Write Me A Love Story

Chapter Twenty-One:

Why is accepting what's in front of you so hard?
*

For two weeks, we made a routine. He made sure I made a daily word count goal; and kept it. He checked in on it, too. Having the word file synced to his phone, Reece read along as I wrote. He cheered me on, made notes, and helped me edit the entire way.

When we weren't together, we were on the phone, following along with laughs and giggles, talking my characters through their scenes.

But when we were together, it was sweet. If we had a quiet room at the library, Reece filled it with teas and snacks. Those were the nights I felt like the kids that would be in the neighboring rooms—whispering, giggling, cuddling up close to read the same sheet of paper.

If we went to his or my place; well, that took a lot of focus. We'd write, we'd make notes, and he'd give me pointers on what Zeke or Cari needed to do next. But while this happened, he touched me and I touched him. Our lips continued to take adventures with each other. The word count for those days was relatively... small. And I met them.

Everything felt smooth. My confidence was high. I was ready, and anxious, aiming to finish and see my dream come true.

But the morning before, I felt that dwindle. My stomach hurt. I was nervous. The document in front of me scared me.

I couldn't write the last paragraph.

"What if I drop a lemon slice in your tea? Does that calm you down?" Reece stood in my kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets, looking through my selection of teas. Franny followed him around, meowing quietly as if giving him direction.

With my head in my hands, my gaze was stuck on the incomplete page of my story. The cursor line blinked. A word was incorrectly spelled the sentence before; the red squiggle screamed at me.

"I'll put some honey in it, babe." Reece put a mug on the counter, dropped a tea bag inside of it, the reached for the kettle he warmed up minutes before. "Just the way you always make it."

"I don't think tea is going to fix this." I dug my fingers into my hair, gently scratching at my scalp. I knew what I needed to write; Reece helped me plot it two nights ago.

But for two nights, it was such a difficult task.

At first, it was easy—get home, conclude the story, having hit over the word count goal. Then the second night hit; having not done I second-guessed it. I typed it twelve times and deleted it right after.

But tonight—the night before the deadline—I couldn't do it. It all felt wrong. It was a waste. It was awful. Who would read this anyway?

"What you need to do is relax." Reece scooted the second chair at my table and put it beside me. He placed the mug in front of me, too. His sweet hand passed over my back and he kissed my cheek. He tried his hardest to look into my eyes. "What you're feeling is normal."

"Normal?" I blinked at him, straightening so I leaned back in my chair. "Panic is normal?"

Reece shrugged and nodded, smiling softly. "Actually yeah."

"What about you?" I pinched my brows together as I tried to keep my nerves in check. "You're a writer. You wrote that entire horror novel—"

"I did."

"Did you panic then? Did you feel this?" I patted my chest as if it made an impact.

He shook his head. "No, I didn't, not really..."

Oh, great. The man who didn't panic was telling me this was normal. I closed my eyes and hummed. "Great," I whispered.

"Hey." Reece reached for my hand and squeezed it. "I had a lot of pain that went into that draft; all the inspiration to pull from. I needed to get it out to feel better. It's dark, it's old, and I leave it out as a memory."