Three months later, on March 1st, my agent has a manuscript in her hands. It doesn’t have a title yet and frankly, I’m not sure she’ll even be able to pitch it. Dark and satirical, it’s unlike anything I’ve written before.

On a whim, I email a copy to j.s.beck. I don’t care if he reads it or not. I don’t care if he loves it or hates it. And that’s the point—I don’t need him to build me up anymore, to bolster my writer’s identity with praise or critique.

I don’t need him.

A written purging of my demons, the finished novel is a reimagining of an obscure Scottish legend. Faintly dystopian and classically tragic, if it goes to print I’m guessing it will be thrown across rooms more than it’s treasured.

It’s not a happy tale.

* * *

“It’s phenomenal!” yells the voice of my agent. “Depressing and heartbreaking and magnificent! I cried at least three times and you know how much I hate to ruin my mascara!”

My phone sits face-up on my kitchen table with the speaker on, bringing Rachel Tanaka’s normally earsplitting tone to new heights. Allison grins at me from the chair opposite mine and mimics plugging her ears.

“Are you sure it’s not too bleak?” I ask Rachel.

“No! Okay maybe, but I’m not sure I want you to change anything. I’ll run it past the usual suspects, see what they think. I’ll get back to you by the end of next week. Good?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Fabulous!”

The line goes dead.

Allison laughs. “She’s one of those, huh? Who don’t do goodbyes on the phone?”

I chuckle and nod. “She’s a character.”

Allison stands and stretches her arms over her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to come tonight?”

“I’m sure. Thanks, though.”

Every Friday, the café she manages, Tullamore, has an open mic night from seven until ten. I’ve gone a few times and enjoyed it, but watching a movie with my feet up and a glass of wine in my hand sounds infinitely better than sitting with strangers while Allison works. Even when some of those strangers are criminally sexy, flirtatious musicians.

Allison and I say goodbye at the front door. She runs down the short walk to her car, jacket over her head to keep the downpour off her curls.

A gust of wind sweeps rain under my porch roof and into my face. I jump back and close the door, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. From the kitchen, I hear the muted buzz of my phone. Another buzz comes almost immediately, then a pause, and one more buzz.

Thinking it’s Allison trying one more time to get me out tonight, I retrieve my phone and read the three short messages on the screen.

You wrote about selkies

FUCKING SELKIES!

I’m coming over

I drop the phone like it’s bitten me. It bounces off the edge of the table and lands on the wood with a crack.

Three months and not a word. Three months to accept his absence in my life. Three months of letting go, of finding my own peace and happiness. Of feeling like a whole person, mature and confident.

I’ve even ventured into the dating world, the most recent contender a man I met at Bluebird Books. He’s pursuing a PhD in Art History; funny, intelligent, and down-to-earth, he’s taking me to dinner next weekend.

Three months…

...and I’ll still beg for scraps from James Beckett’s table.

I run into my bathroom and crank on the shower, scrambling out of my clothes and under the flow. The water’s not even close to hot yet but I grit my teeth and wash myself head to toe. A razor in my shaking hand makes bloody work of my legs, though I manage to get my shit together for more delicate parts.

The water is just beginning to heat to bearable levels when I turn it off, jump out, and towel dry. I race across my bedroom and yank open my dresser, throwing leggings and a sweater on the bed.

“What’s the hurry, pet?”

I scream and jump backward. My foot catches on an area rug and I’m falling, falling… until strong fingers clench on the knot of towel between my breasts and drag me upright. Viridescent eyes sparkle down at me in delight.

“Still a disaster,” he murmurs.

Caught in the heart-shredding grip of adrenaline, I yell, “Jesus Christ! How did you get in!”

He grins. “You really shouldn’t leave your front door unlocked.” With a final tug on the knot, he releases me. “Put some clothes on, little muse. I’ll brew us some tea.”

I gape at him. He winks, then saunters from my bedroom, whistling a jaunty tune as he heads toward the kitchen.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

The universe doesn’t answer.

Probably a good thing.

I tug on thick leggings, wincing at the sting from multiple small cuts on my legs. Why did I bother? Obviously we had completely different perspectives on what would happen if he came to my house. I’m an idiot. Since when has he ever done what I expect him to?

Over a bra and camisole, I pull on my rattiest, bulkiest sweater, then grab a hair clip from the top of my dresser. Not bothering with a mirror, I gather the damp strands onto the top of my head, wind them into a thick spiral, and clamp a portion with the clip’s plastic teeth.

When I enter the living room, I find James looking right at home on my couch, flipping through a book with his feet on the coffee table.

At my footfalls, he glances up. “You bought a new couch.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “If you liked the old one, I believe it’s still available for purchase from Goodwill. Fair warning—it’s stained.”

His eyes narrow, glinting with sharp humor. “Touché.”

I cock an eyebrow. “If you wanted to give me feedback about the book, an email would have sufficed.”

His lips twitch. “But then I would miss out on this enlightening banter.”

“I wouldn’t call it enlightening,” I counter. “Tedious and oblique come to mind.”

His grin is sudden and wicked, transforming his eyes, his face.

Transforming him into someone I know.

The man I loved.

James.

The kettle whistles softly, gaining in volume as we stare at each other. When it’s loud enough to elicit winces from both of us, he finally stands.

Passing me on the way to the kitchen, he says, “Timing is everything, I suppose.”

I agree.

I was fully prepared to meet him skin to skin, to lose myself in his arms. But if it’s my heart he wants?

He’s three months too late.