Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
She frowns, clearly committed to her fake life story.
“He tells you if it doesn’t work out with that guy, to give him a call, and he leaves you his number,” I continue. “You’re having dinner later that night with your boyfriend, who happens to be getting on your nerves for a myriad of reasons. He’s chewing too loudly. He won’t stop checking his phone. He talks with his mouth full. He doesn’t ask a damn thing about your day. He forgot your work schedule again. And all you can think about is the guy from the bookshop.”
“Naturally.”
“As soon as your boyfriend drops you off at home, he leans in for a kiss like he always does,” I say. “That’s when you break it to him. You’re in love with someone else.”
“But I don’t even know the other guy yet . . .”
“You don’t need to. You believe in love at first sight. So you leave your boyfriend completely dumbfounded, go into your apartment, and call the number. He doesn’t answer, though. You get his voice mail—which you weren’t expecting. The second it beeps, you choke on your words, which causes you to panic and hang up. For a moment, you’re certain you’ve ruined it. That was your chance, your big moment, the beginning of your beautiful happily ever after. You think he’s going to listen to your sputtering words and half-finished message and wonder what he ever saw in you.”
“I never would’ve choked on my words.”
I lift a finger. “Last I checked this was my story. Feel free to write a fan fiction spin-off on your own time . . . anyway, where was I? Oh, right. You thought you’d ruined your chance with Connor the J.Crew model. You wash your makeup off, change into your pajamas, and place your phone on the charger in the kitchen so you’re not tempted to check for missed calls in the middle of the night.”
“Wise move.”
“When you wake up the next morning, he still hasn’t called. You’re one hundred percent sure it’s over and done before it even began. You go about your weekend as you normally do, trying your hardest not to think about him fifty times a day. A few days later, you’re working in the shop again, and in walks Mr. Wonderful, only there’s something different about him this time. He doesn’t smile when he sees you. But he’s clearly here for you because he makes a beeline to the register without so much as glancing at a book display.”
She leans in, invested more than ever.
“He tells you he’s sorry he missed your call last weekend, but he was with his niece at the children’s hospital in Burlington. She’d been battling stage-four brain cancer and, unfortunately, took an unexpected turn for the worse. He held her hand as she passed, and he spent the rest of the weekend comforting his family as they grieved their devastating loss.”
Anneliese’s blue eyes brim with tears, and she swipes them away as they slide down her cheeks.
“That’s the moment you fell in love with him,” I say. “Truly fell in love with him.”
She dabs more tears on the backs of her hands.
“You’re an asshole,” she says with a slight chuckle and a twinkle in her damp blue eyes. “A damn good storyteller but an asshole.”
Rising, she throws the remains of her pizza in the trash and dumps her wine in the sink.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she says, her back to me, “I’m going to go upstairs and have a good cry while I grieve for Connor’s poor niece—and a beautiful marriage that will never happen because the other half of it is a fictional character.”
Years ago, I took a community writing class put on by a local published author. He threw a lot of information at us at once—faster than any of us could jot down—but the advice that stood out the most was that if your writing can move someone to tears, make them laugh, or send them into a fit of rage over a character’s decision, you’re doing something right.
Stories should make people feel something, anything.
“When you’re finished grieving, if you could kindly take the time to leave me a five-star review on Amazon, that’d be great,” I tease.
“Thanks for the bedtime story . . . ,” she calls out.
“Anytime.” I’ve always found it easier to tell stories about other people’s lives—fictional or otherwise. The second the tables turn, I lock up tighter than Fort Knox.
I watch her walk away, listen to her delicate footsteps as she saunters down the hall, and wait for the creak of the stairs as she climbs them.
It’s the strangest thing . . . she’s been gone all of twenty seconds, and I kind of miss her already.
There’s a warmth about her, an easiness most people don’t have.