Tim nodded withsympathetic understanding. “It’s one of the hardest things in life; watchingthe people you love die.”
My smile was gettingharder to maintain. “I came here to write. I mean, I knew I was going to bewatching her and making sure she didn’t burn the damn house down, but I alsocame here for my own selfish reasons. But that obviously wasn’t working out, soI went looking for something else to do, to get a break from all of this, and…”
“And?”
Wiping a hand over myeyes, I sighed mournfully. “And I managed to stumble into evenmoreshit.”
Tim chuckled tightly.“How do you mean?”
Despite having known Timfor months now, I had never spoken to him much about my job babysitting thegirls. We kept our relationship very professional and vague, but there, at mygrandmother’s kitchen table, I felt myself slipping into the urgent need totellsomeone.
And so, I told him howit’d started innocently enough: how I’d been approached in a bar by afour-year-old. I laughed at the absurdity of it now, laughing even harder whenI realized how I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. I told him about myimmediate bolt of inspiration after meeting Jon, after learning his name andthe sadness in his eyes. And how I started writing with direction for the firsttime in months. I told him about the friendship that had blossomed between us,his jobofferfrom Devin, and when I got to the partabout the physical change in our relationship, I stopped.
I chewed on my bottomlip and ran my fingers through my unkempt hair. I was close totears, andwondered if perhaps I was too tired to talk aboutthis. I didn’t nap at Jon’s and Ihadbeen awake since early in the morning.
“What happened?” Timgently pushed, dipping his head to seek my eyes.
“Our relationshipchanged,” I told him, shrugging my shoulders. “We’d been just friends, and thathad felt safe, even while I was writing this stupid book. But now, it’s more.It’s a lot more, I think, and now I feel so guilty. I’m so scared that when hefinds out about what I’ve been writing, he’s going to hate me. He’s been hurtso badly, and now, he’sbetter. Butwhat’s going to happen to him when he finds out I’ve been using him? Is thisbook really worth that?”
Tim exhaled heavilythrough his nose and nodded sagely. “Well, that is an interesting predicamentyou’ve gotten yourself into.”
“No kidding,” Imuttered.
“But you encouraged himto continue writing and following his passion, with healing in mind, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, how is that any differentfrom what you’re doing?”
Pressing my fistagainst my cheek, I eyed him skeptically. “I highly doubt he’s writing songsabout his experiences with me—”
“But you don’t knowthatfor sure.”
“No, I guess not,” Ireplied glumly, slumping further into my chair.
“Listen, sweetie. Idon’t have a creative bone in my body, but in the time that I’ve been workinghere, I have read every single one of your grandmother’s books. The man in herseries? Who do you think he’s inspired by?” When I responded with an expressionof cluelessness, he chuckled gently. “Yourgrandfather,honey. M.L. Lang’s love interest in that phenomenal book series was based onwhat she knew. I mean, hell. Why do you think everybody says to write aboutwhat you know?”
“So … you don’t think Ishould feel guilty?”
Tim laid a hand overmine. “Honey, I can’t tell you how to feel. If you’retrulyfeeling guilty, then maybe you should reevaluate this storyof yours before you decide to pull the trigger and publish the thing. Changethings up a bit, maybe. But for now, if it’s helping you through this toughthing you’re dealing with, then I don’t think you have anything at all to feelguilty about.”
My sigh left me with afeeling of weightlessness. Passing my secrets along to someone else really hadmade me feel better, and I thanked Tim for his listening ear and help.
***
“Tessa, I said I don’twantany!”
Grandma wasexceptionally defiant this morning, and after only a few hours of sleep, I wasexceptionally exhausted and impatient.
“Fine, then. Don’teat.” I stood up from the table to pour myself a cup of tea, when two slices oftoast landed on the floor at my feet, the pieces scattering crumbs all over thetiles. I turned to Grandma and countered her scowl with one of my own. “Youdon’tneed to act like achild.”
“You don’t need to actlike you know what’s best for me.”
Bending to gather thetoast in my palm, I muttered, “Whatever. Go watch TV.”
“I will!”
I wasn’t in the mood tofight with her. It was Sunday, my supposed day off from watching Jon’s girls,and yet, I felt more at work now than I ever did with them. I thought aboutcalling him and seeing what they were up to today. I could ask them to comeover for lunch. Maybe seeing him and his daughters would cheer Grandma up andmake her come close to smiling again.
