Humans are wired for stories. We cling to familiar beginnings, middles, and ends. Partners in crisis often feel they’ve reached the unhappy conclusion of their story, and have trouble imagining an alternative ending.
What if you rewrote your story? What if this wasn’t the end of your tale, but a place in the middle where the tide could turn?
Your assignment: pick a classic story with a tragic end, and improvise a retelling with a happily-ever-after. What new middle will lead to a happy ending?
Tip: you aren’t your character, but you share thesame brain. If you get stuck, reveal a secret or try something unexpected. Remember, in improv, nothing is a mistake!
—The Second Chances Handbook
I give my black satin vest one final tug, then force my reluctant fingers to reach for the doorbell.
“Push it, you coward,” I mutter. “What are you afraid of? It’s just Tobin. Probably nude. Maybe wet. Fuck my life.”
Picking the scenario is harder than I thought. There are plenty to choose from, but they all have names like “Forbidden Lovers” or “Close Quarters”—way too dangerous sounding, after what happened last time. I feel I should be forgiven for assuming a book with a chapter titled “Happy Endings” was a sex book, although I was relieved to discover this scenario is about stories.
When I told Tobin I wanted to rewriteThe Little Mermaid—the bloodthirsty 1800s version, complete with knives and death—I imagined being safely in charge. No more driving scenarios where I need a lift. No more hikes where I catch him smiling all the way back to the parking lot.
Granted, Disney rewrote it first, but I’ve made some improvements on their version, too, in that I made Tobin be the mermaid. Who can’t speak. Nothing’s safer than that. Or so I thought.
I’m only now remembering how good he is at body language. He’s a toucher, forever looking to make contact. Talented with the single eyebrow raise from across the room that promises he’s planning to break the bedframe later.
Before I met Tobin, I was half convinced body language was fake, like people bending spoons with their minds. I often can’t guess what people are thinking, beyond obvious smiling and frowning. And for all their supposed nonverbal communicationskills, other people can’t read me either. They bug me about my face, telling me I look sad when I feel calm, or scary when I’m bored. They can’t tell when I’m joking.
But Tobin can read me, when he looks. And sometime in the past four weeks, he started looking again. And he started letting me see him, too.
Now, on this porch, is a bad time to be admitting my vulnerability. I try to swallow the heart that creeps into my mouth—probably to yell at my brain at close range.
Heart:It cracks me right in half, how hard he’s trying.
Brain:Go ahead and put your key in the door, if you want to crack in half. I bet he hasn’t even noticed the sticky lock. If he has, he’s waiting for you to oil it, because you’re operations. Back of house.
Heart:Why are youlikethis?
I’m terrified of what’s on the other side of this door and what it will do to me. I wouldn’t put it past Tobin to be reclining in a giant clamshell.
I swallow and recheck my costume: sturdy boots over dark leggings, loose white shirt under a black vest, all topped with a feathered hat. It’s an outfit for a princess who walks the beaches alone, searching for someone she doesn’t even know she’s missing.
In the pocket of my vest, my phone buzzes.
Knock and enter. Lock door behind you.
Argh. He knows I’m here. Knows I’m standing on the stoop, arguing with myself. And whatever he’s set up in there requires a locked door.
Double argh.
The heir to the realm wouldn’t hesitate. She’d go anywhere she wanted. She owns this place.
Knocking twice, I push the door open. Its squeak has disappeared. The dead bolt turns smoothly, too, sliding home with a firmthunkthat feels…lubricated.
But I won’t think about sex words, or well-oiled dead bolts sliding home. Or anything besides the scene. Our problems are by no means fixed, and sex isn’t the way we’ll make progress.
It’s warm in here, with a tropical caress of coconut and saltwater in the air.
Already too hot, I unbutton my vest. “Tobin?”
There’s an odd swishing sound from the direction of the living room, but no reply.
“Where are y—”
