me hopefully. “Maybe she’d like to tell me about herself.”
“I wish I wasn’t so unloveable” I say, making eye contact with the foam teddy bear my roommate George had put into the latte now in front of me on the table. “It’s just so…so…”
“You’re not unlovable,” George says. “Just because Churchill was a dick doesn’t mean it’s true for all guys.”
“But all I ever seem to attract are dicks. Where are the nice guys? Don’t you have any friends you can set me up with?”
The muscle in his jaw ticks, and I know I’ve gone too far. I’ve suspected for a few months that George has a thing for me. The trouble is, we’ve known each other our entire lives. Our mothers were high school besties, and Mrs. Knightly took me in as a daughter when my own mom died when I was a baby. George has never been a consideration because George can never be a consideration. I can’t risk it because if it didn’t work out…
He puts his coffee down. “Emma.”
“George.”
“Emma,” he says more earnestly.
“George…”. I match his tone, not exactly mocking but doing my absolute best to let him know that this conversation is over. It needs to be, for both our sakes.
But this time, it looks like our boy did not get the hint. Because rather than dropping it like he should, George reaches across the table and to pulls my hand away from my mug. “Emma, I don’t have any friends.”
“Of course you do,” I say. “Plenty of them. What about Will? Or Edmund? Or….”
But the words die on my lips when I see the positively ashen look on George’s face. I guess we were finally having this conversation and like it or not our friendship would be officially over. “How long?” I ask.
I was expecting melancholy, but instead George barks out a laugh. “How long have I loved you? Emma, I don’t know a time when I didn’t.”
