“Yeah, I’ll go up. Food sounds perfect,” he told Holt, pushing to his feet and brushing the sand off his legs.
“Ignore the mess,” Holt told him a few minutes later when he slid the glass door open. “I’ve spent the entire week rebelling against my protagonist.”
“As in a fictional person in your book?”
Holt laughed. “You make it sound like he doesn’t exist.”
“Does he?”
“In my head, yeah.”
Rafe peered around, and sure enough, it looked like Holt had gone on strike from anything chore related. There were clothes tossed everywhere, a few even hanging out of the laundry basket sitting on the dining table. You couldn’t see the countertops in the kitchen for all the dishes—both clean and dirty—that were lying around.
“I tend to rummage through shit when I’m trying to figure something out.”
“Sounds … messy.”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t yet destroyed the third floor. We’ll make some sandwiches and eat ’em on the balcony up there. Turkey and cheese good for you?”
“Yeah.” Rafe wasn’t picky.
While Holt went to work making sandwiches, Rafe looked around, curious about all things Holt. He had to admit he never would’ve pegged him for a slob. He was always so put together when they hung out at the beach. Every Friday night for the past seven weeks, Holt had come down shortly after they got the camper set up. Rafe knew the moment he arrived because he could smell him. It was his cologne. It was intoxicating, addictive almost. Rafe had found himself smelling it a few times when Holt wasn’t around.
“Just out of curiosity…” Holt prompted as he passed Rafe a plate with a sandwich and chips. “I’ve noticed your crew keeps growing.”
“Boyfriends and girlfriends,” Rafe explained, following Holt up the narrow, curved staircase to the third floor.
“And why haven’t you brought one?”
Holt led the way through a bedroom to another sliding glass door. He opened it and walked out.
Rafe followed. “I don’t date.”
Holt laughed, pointing toward the beach. “I’m not surethatnecessarily qualifies as dating.”
Rafe followed his pointing finger to see Mario leaning against the camper while Angie was kneeling in the sand in front of him. It was clear what she was doing even from this distance.
“I think they’re too eager to worry about an audience,” Holt said, shoving one of the plastic Adirondack chairs toward Rafe.
Clearly.
Wanting to avoid talking about his friends’ sex lives, Rafe decided to broach a safe topic. “What seems to be the problem with your character?”
Holt took a bite of his sandwich and looked at Rafe, evidently surprised by the question.
He chewed and swallowed. “He’s confused.”
“About?”
“Who he is.”
Rafe raised his eyebrows. “I don’t even know what that means.”
Holt sighed, setting his sandwich on the plate and balancing it on his knee. “When I’m writing, I find it necessary to understand my character’s motivation. Whether it’s the hero or the villain, I need to know what drives him to understand why he would do certain things. Do you read?”
Not expecting to have to answer, Rafe had his mouth full, but he managed a nod.
“Fiction?”
