“Dysfunctional family. Father-son drama. That sort of thing.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Is it you?”
“Huh?”
“The main character. In this case, the son, I’m guessing. Is it you?”
He paused before responding, which was really all the answer I needed. “I guess, kind of,” he replied.
“I only ask because if you make it, and the book gets published, believe me, that’s one of the first questions you’re going to get from just about anyone who reads it. It’s always some variation of ‘So, is this based on your own life?’ You’d be wise to come up with an answer you’re comfortable with for that question.” I was buzzing off a delicious combination of mudslide and dopamine, one that evidently made me think I was in the position to give this man worldly publishing advice.
“Thank you for the intel,” he said, graciously, if sober. “I think that’s the first bit of guidance I’ve ever received from an actual author.”
“Anytime,” I replied. “So, tell me. What do you love about writing?”
“Hm. I’d say my favorite part is having some power over a story’s ending.”
“Amen. You can take something that sucked in real life and spin it to turn out happy on the page.”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m trying to do with this story.”
“I do it all the time.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, a hundred percent. I write romance! In my genre, there’s a guarantee from page one that the story will end with a happily-ever-after. But you don’t see me traipsing around with a ring on my finger, do you?”
“Thankfully, no. That would complicate this moment quite a bit, I’d say.”
I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Exactly. Eventhough I have yet to experience forever-love, I write about it as if someone’s already wifed me up.”
“Wifed you up?”
“Sorry. One of the side effects of teaching high school is being a grown-ass woman who speaks like a teenager sometimes.”
Beckett shook his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s very cute,” he said. “Anyway, I don’t know if I necessarilyneedto have a happy ending for this story,” he went on. He tilted his head to look at me as we strolled side by side. “I would like one, though, you know?” He was tall enough to block out the sun, and his face fell in shadow by contrast. I could still see the slight upturn in his nose and the squareness of his jaw. I took a deep breath to will away any primordial (and alcohol-fueled) instinct to kiss him.
“So, are you stuck?” I said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the shape of Beckett’s juicy lower lip. “Trying to make it end happily?”
“I think so,” he said.
“Maybe don’t force it. Just tell the story the way it happened. Get it out, you know? And then see if there’s anything worth salvaging.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Not so much anymore,” I answered honestly. “But that’s what I did when I was just starting out.”
He looked out in the distance and then back at me. “Well, thank you for the words of wisdom. Your turn now. What’s your favorite thing about writing?”
I considered the question. “I think it makes you see the world differently.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, suddenly everything you encounter in real life has the potential to end up in a story. It’s pretty cool, if you think about it.”
