“No!” I couldn’t believe she’d just come out with it like that.
“You seem to get along well. How long have you known each other?”
“He’s my brother’s best friend, so I guess around ten years. Why do you think there’s something between us?”
“Because he watches you like he can’t stand the thought of letting you out of his sight. And that makes me think he’s afraid of something. And I’m wondering what exactly the story between you two is.”
I looked away from her and toward my glass, a bundle of nerves. I’d never spoken to anyone about my feelings for Trey. For years, I’d kept them a secret, something that belonged to me and me alone. And doing that made me idealize him until he was this perfect being who lived only in my mind and who I could gaze at, enraptured, and pray to like an idol. Then I learned he wasn’t so perfect, that he was anything but perfect, and I hated him. Now I knew he was flesh and blood, real, human. And it was funny that Adele should tell me he looked afraid, because I was afraid, too. Afraid he’d leave, afraid he’d stay. Afraid of what I might feel. Afraid of feeling too much, afraid of not feeling enough. Afraid of what could come next.
To Adele’s inquiring look, I responded, simply, “It’s complicated.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her; it was that there was somebody else involved. It was Trey’s story, too. It was ours, and I wanted it to stay that way. Free from other people’s judgments and opinions. Inpart, because he’d played the villain, and I needed to turn him into the hero redeemed.
In her smile, I could tell Adele understood.
“You and I have a great deal in common,” she said before changing the subject.
We said our goodbyes late in the afternoon and walked back home along the edge of the cliff, where there was a green blanket of grass that contrasted beautifully with the red of the rocks. Those colors were accentuated by the sun that was starting to set, sending orange rays across the blue sky. We turned onto a path leading downhill, feeling free and easy.
I took off my sandals when we reached the pebble beach. I liked feeling the rocks under my feet as I walked. We weren’t in a hurry, and I enjoyed listening to the rush of waves.
“You really want to be a writer?” he asked.
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Why, would you have to kill me afterward?” he joked. I rolled my eyes and he tried again, “A writer, though? Seriously?”
“Are you always this persistent?”
“Only when something really interests me.” He came around in front of me and started walking backward. “Come on, tell me more. What do you want to write about?”
“I’ve been writing for years. The problem is, I never finish anything.”
“Why?”
“For a million reasons. My studies, my job, life and the roads it takes you down. A lack of time. I don’t know!”
“You suck at making excuses. Now tell me the truth.”
Since when did he know me so well he could tell when I was lying?
“I said I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
His insistence was starting to irritate me.
“Fine. A writer has to have things that I don’t have, like talent and good ideas and…” A bitter taste rose up in my throat. It was pride. Because the truth was, I did believe I had talent. I knew I had good ideas. None of that was the problem. “A writer is the sum of their experiences. And I don’t have many, honestly.”
“Then you should go out and look for them.”
“If only it was that easy. I know people say you just need the willpower, but it’s harder than that.”
“Sure, you’re right. But sometimes you have to close your eyes and take a risk.”
I took a deep breath, feeling more and more lost in all the disparate thoughts whirling in my head. This subject was like a thorn in my side, and every time he opened his mouth, it sank in deeper.
“Have you ever done that? If so, maybe you can give me some advice.”
