I lean my head back against the wall, hands dangling between my knees. Drunk and not drunk. Sober and not sober. Locking eyes with Kit Isley in his newly purchased love nest doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel like shit. I look back at his face because I want to know what he’s feeling. I can see Kit’s chest heaving. Deep breaths because … what? Maybe he had a dream too. Maybe he feels a connection too. It’s probably all in my head, and that’s what makes me feel truly crazy, that I might be making all of this up. I don’t know what propels me to say it. Obviously, I’ve been doing a lot of crazy shit lately.
“Hey, Kit.” My voice is barely audible. I touch my lips to make sure they’re really moving. “I had a dream.”
I move the hair from my eyes so that I can see him clearly, and hold it back out of my face.
His eyes get wide; his lips unfold.
“So you’ve said.” His voice is soft. “What was your dream about?”
Now that he’s asking I don’t know how to say it. Thick tongue, thicker thoughts. How does one declare lunacy? My chest begins to ache. This was a huge mistake. I am still feeling the alcohol from dinner.
Then Della drops something in the kitchen. A glass shatters along with my moment. Timing is everything when you’re about to tell someone you dreamed him into your heart. Fuck if that’s not the corniest thing I ever heard. Kit’s head turns toward the kitchen where Della is cursing loudly, calling for help. He glances back at me regretfully. His eyes drag over my face one last moment, and then he is gone. I don’t even say goodbye. I sneak out while they are in the kitchen. I won’t be missed. I’ve always been the weird one anyway, expected to do things like this. Della likes being around her friends, but ever since she started dating Kit she’s needed us less and less. Which is good. Except not, because I can’t do what I’m thinking. I can’t.
The next morning I open my e-mail to find something from Kit. Last week someone hacked his e-mail and sent me a virus in the form of skinny pills, so I don’t open it right away. I wash my face, make coffee, and put Pat Benatar on the record player. When I finally settle down with my computer, I see that the e-mail is untitled. I brace myself for another virus, but when I open the file, it’s a chapter. I feel giddy that he’s writing again. I sip my coffee and scroll through to see how long it is. It’s been a while since the last time Kit sent me a chapter, and a while since I read a good book. Last I read George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown were stuck between a rock and a hard place. Denver broke his leg and lost his job, and Stephanie, being the ever-kind soul that she was, let him move in with her. George was now at a disadvantage and hoping to injure himself as well. I picture them all living in Stephanie Brown’s small apartment and giggle. People didn’t really take such desperate measures for love. Poor Stephanie Brown was running herself dry with all of their neediness. But when I scroll down, it’s not their story I see. It’s something new. Something that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck from sheer creepiness. I close my computer. Drum my fingers on the case. Open it again. It’s still there, and I’m not dreaming.
CHAPTER ONE
THE DREAM
When I am finished reading, I shut down my computer and go back to bed. I feel safer in my cocoon of creamy sheets and fat pillows. How? How on Earth did he write that? What did it mean? How could he? I stare at the cold coffee on my nightstand and feel ill.
I’m so embarrassed. What was I thinking telling him that? I gave Kit a few words, some ill guarded emotion, and behold! Chapter One: The Dream. Did Chapter One come out of him or me? I don’t know much about artists, but I’m beginning to feel as if they possess sorcery.
My lease is up in a month. I can move. God, haven’t I always wanted to get out of this hot cesspool of sweaty, tanned people and sharp palm trees? I have a disease called can’t keep your fucking mouth shut. And seriously, if you know you’re going to implode, isn’t it better to get to the going?
“Calm down, Helena. You can’t leave town because your best friend’s boyfriend has psychic powers.”
I crawl toward my phone and check my text messages. There’s a message from Kit.
K: I wrote five more chapters last night.
What happens in those five chapters? I want to know. His characters have no names; he simply calls them He and She. He does this. She does that. It’s elusive, and his male character’s use of portmanteau words makes me smile. That’s Kit. Fralad for a fried chicken salad, which the character doesn’t think is a salad at all. Smust when he’s not sure if he’s smitten or in lust. Priend for an acquaintance that thinks they’re a friend. And then I find myself searching for myself in the woman, who Kit describes as being aloof, preoccupied, and disconnected from the world around her. Was I those things? Or was I self-absorbed to think she was me? It crosses my mind that my words to him last night could have struck an idea, and the similarities could be coincidental.
I text back. What is this book going to be about?
His text bubble appears as he starts to type, then abruptly it’s gone. It starts, then it’s gone again. He’s typing things then erasing them. I strangle my phone, then slam it on the bed a few times. It’s lying facedown on the comforter, and I lift the corner to peek at the screen. There isn’t a text. I go to the kitchen for a snack, then circle my bed a few times while I spoon peanut butter into my mouth from the jar. I’m scared that he’s texted. I’m also scared that he hasn’t.
“You chicken!” I yell. I lunge for the phone, dropping the peanut butter jar on the floor.
The first text message is from Della: CALL ME NOW!
All caps. We reserve all caps for emergencies.
Kit’s text is underneath Della’s.
K: You tell me.
I don’t know what that means. Is he telling me that since I inspired the story, I have say over where it goes? I call Della.
“The test was wrong!” she screams into the phone.
It takes a minute to register what she’s talking about. The test was…
“What?!”
“I took another one. I took five. They’re all positive.”
My head is spinning. I sit on the edge of the bed and put my head between my knees. I’m waiting for my feelings to catch up to my shock. Somehow I know they’re not going to be good feelings, happy ones. Though they should be because my best friend is having a baby.
“Hey, Kit.” My voice is barely audible. I touch my lips to make sure they’re really moving. “I had a dream.”
I move the hair from my eyes so that I can see him clearly, and hold it back out of my face.
His eyes get wide; his lips unfold.
“So you’ve said.” His voice is soft. “What was your dream about?”
Now that he’s asking I don’t know how to say it. Thick tongue, thicker thoughts. How does one declare lunacy? My chest begins to ache. This was a huge mistake. I am still feeling the alcohol from dinner.
Then Della drops something in the kitchen. A glass shatters along with my moment. Timing is everything when you’re about to tell someone you dreamed him into your heart. Fuck if that’s not the corniest thing I ever heard. Kit’s head turns toward the kitchen where Della is cursing loudly, calling for help. He glances back at me regretfully. His eyes drag over my face one last moment, and then he is gone. I don’t even say goodbye. I sneak out while they are in the kitchen. I won’t be missed. I’ve always been the weird one anyway, expected to do things like this. Della likes being around her friends, but ever since she started dating Kit she’s needed us less and less. Which is good. Except not, because I can’t do what I’m thinking. I can’t.
The next morning I open my e-mail to find something from Kit. Last week someone hacked his e-mail and sent me a virus in the form of skinny pills, so I don’t open it right away. I wash my face, make coffee, and put Pat Benatar on the record player. When I finally settle down with my computer, I see that the e-mail is untitled. I brace myself for another virus, but when I open the file, it’s a chapter. I feel giddy that he’s writing again. I sip my coffee and scroll through to see how long it is. It’s been a while since the last time Kit sent me a chapter, and a while since I read a good book. Last I read George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown were stuck between a rock and a hard place. Denver broke his leg and lost his job, and Stephanie, being the ever-kind soul that she was, let him move in with her. George was now at a disadvantage and hoping to injure himself as well. I picture them all living in Stephanie Brown’s small apartment and giggle. People didn’t really take such desperate measures for love. Poor Stephanie Brown was running herself dry with all of their neediness. But when I scroll down, it’s not their story I see. It’s something new. Something that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck from sheer creepiness. I close my computer. Drum my fingers on the case. Open it again. It’s still there, and I’m not dreaming.
CHAPTER ONE
THE DREAM
When I am finished reading, I shut down my computer and go back to bed. I feel safer in my cocoon of creamy sheets and fat pillows. How? How on Earth did he write that? What did it mean? How could he? I stare at the cold coffee on my nightstand and feel ill.
I’m so embarrassed. What was I thinking telling him that? I gave Kit a few words, some ill guarded emotion, and behold! Chapter One: The Dream. Did Chapter One come out of him or me? I don’t know much about artists, but I’m beginning to feel as if they possess sorcery.
My lease is up in a month. I can move. God, haven’t I always wanted to get out of this hot cesspool of sweaty, tanned people and sharp palm trees? I have a disease called can’t keep your fucking mouth shut. And seriously, if you know you’re going to implode, isn’t it better to get to the going?
“Calm down, Helena. You can’t leave town because your best friend’s boyfriend has psychic powers.”
I crawl toward my phone and check my text messages. There’s a message from Kit.
K: I wrote five more chapters last night.
What happens in those five chapters? I want to know. His characters have no names; he simply calls them He and She. He does this. She does that. It’s elusive, and his male character’s use of portmanteau words makes me smile. That’s Kit. Fralad for a fried chicken salad, which the character doesn’t think is a salad at all. Smust when he’s not sure if he’s smitten or in lust. Priend for an acquaintance that thinks they’re a friend. And then I find myself searching for myself in the woman, who Kit describes as being aloof, preoccupied, and disconnected from the world around her. Was I those things? Or was I self-absorbed to think she was me? It crosses my mind that my words to him last night could have struck an idea, and the similarities could be coincidental.
I text back. What is this book going to be about?
His text bubble appears as he starts to type, then abruptly it’s gone. It starts, then it’s gone again. He’s typing things then erasing them. I strangle my phone, then slam it on the bed a few times. It’s lying facedown on the comforter, and I lift the corner to peek at the screen. There isn’t a text. I go to the kitchen for a snack, then circle my bed a few times while I spoon peanut butter into my mouth from the jar. I’m scared that he’s texted. I’m also scared that he hasn’t.
“You chicken!” I yell. I lunge for the phone, dropping the peanut butter jar on the floor.
The first text message is from Della: CALL ME NOW!
All caps. We reserve all caps for emergencies.
Kit’s text is underneath Della’s.
K: You tell me.
I don’t know what that means. Is he telling me that since I inspired the story, I have say over where it goes? I call Della.
“The test was wrong!” she screams into the phone.
It takes a minute to register what she’s talking about. The test was…
“What?!”
“I took another one. I took five. They’re all positive.”
My head is spinning. I sit on the edge of the bed and put my head between my knees. I’m waiting for my feelings to catch up to my shock. Somehow I know they’re not going to be good feelings, happy ones. Though they should be because my best friend is having a baby.
