Unable to get any work done, I check my watch again. It’s just past noon. Five minutes after the last time I looked. Ten hours. That’s when Gavin will be in Maple Creek again. Ten hours for me to decide how tonight will play out.
I look around my office then crane my neck to see out into the living room. Flowers are everywhere. Twice a day he’s sent them. That scene from ‘The Wizard of Oz’—the one where Dorothy is in the field of flowers—that’s my flippin’ house right now.
Each magnificent arrangement was delivered by the same kid who I now know to be Chad. If I’d known there were going to be so many, I may not have tipped him so well the first time, because, come on—all I did was set a precedent.
Every delivery was accompanied by a note and each note told me how well he knows me by describing something about me, usually a body part.
Gavin has called me every day. I’ve tried to convince myself it’s no big deal, but then I almost slipped and broke my neck in the shower last night, trying to scramble out of it to get the ringing cell phone on my vanity. My eyes roll up thinking of it.
“You know you want to go, Baylor,” Callie says, startling me when she comes around the corner to place yet another flower bouquet on the credenza.
I ignore the flowers and give her a hard stare.
“Oh, come on,” she says, petulantly. “You can’t tell me that’s not exactly what you were sitting here thinking about right now.”
Without a single word of acknowledgment, I spin my swivel chair around so my back is to her and I continue answering some fan mail that Jenna forwarded to me.
“Live in denial all you want,” Callie says, walking out of my office. Then from down the hall she mutters something about her not having plans tonight except to play with Maddox and that certain people need to take advantage of her awesome babysitting skills.
I ignore her obvious attempt at manipulation as I read through the mail. Jenna made a comment on one of the e-mails she forwarded to me. She said the sender was getting a bit stalkerish, making demands for me to accept personal meetings and pose for photos with her.
Every once in a while, one of my books will set a reader off. Usually because it hits home with them, and not in a good way. Some have sent me hate mail if they didn’t like it when a character died or got their heart broken. Fans sometimes forget my characters aren’t real. They identify with them. Love them. Hate them.
Become vengeful for them.
And since I don’t write under a pseudonym, I’m not hard to locate, given I’ve lived in the same town and in the same house my entire life.
Callie usually collects any fan mail and gives it to Jenna to deal with. I did it all myself until a few years ago, after my sixth book had come out, when things started to really take off for me. But now, I can get dozens of letters in a day and it’s become too much to deal with that and keep up with my writing.
I’ve gotten a few threatening letters over the years and it did really bother me at first. Then I quickly came to realize that people were just venting about something I wrote that made them feel. Writers don’t get stalked. We don’t get harassed like musicians and movie stars. And unless you are someone like Stephen King, you usually go about completely unrecognized. It’s an anonymous kind of fame and it suits me perfectly fine.
I make a mental note of ‘Kylee M.’ as Jenna has added her correspondence to our watch list. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that a heroine in one of my books has the name Kylee Manning. I also don’t miss that she has the same exact initials as Gavin’s wife. So by default, I already dislike her.
Gavin’s wife. Ugh. I shake my head at the absurdity of what she did to us. Then suddenly, I’m left wondering if he interacts with her. They are still married, after all. I’m sure they own a home together. Oh, God, does he still live with her?
My curiosity overtakes my resolve, and before I can think better of it, I’m initiating a text to him. Something I haven’t done before this very minute.
Me: So, when you’re in L.A., where do you stay?
It takes him at least twenty minutes to respond. The whole time, two very different scenarios are playing out in my head. One is from the movie ‘War of the Roses,’ where Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas almost killed each other trying to live together during a divorce. The other thought I have is that maybe, being the elaborate schemer that Karen is, she could be trying to get him to go back to her somehow. I mean, she did it once before.
My phone finally pings.
Gavin: Is that your way of asking if I see Karen?
Me: Well, I was just wondering where you stay when you’re there. You know, in case I have to send you something or whatever.
My head falls forward onto the desk in front of me. Nice one, Bay.
Gavin: Sure you were, darlin’. The answer is, I’m renting a condo near my offices at the film studio. I’ve been avoiding her since the day I came back from Chicago. I will continue to avoid her. I direct all her correspondence to my lawyer. Is that the answer you were looking for?
Me: Jerk.
Me: And, yeah, maybe.
Gavin: Haha. Baylor, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m done with her. Everything I do from here on out is about you and Maddox. I can’t wait to meet him. To see you. Did you get the key?
Me: What key?
Gavin: Check the latest delivery.
I get up and walk around my desk, over to the credenza where Callie deposited the most recent bouquet when I was, as she put it, ‘living in denial.’ I open the small envelope. Inside is an Oak Leaf Hotel key card. My heart races. I sit down and stare at the card—turning it over and over in my hand. It’s too much. It’s too soon.
It’s too tempting.
Me: You haven’t even checked in yet. How’d you get a key?
Gavin: I booked the suite for an entire month. I figured if I was going to be there two or three nights a week, I might as well be able to leave some of my shit there. That is, unless you have a better place I can leave my shit.
Two or three nights a week? That’s how much time he plans to spend here? Wait, leave his shit where, here?
Definitely too much.
Me: I’m sorry, Gavin. I told you. I have plans. I’ll just see you tomorrow at 2, okay?
Gavin: As stubborn and independent as ever, aren’t you . . . ‘Thing 2’?
If I’m so damn stubborn then I don’t need to reply to his stupid text, now do I? I put my phone down on the desk and walk towards the kitchen when I hear it ping again. I scurry a little too fast back into the office to check the text. Dammit.
Gavin: Sorry, darlin’. I’m pushing you, aren’t I?
Me: Maybe a little.
Gavin: Okay, 2 o’clock tomorrow. I’ll just have to stare at your gorgeous picture until then.
The day drags on. I contemplate texting him back, more than a few times, to say I’ll meet him. I get one last bouquet of flowers that has a note complimenting my eyes. He always said how much he loved my eyes.
After reading to Maddox for over an hour, I turn in early. He’s excited about tomorrow. He’s nervous about tomorrow.
I’m terrified about tomorrow.
Lying in bed, trying to fall asleep for the past two hours, I hear a text come in and reach for my phone on the nightstand.
Gavin: Just wanted to let you know I arrived. You don’t have to text me back, I know you’re out with friends. I can’t wait to meet Maddox. I can’t wait to see you. Until then, sweet dreams, darlin’.
Oh, why didn’t you go? my body screams at me. He’s probably sitting there looking all gorgeous, drinking his whisky and wondering how tomorrow will play out. I could end a lot of needless tension if I get up right now and drive over there. My fingers hover over my phone, aching to text him back. Aching to tell him I’ll be there in mere minutes.
I know exactly what my heroines would do if this were one of my books.
Suddenly, I jump out of bed and quickly shuffle to my office in thick socks that muffle my footsteps on the hardwood floor. I flip on the soft light over my desk that only illuminates my laptop, leaving the rest of the room in shadows. I push aside my current work-in-progress, gathering up numerous notes and outlines and shoving them haphazardly into a folder. I open the lid to my laptop and start typing.
W.I.P. – Untitled Book #15
He was a sophomore. Me—a freshman. And from the very second he looked down on me sprawled out at his feet, I knew he was my destiny . . .