10

Malik
God, I’m an idiot.
That’s the thought that’s been swirling around my head all day. And it’s true. I didn’t want to hold Erin back by forcing her to write for me, but I hurt her, and I didn’t want that. Because I want her.
I want to be with her, but I don’t know how to express something that’s that deep or real when it’s barely been any time at all. It feels too fast, though that’s what happened to my dad with my mom. He always said that it was love at first sight with her, and that he knew that he was going to marry her within days.
Examining my feelings about Erin, I feel it. It should be impossible, but there’s a bone-deep knowledge that she is it for me.
Too bad I’ve already fucked it up, even though it was the right thing to do.
It’s late in the evening, but I pull out my phone and dial the number for my dad’s facility. I need to hear his voice, even though he probably won’t even know that it’s me.
One of the nurses answers. “Hello?”
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “This is Malik Ellis.”
“Hey, Mr. Ellis, good to hear from you. How can I help you?”
I sigh. “I know it’s late, but if my father’s awake, I was wondering if I could speak to him?”
“I can see if he’s awake.”
“How’s he doing?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line that makes my heart skip a beat. “He’s all right,” the nurse says. “Good days and bad days. But on the whole he seems comfortable and happy.”
“Good.” I try to keep the emotion from cracking through my voice. It’s not easy.
Waiting for her to find out if he’s awake feels like the longest three minutes of my life. I want to talk to him, but at the same time I’m honestly not sure if I’m hoping that he’ll be awake or hoping that he won’t be.
“He is awake,” the nurse says. “And I think you’ll be happy.”
“Why?”
I hear the smile in her voice. “He’s mostly lucid today.”
A breath rushes out of me. It’s rare that he’s lucid at all, let alone when I call to speak to him.
“Malik?”
Leaning forward, I brush a hand over my face and breathe. “Hey, Dad.”
He chuckles, and that sound throws me back. “Good to hear from you. I guess I hear from you more often than I remember, huh?”
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
My dad sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, Dad.”
“Still.” He pauses. Another chuckle. “But I do know one thing and that’s that you don’t call at this hour. I’m sure that you had a reason?”
Shaking my head, I can’t help but smile. My dad has always been perceptive. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Okay, that’s great. What’s the real reason?”
I laugh. “I met someone. And…it’s like you and mom. Her name is Erin.”
“Then why don’t you sound happier?”
“I…” Swallowing, I try to form the words. “I fucked it up. It was for a good reason, and it’s better for her this way. But I still want to be with her.”
“Then be with her.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” Dad asks. “Is there a reason you can’t be together?”
I’m shaking my head even though he can’t see me. “She’s a writer too. A good one. I don’t want her standing in my shadow.”
“So don’t block her sunlight.”
“Dad-”
“No, son,” he says. “I know my brain isn’t what it used to be. And I may not be able to give you this advice again. If she is what you say, then you can’t let her go. Be with her and keep her in front of you so that she’s never in your shadow.
“I don’t really know how far that metaphor goes,” he says with a laugh, “but you know what I’m saying. If you can find the kind of love that I had with your mother, then no career-yours or hers-should stand in the way of that.”
He’s not wrong. But it might already be too late. “She’s younger than me. A lot younger.”
“Age is just a number.”
“Okay,” I agree slowly. Then I add, “I hurt her.”
“That’s more important than her age. Can it be fixed?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. That phone call with her…I know that I blindsided her. And if I were Erin, I wouldn’t want to talk to me. Maybe ever.
Dad’s voice is kind. “Are you willing to try?”
“Of course.”
“Then try. And make sure that you have one hell of a peace offering.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “That, I can do.”
“Good. And I expect you to tell me all about it when it’s done.”
“I will,” I promise. “How have you been?”
“Me? Oh, I’ve been fine. Chasing chickens a lot. They get out a lot here.”
Those words make me pause. “What chickens?”
Dad makes a sound like I’m being ridiculous. “Those chickens, you know, the ones that your mother keeps in the backyard. Against my objections, I might add. And why does everything taste like metal?”
My heart falls. Whenever he starts talking about my mother it’s a sure sign that his mind has slipped away again. Mom passed when I was in my twenties.
“I’m sure she has a good reason,” I say quietly.
He huffs. “Well, I don’t like chasing them.”
“I’ll come help you next time.”
“You better!” That, at least, is a happy exclamation.
I hear the nurse murmuring outside the phone, and there are sounds as the phone is shuffled between hands. “Mr. Ellis?” It’s the nurse.
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” I say. “It’s okay. Thank you for letting me talk to him.”
There’s the sound of a door shutting in the background. “Not a problem at all. I hope you’ll have a chance to come see him soon. He always does better after you’ve visited.”
“I will. I promise. Have a good night.”
She says goodnight, and I drop my phone onto the coffee table in front of me. I’m glad that I got to talk to him. But every time he drifts away and the dementia comes back, it hurts.
My phone lights up with a message. In the dark room-sitting in the dark felt emotionally appropriate-it’s bright. My heart stops when I see what it is. It’s an email. From Erin. No subject, no words, just a file.
As soon as I tap on it, I realize what it is. This is her book. And I sure as hell am going to read it right now. I grab my laptop and flip on the lights, opening the file as fast as the machine can load it, and I start to read.
* * *
I read all night. I’m so taken by the book that I can’t stop. At around midnight I realize that I forgot to eat, but I don’t care. I barely stopped to use the bathroom.
Her book is so good.
It’s a romance with edge, just like she described as her favorite. The characters are vibrant, the sex is fucking hot, and the resolution is absolutely perfect. This book is a bestseller without question. And it’s so good that it kicks my own brain into gear.
I haven’t felt energized creatively like this in…more than a year.
Without moving, I open up the file for my book on the laptop. The sky is getting lighter, and this book is going to get finished. The pieces that Erin wrote are still there, and they’re still brilliant. I pick up right where she left off, the words flying under my fingers.
At some point Mrs. Peak comes in, and I think I startle her with my tired gaze and hunchback posture. But I’m an addict. I can’t stop typing. This kind of flow state is incredibly rare, and I’m taking advantage of it.
Erin lives in my mind as I write the sex scenes. They’re edgy and hot, exactly the kind of scenes that we played out in my bedroom upstairs.
“Mr. Ellis, would you like some lunch?”
I look up blearily and try to focus on my housekeeper’s face. But I don’t exactly feel like I’m connected to the earth right now. “What?”
“I asked if you’d like some lunch,” she asks with an amused look on her face. “Or maybe a shower?”
Mrs. Peak has been my housekeeper for years. She’s seen me in the middle of my writing frenzy before and knows that it’s hard to get my attention.
Now that she’s drawn my focus to it, my stomach rebels. It’s starving. “Food,” I say. “Yes, I’ll take some food. Something fast.”
She laughs softly. “Of course.”
After she leaves, I realize she said something about a shower. And she might have a point, but I don’t have time for that right now. The words are still coming, and you don’t mess with that. As long as your muse is speaking, you’re just a messenger. Nothing else matters except for catching everything that it’s throwing at you.
Mrs. Peak comes back with a sandwich and a glass of water. I eat it between paragraphs, and only then because I know that I need the energy to keep going. There’s a terror rippling through me that if I stop, I won’t be able to finish at all, and so I plow forward.
Even when I wasn’t going through terrible life stresses and worried that I might have just shoved the love of my life away, there’s never been a book that’s…ripped itself out of me like this. It’s both painful and beautiful. And when the sun sets, I’m almost done.
By the time it’s nearly three in the morning, I’ve hit ‘The End.’
I blow out a breath of relief. It’s done. Not edited, obviously, but that’s okay. I almost send it to my editor and pause. The new deal we’re striking hasn’t been confirmed yet. I’ll wait until I have confirmation of that before I do. But it’s okay. There’s something else that I need to do, and it can’t wait.