3
Ryan
Itugged my long sleeves back down as I re-read the last page of my new manuscript. I had just finished putting the final touches on the book I planned to release in February when Russell walked in. He set a plate of oatmeal cookies on my desk along with a tall glass of Coke with ice.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Good!” I beamed. “Great, actually.”
Russell stood behind me and rubbed my shoulders while I ate a cookie and rambled on about my accomplishments this afternoon. I always felt as though I had really achieved something when I finished a book. As weird as it sounded, seeing a book be published was a helpful boost for my self-esteem. It was a tangible achievement I could see to remind myself that I wasn’t the trash my parents and brother said I was. I was proud for having done something for myself, and it made me thoroughly happy.
“Wonderful, my boy.” Russell moved my plate of cookies off the small desk calendar, and he pointed to today, November 6th. “So your draft will be off to the editor well before the Thanksgiving holiday, as you planned.”
“Yes! I told the editor I didn’t need it back until the first of the year. That way I have all of January to edit and get it proofed.”
“Then it’ll still be completely ready to go with a few weeks to spare,” Russell added.
It was great to have his support and hands-on approach to knowing how all of these pieces functioned and worked. He helped keep me on task and schedule. It’d been the first time in my life that someone who loved me really took an active effort to support me with something I really wanted to do.
“Take your cookies and Coke and sit down on your couch. Now that your draft is complete, I want to run something by you,” he said. I wrinkled my forehead automatically, but I caught myself before my hand went to the back of my neck.
“Is it bad?”
“No, Ryan. It’s not bad at all.”
I collected my cookies from the plate in one hand, and carried the glass of Coke in the other as I sat on my comfy couch. I put my cookies on my shirt and looked at Russell’s raised eyebrow.
“Had the plate offended you?”
“No. But why bring it over? And technically, you told me to take my cookies. You mentioned nothing of the plate,” I playfully tossed back at him.
“What about the crumbs on your shirt?”
“Well, when I stand up, the crumbs will naturally fall off my shirt—”
“Onto the floor—”
“Onto the floor that the robot vacuum thing roams around on.”
“Ryan—”
“My cookie crumbs on the floor will give the vacuum something to do.
“Ryan—”
“Seriously, though, I’ve never actually seen dirt, crumbs, or dust of any kind in this house since I moved in. I think there are cleaning fairies that work at night in this palace.”
“Palace?”
“Yeah, I think of this place as a palace. Sir Russell’s Palace,” I teased as Russell walked toward me with the plate.
He set the plate on the toss pillow beside me that looked like the smiley face emoji wearing sunglasses, then he transferred the cookies from my shirt to the plate. He set his hands on the top of the couch on either side of me before he leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“If this is my palace, does that make you my prince?”
I grinned.
“I think it makes me more like the palace guy who’s kept in a secret room that only the king knows about. I’m kept in the secret pleasure room,” I teased.
