He leans towards me. It’s unnerving to have his full attention focused on me.
“Make you feel what?”
I break eye contact and look down at my lap again, grateful that Calida is there to provide an excuse. Otherwise, he’d be wondering what’s so entertaining about the floor.
“Anything, really. If it can make me feelanything.It’s incredible that some people can just take twenty-six characters and build people, worlds, and… just drag these emotions out of their readers...” I pause. “I want to figure out how to do that.” I finish, on a whisper.
“To?”
I sigh. “To write like that. And I will, damn it.” I add, almost to myself.
Flint reaches out until his fingers brush mine. They’re warmer than I thought, calloused. I slowly raise my eyes back to his.
“You will. I’m sure of it. Nothing will stop you.”
He’s leaning closer, his eyes an incredible blue. His gaze drops to my lips.
And the moment is shattered by the knock at the door, announcing that our food has arrived.
CHAPTER NINE
Idon’t think Flint has ever had pizza.
I’m trying really hard not to think too much about the things he has said. That Goira is real, that Calida really is a dragon, and really exists (although, that one is hard to rationalize the cognitive dissonance when I saw her set a fire). How is it even possible that a world that exists solely in my imagination could become real?
And let’s be honest here. I didn’t even fullydevelop it. I sat down at my laptop with a hope and a prayer, and have been word vomiting on the page, hoping that something –anything– would stick. I don’t have some great back story for Princess Aisling or her great warrior lover, who is still little more than a vague outline. I don’t know how, or evenifthey’re going to win this battle that I’m putting them in. I don’t know where the power she is able to access comes from or what, exactly, her lover’s power even is. I’m not even convinced he has a name yet.
How can I be so sure that Flint has made some galaxy-hopping crossover? Based on what I remember of what I wrote last night, Flint has all the makings of a Fae warrior: strong, tattooed, drop-my-pants attractive. But did I actually write him that way or is Flint just sexy enough to have superimposed his image in my brain? I’ll need to check my notes. I think I read once that you can’t imagine or dream new faces — every face you see, even sleeping, is a face you’ve encountered in your life, even if you can’t remember it. Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why Flint seems so familiar?
There’s so much about my story that I haven’t thought of or even bothered to sit and think about, figure out. It’s super possible I’m just taking this at face value. Maybe I’m having a delusion, but if Bits could see him, I’m probably not hallucinating. Or maybe it's a group hallucination. That could totally be it.
Then again, if this is all true, maybe Flint can fill in some gaps for me…
Bitch —focus!
I eye Calida, happily devouring three pieces of meat lovers pizza on the kitchen tile. She is purring like a fucking motorcycle. It’s hard to imagine that she, specifically, could be a hallucination, but if my mental illnesshas taught me anything, it’s that the pile of electrified tapioca pudding piloting this particular meat suit is weird as shit and anything is possible.
I serve Flint and myself, since he doesn’t seem super confident in the kitchen, and I give us both a little bit of everything, especially since he’d indicated he isn’t picky, pouring us each a generous glass of wine. It occurs to me that he might prefer a beer, but it’s too late for that now. With the old television show playing in the background, I settle back onto the couch with my pizza and wine. Flint elects to toss a pillow on the floor, sitting atop it, with his back braced against the base of the couch.
He looks oddly at home there, I think. He’s removed his boots and cloak. He’s wearing some sort of… are those britches?!... and a plain cotton shirt. He’s rolled the sleeves up to above his elbows, showcasing the swirls of ink that flow down to his wrists. He appears to be watching the TV and although I’m not sure how much he is actually getting, he is laughing at all the right spots.
Maybe this relationship has a future after all.
Why am I even deluding myself? I need to focus. Eating my pizza, I try to think about what I know about my story. What can I possibly ask Flint about that world, the world I made up, that could help cement whether this is a mass hallucination or if it is a real, unbelievable thing?
I chew my cheese pizza thoughtfully. Yes, I generally prefer something more substantial on my pizza, but given the giant male and what may or may not be a dragon in my apartment currently, I felt that it was in everyone’s best interest to just eat the cheese. Stop judging me, ok?
“Flint?” I pause to swallow. “Can you tell me about the Sorcery of Sentiments?”
He fumbles as he reaches for his wine. Drawing his arm back to his side, I can feel him looking at me. Shit. Was that too forward?
“The Sorcery of Sentiments?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, “I mean, that was a battle you fought in… right?”
Silence.
I don’t dare look up from my pizza. It tastes like paste, which is sad, because this is usually some bomb pizza. I can’t bear to look at him. Either he’s trying to formulate a response to my off the wall question or he has an actual answer and is trying to spare my poor, mortal mind.
