Page 62 of Room for Us
I write. And write. And when the sun hangs low and hazy outside, I collapse on the bed, dizzy and drained.
I sleep.
When I wake, I write.
34
He doesn’t leave the Rose Room for three days.
His focus is like nothing I’ve seen before. I have no reference points for it. All I can do is support it. Accept it. And wait for him to come back to me. If he wants to.
So I take care of myself foremost and take care of him as best as I can. The most I can do is make sure he eats and drinks. And sometimes, when his shoulders are especially stiff and high, I massage them until he relaxes again. But I generally leave him alone, and he barely speaks to me, anyway. I’ve been sleeping downstairs; we don’t talk about why.
On Wednesday afternoon, I come home from a lunch with my mom wherein she informed me that once Zander goes off to college in the fall, she’ll be taking a trip to Europe. A three-month trip. She’s going with someone but won’t tell me who, only that he’s a kind, caring person. Indignant, I pulled the ‘I told you about sex with Ethan!’ card, but then she whipped out the, ‘I still don’t know what happened with Chris!’ card, and we called it a draw.
Dumping my purse in the foyer, I listen for sounds of life upstairs. When I don’t hear anything, I walk up and open the door of the Rose Room to see his chair empty. A quick glance finds him on the bed, his eyes open, mapping worlds on the ceiling only he can see. He’s freshly showered, his hair still damp. So close, but I’ve never seen him so far away.
Uncertainty grips me. I halt with one foot in the room, one foot out. The reason I’m here escapes me; my hands are empty, my heart pounding so hard I can’t think.
Did I actually want to tell him about lunch with my mom? Why would he care?
Ethan’s eyes shift in my direction. For a moment, I’m a stranger. My stomach freezes and sinks, and my arms tingle. Then he smiles, and his eyes warm.
“Hi there.” He pats the bed beside him. “Come sit next to me.”
As I walk to the bed and perch beside him, I’ve never been more aware of the larger picture of us. We met less than two weeks ago as innkeeper and impossible guest. Had a few soul-shattering conversations and explosive sex a handful of times. But if the last three days have reminded me of anything, it’s that this is why he’s here—to write this book.
I can’t help the thought that maybe I’ve served my purpose in his life. There’s an ache in my chest, nostalgia for a future unwritten. Something that might have been, could have been… but won’t be.
I wish Aunt B would talk to me, offer some retort or reprimand or advice. But she’s gone. Gone. The ache deepens.
I’ve barely settled when Ethan grabs my hand. Warm, strong fingers linking with mine. His thumb strokes mine. I stare at the contact, wanting to feel it, have it mean something it doesn’t.
“What have you been up to?” he asks.
“The usual,” I answer, smiling and hoping it doesn’t look too forced. “Cleaning, grocery shopping. Hunting for a contractor to fix the porch ceiling. Zander’s been coming to help tend the yard. How’s the book?”
“Good. Really good.” He pauses, and his eyes go distant again. “I didn’t realize how much I missed the characters. It’s been a reunion, of sorts.” Another shift, his attention coming back to the room and to me. “I did what you suggested.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Huh?”
He smiles softly. “Remember me saying that on the way out here I had the feeling of a part of me dying? Or being left behind?”
I nod, confused.
“It was there all along. The idea you gave voice to. These characters—they’re a part of me. And I’m not going to lie, it hurts. Almost like a real death.” He sighs, his other hand coming up to rub the space over his heart. “It hurts more than I want to admit.”
I finally understand, my eyes widening with the realization. “You killed him. The main character.”
He laughs softly, fingers squeezing mine again. “I did. And it’s fucking scary, thinking about what the reaction will be. I can already see the scathing reviews. But I think they’ll forgive me. Most of them, anyway. It isn’t about his death, per se. Not really. It’s about life.”
All I can think is, “That’s a big risk.” I want to eat the words the second they’re out, but he only nods.
“Yes, it is. But just because we don’t like death, or ignore its impending claim, doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect all of us. It surrounds us. And so often—in literature and life—something must die for something else to live.”
“I think you’re right,” I murmur, while staring at his beautiful face and wondering if there’s a limit to this man’s mind. I’ve never met anyone who thinks like him, talks like him. Makes love like him—with a whole-being intensity that gives back just as much as it consumes.
Who am I to make any claim on understanding him? And why did I ever once think he found me as interesting as I find him?
