The feeling is nice enough that for the first time in a very long time, I find myself at a loss as to what to wear to my Friday night writing group. Normally what to wear anywhere is a no-brainer—I have enough leggings, sweaters, and baggy T-shirts to last me through every day of the week, including laundry day.
But tonight, I decide—wildly, recklessly!—I’m going to take that first baby step, like Dr. Sandra suggested, and see if I can grow more accustomed to having a little bit more of my shape on display. My writing group is a safe place to test the waters, after all. Aside from occasional visits from Matilda and Nina, the group consists of mostly middle-aged and elderly women, with the exception of Frank, who is gay. The group is always advertised on the library’s events board, but the last time we had an outside visitor was 2015, and the man—a serious, horn-rimmed-glasses type, who talked a lot about his typewriter and seemed like he was really into Hemingway—never resurfaced again.
So the writing group is not likely to notice much if I shake things up a little. Actually, that isn’t true—they will most certainly notice, and offer their opinions; this group is not shy about offering their opinions. But aside from a very slight stir, no one will very much care.
Despite the earlier events of today, I don’t think I’m quite ready for tank top-and-leggings level of exposure, but maybe, hidden behind all the turtlenecks in my closet, there is some kind of compromise between the two extremes. I search into the dark, rarely visited crevices of my closet, finding a pair of jeans, so long neglected that I have to shake them out to ensure there are no spiders nesting in them, and a cream-colored sweater that will hint at a body underneath without hugging my figure too closely.
It’s the type of outfit that most people would not think twice about wearing, but I have to stop myself from going back into my apartment to change.
Baby steps,I remind myself.Baby steps…
As expected, there is a mild commotion when I enter the small event room at the back of the library where the writing group meeting will be held. Florence wolf-whistles; Kathleen takes me by the hips and forces me to turn full circle so they can all take a look at my backside.
All totally normal, nonintrusive behavior.
Frank sits in the corner, disinterested. In his usual T-shirt and Walmart-brand jeans, Frank is not what most of the women in the group hoped he would be when they found out a gay man would be joining our ranks. From conversation, I gathered that a few of them had been half expecting Jonathan Van Ness—which, on the one hand, great for them for joining in on the inclusivity love fest! On the other hand, there’s some room still to grow in thinking every gay man will automatically be like one of the guys onQueer Eye.Frank is about as fashion savvy as my aunt Linda, which is to say, socks with sandals are considered to be a valid lifestyle choice. He could not care less about my outfit change.
But Barb and Deb more than make up for his lack of enthusiasm. “Whoo! Look at that tiny little waist,” Barb enthuses.
“And that ass like one of those famous sisters,” says Deb.
I wave them down. “Okay, okay. Let’s save the booty talk for my pages, please.”
The ladies obligingly simmer down, just as Matilda and Nina arrive. Matilda doesn’t notice my outfit at all, her eyes honing in on the red velvet muffins, and she marches past with a brisk “Hi,” before going over to claim her territory.
Nina and I exchange an amused glance. “You look nice,” Nina says with her fairy princess smile.
Her muffin already one-fourth gone after an impressively sized bite, Matilda looks up. “Who looks nice?” She does a double take at the sight of me, processing my outfit before shrugging her approval. “It’s an improvement.”
Matilda is the friend I know with one hundred percent certainty would help me bury a dead body—but she is also the friend who would critique me on bungling up the murder and buying the wrong kind of shovel.
I grimace-smile. “All right. If we’re done commenting on my clothes, can everyone take their seats so we can get started…?”
The room obliges, with Nina scuttling to be closer to Matilda and everyone else taking their usual spaces. Florence glances at Matilda, sitting to her left. “How do you stay so skinny when you eat like that?”
Some people might demure—Oh, no, I’m really not that skinny—but not Matilda: “I have a very high metabolism due to some genetic factors, but also because I try to practice a nonsedentary lifestyle.” She shoves another piece of muffin into her mouth. “Also, I generally eat a low-carb, high-vegetable diet, except for on special occasions, or when the food is free.”
“Oh,” says Florence. Because what else can you say to that?
Once everyone is finally settled, I take my place at the podium at the head of the room, pulling out my printed pages. Everyone, with the exception of Matilda and Nina, has already read my excerpt in advance and prepared notes to give me, but it’s part of the tradition of the group for the author to do an oral reading of the piece first. The selections are kept short, since everyone knows if they read for longer than their allotted fifteen minutes, they will be roundly booed by Deb. (A retired schoolteacher, Deb is a real stickler for following the rules.)
“Esteemed ladies and gentleman,” I say, taking a bracing gulp of my wine. I’ve had to read so many times for the group that I’m usually no longer nervous, but tonight is the first night I’ll be reading a love scene, and I’m a little paranoid. I haven’t written anything egregiously different from the other romance novels I’ve read, but what if I made some error, some telltale sign that I have no actual experience in the subject matter I’m writing?
“This is an excerpt from my work in progress,The Knight Librarian,” I inform the group, keeping my voice as level as possible. “As you recall, last time we left them, Axel and Rosamund were forced to hide in the back room of the library so the mob wouldn’t realize they’d overheard their plot to launder money through the reserve system?—”
Matilda makes a bored, move-it-along motion with her hand.
I swallow, realizing that I am, in fact, dragging out the moment when I’ll have to read, aloud, all of the steamy things I’ve written. I take another swig of my wine, reminding myself that I trust these people. They are my friends.
The door at the back of the room opens, and I squint against the light, trying to make out the features of the new arrival. Everyone from the group is already here.
“Sorry I’m late,” comes a deep, masculine voice, and I feel the color drain from my face as I recognize him only milliseconds before he takes a seat in the corner, his face coming into view.
The Red Unicorn.
Chapter 7
Helen
