“Because the heart wants what it wants.”
“Then my heart’s a motherfucking joke if it wants you.”
“That doesn’t help, Florence.” I sighed, and deleted it again.
I stared at the cursor, but all I could hear was my fight with Lee, our voices growing louder and louder until we were screaming at each other—and I wondered if it was me.
If I had just overreacted. And why couldn’t I get over him? Why did it still hurt?
Why was I so weak?
“Because the heart wants what it wants.”
“Then my heart’s a motherfucking joke if it wants you.”
She gave him a sad, defeated look. “But why you?”
“That’s going well.” This time it was not me who said it, but a voice to my side that made me jump. Ben sat on the stool next to me, leaning over just enough to read my screen.
I slammed my laptop shut, cheeks burning. “Rude!”
Dana leaned forward over the check-in counter to give me a puzzled look.
I smiled politely at them and said quieter to Ben, angling my face away from them, “It’s rude to look at someone else’s work.”
Especially when it’s as bad as mine.
He sat back with his arms crossed over his chest. “I have a feeling you are writing from a very raw place right now.”
“No shit,” I deadpanned. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
He visibly winced at that one, and looked a little ashamed of himself. “I thought you were working on your father’s obituary. I didn’t mean to spy on your writing.”
I narrowed my eyes.
He held up his hands in defeat. “I promise, darling, nothing more.”
Darling. A knot caught in my throat and I quickly looked away. I thought I hated all kinds of pet names. Dear, sweetie, honey, but I guessed I hated it when Lee called me bunny, because he said I looked like a startled rabbit when something caught me unawares. He said it was endearing.
It wasn’t.
But then why did the word darling get my heart racing?
“And,” he added, “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I snapped at you, and I had no right to.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I replied. “I had no right to judge you or your life when mine’s a mess. Clearly,” I added, motioning toward my laptop. “I’m so fucked up I can’t even write a kissing scene.”
He tilted his head, debating quietly. He was choosing his words. I liked that about him, that when words mattered, he thought about them before he said them. “It was . . . nice, actually, to have someone tell me it wasn’t my fault. Even if I don’t agree.”
“I hope you change your mind someday.”
He smiled a little sadly. “I don’t think it matters anymore.” Because he was dead. I opened my mouth to say something, to console him, to tell him it still did matter, when he said, “So, what has you stuck? Remember: I said I’d help if I could. I’d like to.”
He didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
I drained my rum and Coke. “Okay, so: Here’s my problem. I haven’t been able to write for about a year now. I don’t see the point anymore. I used to believe in love, but I really don’t now. Every time I try to imagine it, I can only think about how mine ended.”
“One relationship doesn’t—”
“One?” I shook my head with a soft laugh. “If it was one, Ben, I’d be lucky. Dad said I had a string of bad luck, but I don’t really think that anymore. Guys just . . . don’t want someone like me. Or maybe they do, but they just don’t want me.” My eyebrows furrowed as I stared at the condensation on my glass, but all I could see were the times I’d been dumped, broken up with, left outside in the cold April rain—literally. “Maybe I’m the problem.”