Page 35 of Not a Strong Enough Word

“I can stay,” I whisper, afraid that if I speak any louder, it’ll startle her into remembering she didn’t want me around to begin with.

Her blue eyes are rimmed with red, and her nose looks like she could guide Santa’s sleigh through the darkness, but her expression is something akin to hope.

“It’s okay.” She clears her throat. “I wouldn’t want your other writers thinking you’re giving me preferential treatment.”

“My other writers haven’t been around as long as you. It’s a seniority thing.”

Snorting, she turns her eyes to the ceiling and presses her left thumb into the palm of her right hand, making soothing circles as she thinks.

“Look,” I say before she can talk herself out of it. “You need rest, and I want to help. I’ll stay until you fall asleep. I have some work to do anyway.”

A crisp nod is my only response, but I’ll take it. The cold tile floor bites into my palms as I press against it to stand up. I reach out to help her up, but she stands by herself. I try to remind myself that’s a good sign rather than feel the sting of her choosing not to allow me to touch her again. She retreats into the bathroom, and I hear the water running from the sink faucet. I busy myself with digging my laptop and some papers out of my bag, so when she emerges from the bathroom and closes herself in her bedroom, I’m not looking at her.

After a few minutes, I’m left wondering if I should set myself up on her couch or her table. As I’m weighing my options, her bedroom door opens. She’s not standing there like I expect her to be, but it seems as clear an invitation as any. I gather up my things and peek inside the door. She’s snuggled under the comforter, her face turned away from me and her brown hair falling in waves over her pillow. Her body is tucked all the way to the right side of the bed, and there’s a space on the left. Every other light in the room is off except for the one on the left-hand nightstand.

She left a space for me.

Swallowing thickly, I walk around the bed and sit on top of the blankets, stretching my legs out and crossing them at the ankle. Scarlett’s face is visible to me now, her eyes closed and her expression slowly relaxing. She must have been exhausted to slip into sleep this fast.

I tell myself I’ll work for an hour until she’s more deeply asleep, and then I’ll leave. That was what I told her, and though I could stare at her all night, I don’t want to freak her out. So I wiggle a bit to get more comfortable and drag my laptop to my lap.

It isn’t long before I become focused on my work. The book I’m working on isn’t the most interesting, but it’s fine. Working on Scarlett’s manuscript while I’m sitting next to her would feel too much like times long gone, so this one will have to do.

My fingers quietly glide over the keyboard, and I let the sound of the keys lull me into a rhythm. I always did my best work sitting next to Scarlett. It would seem that hasn’t changed in all these years, either.

As I’m puzzling over a passage that isn’t quite right, I feel something on my thigh. When I look down, Scarlett’s hand has found me in her sleep. My heart cracks wide open, and my breath catches in my lungs.

A glance at the time tells me it’s long past the hour I told myself I’d stay. But now her hand has found me, as if she needs me to stay as much as I want to be here.

I’ll leave when her hand moves, I tell myself.

It’s not long before I drift off to sleep, too.

Chapter 18

Scarlett

I’m used to waking up in a fog, usually from working late the night before. Sometimes from waking up too early to do it again. Words blend into each other, jostling and fighting for space in my brain. They rarely leave room for anything else except, occasionally, a nagging feeling that I’ll never do enough, be enough, write enough.

But there’s only one word in my mind when I wake up the next morning.

Ryan.

The sun is streaming through my east-facing window when I crack my eyes open. Dust dances in the beams of light, and it feels like an accurate metaphor for what I’m feeling right now. Cobwebs and dirt are illuminated by the golden hour, all the more beautiful for how they move and shine. My brain isn’t clear, but I can see the grime. Maybe that’s the thing that needs to happen before I can clean it out.

And Ryan was the one who shone a light on it all. I had been deep in my own world, convinced this is just how it is for me: I can write and live a life of isolation and exhaustion with Trina as my only connection to the outside world, or I can never write again and cobble together some semblance of a normal life. But with only one evening having him near me, I can already see that a happy medium might be possible, because the way I feel now, I could conquer not only this manuscript but maybe even another.

Smiling to myself, I reach out to where I had felt the mattress sag next to me last night as I was finally, blissfully drifting off to sleep. Only now, it’s empty.

Of course it is. He said he was going to stay until I fell asleep and then leave. A quick glance at my phone reveals no messages from him, and the fact that it’s already eight in the morning. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late. And as late as it is, Ryan is probably long gone by now.

The sting of disappointment is enough to keep me in bed all day, but Dianne’s voice nags me at the back of my mind. Get out of bed, even if that’s the only thing you do. Then when you feel able, do the next thing.

Groaning audibly as if there’s anyone here to hear it, I violently roll myself over and land with a thud on the ground. Actually, it’s a good thing no one was here to see that bullshit. Whatever. She said I had to get out of bed, not how I had to get out of bed. I’m putting that one in the win column.

That done, I untangle myself from the comforter that came with me and toss it in a heap onto the floor. I’m pretty sure the next thing should be to make the bed, but I don’t care enough about the aesthetics of my home to bother. Instead, I rub the dried tears from the night before out of my eyes and pull on a pair of joggers that looks clean enough. I make my way to the kitchen, pleading with the universe that I still have enough coffee grounds left to brew myself a cup.

“Good morning,” a deep voice greets me.