Page 50 of The Write Place

Daniel shrugs as he takes a huge gulp of his wine, and I laugh. “What was she telling you?” His eyes are wide, though his face is calm.

I decide this is probably not the time to bring up his ex, so I choose another route. “Well, she mentioned they’ve been trying to get you to move here for years. I didn’t know you had any connections here at all.”

He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yeah, they thought a change of scenery would be good for me. If they find out they were right, they’ll gloat, so don’t say a word.”

I make a motion as if zipping my lips together and he laughs. He drains his wine and puts his glass down on the counter. I do the same.

“What now?” I ask.

He looks at me for a long moment, then asks, “Want to get out of here?”

I nod, and we make our way back through what is now a huge crowd of people, Daniel saying goodbyes as we go.

Chapter 21

I shiver out in the cold night air. The hotel is only a few blocks away from the bookstore, so we grab our bags from the car and walk quickly, heads ducked down against the wind. Daniel checks in and gets keys to the room, and we take the elevator to our floor. We find the room and he opens the door, but then he pauses in the doorway and I almost run into him. He closes the door and whirls around, his eyes wide.

“What?” I ask.

“Okay, before you go in there, I need you to know that I swear on everything that is holy and my own immortal soul that I called this morning to confirm that this room had two beds.”

My jaw drops. “What?” I say again, but this time it’s not a question.

“There’s only one bed. But when I asked, they said it’s the last room they have and there are two beds.”

I laugh nervously. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not.” He unlocks the door again. We both enter, and sure enough, there is only one bed in the middle of the room.

“Maybe the couch pulls out, and that’s the second bed?” I ask, hopefully. He goes to check, but no luck, and the couch isn’t nearly large enough for one of us to sleep on it.

“I don’t think I should drive home,” he says, and then adds quickly, “I’m not drunk. I just don’t feel comfortable on the highway at night after drinking wine.”

“Yeah, me either.” I shrug a little helplessly. “Well, we’re adults here, right? And it isn’t like this is the first time we’ve shared a bed. We can handle it?” He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, well, I’m going to change, I guess.” I grab my bag and lock myself in the bathroom.

I can’t help but laugh a little as I change into pajamas that now look ridiculous. I’ve brought my standard short shorts, tank top, and oversized hoodie, which I thought would be fine, but now that I’m trapped inside a real-life romance trope, they are definitely too revealing. I brush my teeth and wash my face, tying my hair up loosely on top of my head before leaving the bathroom.

Daniel is perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, and he springs to his feet when I come into the room. He grabs his bag and practically runs into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I stand there helplessly for a while, wondering what to do. I check the couch again. I lean over a little too far and bump my head on the hard armrest. I curse under my breath, rubbing my forehead. Then, I look down at my bare legs and decide the best course of action is probably to get under the covers. I pull back the comforter on one side of the bed, but before I can get under it, Daniel comes out of the bathroom.

He stands there helplessly, wearing only his boxers and a white t-shirt. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The man spends $200 on jeans but can’t spring for pajamas? But then I remember my short shorts and realize I’m living in my own glass house right now. I raise my arms from my sides, then drop them uselessly.

That’s when he starts laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a snicker. Definitely not the soft laughter he lets out when I’m being cute. This is full-on, belly-grabbing, near-hysterical laughter. He has completely lost it, and I’m standing there, staring at him, becoming more sure by the moment that I’m either (at best) witnessing or (at worst) responsible for Daniel Evans’ mental breakdown.

“Please tell me what is so funny,” I beg, curling and uncurling my toes on the carpet. “I could really use some levity right now.”

He wipes his eyes as his laughter dies out, but when he looks at me, his eyes are still sparkling. “It’s the last straw. Patricia said this would happen. Not this specifically,” he waves a hand indicating the hotel room, “but she said I’d get to a point where I can’t ignore this anymore and here we are.”

I must look either confused or alarmed, or maybe a little of both. He runs a hand through his hair, resting it on the back of his neck. I jam my hands into the pocket on my hoodie just for somewhere to put them.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you, Mac. Can we sit?”

I ungraciously plop on the bed and fold my legs under me, my hands still in the pocket of my hoodie as I wait for him to talk.

“I don’t want to be friends with you,” he blurts out. I take a breath to argue with him, but he holds a hand up. “No, please let me finish. I don’t want to be friends with you. I can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t. I thought I wouldn’t invite you tonight, but then sitting with you Friday night watching you read was so perfect that I had to. The way your eyes fluttered slightly when I knew you were reading something romantic, or your jaw ticked when a character probably did something ridiculous, it was too much.” He takes a step closer to me. “I invited you because I had to spend more time with you, in whatever way you were willing to spend time with me, and I figured I’d make myself be happy with whatever scraps of a friendship you would throw me, but then Monday night, you asked me to stay, and I can’t get the feel of you out of my head. I didn’t sleep for one minute that night. I was too completely mesmerized by your shape and your softness and…” he trails off and swallows hard. “I have never wanted someone so completely in my entire life. And it was so wildly inappropriate because you had just spent a whole day grieving and crying, but all I could think about was how I could spend an entire lifetime holding you like that and be happy.

“And then on the way here, I watched the way your face changed when you smelled Patricia’s book. You looked so serene and peaceful, like you knew exactly where you belonged and it was right there, next to me, in my car, talking about vanilla and home and books like they’re all the same and I wanted to be part of that list. I wanted to be where you belonged as much as you made me feel like I belonged with you when you taught that story. I wanted it so badly it hurt. And it hurt all the way through the reading. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, the way your cheeks flushed slightly and the way your breath caught with emotion at the turn of every piece she read. I’ve never seen anyone experience literature like you, Mac, and it’s irresistible. You’ve made me feel things about this world—about my own writing, too—that I never thought I’d feel again. I’m alive with it. It’s coursing through me, and I haven’t felt this way since… well, for a long time.”

His speech has become impassioned in a way I’ve never seen from him, and I’m clutching my hands together in my hoodie pocket so hard it hurts.