Page 61 of The Write Place

I squint at her skeptically, but I say, “Okay, I promise.” She eyes me as if trying to tell if I’m serious. Apparently satisfied, she rummages around in her bag, and I’m fairly certain something with six-pack abs on the cover is going to land on my desk, but she pulls out a stack of printed papers held together with a huge binder clip at the top. She leans over and puts the stack on my desk. My mouth goes dry.

In big, bold letters on the front page is typed:

Where We Belong

by Daniel Evans

I stare at it, gaping, for a long while. When I finally meet Jenny’s eyes again, her expression is completely calm.

“Where did you get this?” I ask slowly.

“It’s surprisingly cheap on the internet,” she deadpans.

“Jenny, I’m serious,” I insist.

She rolls her eyes. “Where do you think I got it? Evans sent it to me. He said I had to make you promise not to destroy it before I gave it to you, and he also said he didn’t care if you read it or not, but he wanted you to have it.”

“You talk to Daniel now?” I feel a little betrayed.

“No. I got one email from Daniel that I didn’t even respond to. But this felt important, so I printed it out and gave it to you.”

I look down at the stack of pages on my desk and back at Jenny. I quickly shove it in my backpack along with my students’ Frankenstein essays.

“Are you going to read it?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. I should be jumping at the chance to read an unpublished draft of a novel I helped one of my favorite authors create even despite where we left things, but I don’t know if I’m ready for it yet.

Jenny, to her credit, simply shrugs and stands up. “Enjoy your weekend, then.” As if she can’t help herself, she adds, “Let me know if you read anything good.”

As soon as I get home, I dump my backpack on the floor next to the couch and make a mug of tea. The whole time I’m boiling the water, I feel like my bag is staring at me, which is ridiculous. I take my mug to the couch and flip on the television, mindlessly flipping through channels, but I can’t concentrate. I turn the television off and grab my book off the coffee table. I start reading it, but I find I have to read the same page about three times before I can remember what it says, so I give that up, too.

Finally, I growl as if the draft can hear my frustration, and I lean over to pull it out. I sit cross-legged on my couch with the stack of papers on my lap, studying the title page as if it can tell me whether or not I should read further.

I stare out my window into the distance for a while. I’ve been scrambling to rebuild my boundaries. They worked, and they’re safe. There is no way I can read this and not be personally invested. Now that Daniel is gone, I am starting to feel the same old sadness that plagued me before. If I had kept my boundaries, I wouldn’t be feeling this way.

Ultimately, I decide I can’t do it, and put the draft back in my bag.

I can’t do it, I text Jenny.

Okay, is all she sends back.

You’re not going to try to convince me?

No, she responds. Then, Do you want me to?

No. Then, Maybe.

I think if you want me to convince you to read it, you already know you should.

I stare at that message until my phone clicks itself off, trying to figure out a way to tell her she’s wrong, but she’s not. I grumble again and pull the draft back out of my bag, removing the binder clip from the top. I flip the title page over, my heart racing a little as I do.

To M. M.

who taught me I belong.

I look up at the ceiling as tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I groan again, because I’m certain now that I’m going to read this thing, and I need provisions if I’m going to make it through. I put the stack of papers aside and go to the bathroom to get my box of tissues, then raid my cabinets for all the chocolate in my possession before sitting back on the couch with the draft and turning the first page.

I don’t sleep on Friday night. I read straight through until the gray light of dawn filters through my living room window. About halfway through, I thought I had run out of tears to cry, but as it turns out, I had plenty more because tears are now streaming unchecked down my face, and I’m furiously wiping them away before they can mar the pages still on my lap. When I put the last page down, I let out an “oh” sound.