Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
She sits up a little, eyes bright. “Was that a great line or was that a great line? It just came out! The whole thing. It was like… it was like…” She sighs. “It was like I had been blind, and deaf, and mute, and locked away in a sensory deprivation chamber—well, except no water—and then these words just started flying out of my mouth, and I kept going, and I felt them—truly, deeply, like they were a part of my soul—and when I was done I knew they were real and I had finally found my true self.” She lets out a breath. “Yeah. It was like that.”
I chuckle. And I’m about to say something expected, like, Thank you. Or I feel the same, or Would you like to go on another date?
But then a memory comes back to me. A memory of meeting Cordelia at the convention, just about a month ago now, and how I first characterized her, to myself, in my own head.
And it occurs to me… that perhaps my lovely Cordelia might want to hear these words out loud as well.
“Cordy, you lovely creature of a woman, you are the only person in the room who can write a run-on sentence with such skill, and emotion, and moxie that one does not even understand that you, beautiful, sweet Cordelia, just wrote the world’s longest run-on sentence because they have been captivated—imprisoned, even—by your brilliant author voice. And while your ability to string words together for the longest of sequences is what drew me to you in the first place, it is your courage, and your heart, and your love and respect for the hidden meaning just below the surface, that held me captive and made me crave you—the embodiment of the unexpected, and unique, and peculiar. Much the way most people crave the ordinary, and the predictable, and the easy. Being with you, Cordelia, makes me feel like I’ve just arrived home after a long trip away, and when you showed up for me today… when you saved me from myself…”
I look down at her. She is gazing up at me like I’m that guy on the horse, the one who rides in to save people. But I’m not that guy. She is.
“You, Cordelia, are the hero of my story. And I would like nothing more than to do pedestrian, everyday, mundane things with you. Because if I’m doing them with you, they will be intense, and thought-provoking, and nothing short of exceptional. And I hope—no, I know—that you are the missing piece of my puzzle.”
We stare lovingly at each other as the twilight turns dark and the stars begin to twinkle above us.
“Was that cliché?” I ask.
She shakes her head, laughing. “What?”
“The whole puzzle piece thing? It’s overdone, right? I should rewrite that. Remind me to rewrite that.”
She pats my chest and sighs and we spend the next few minutes floating and dreaming.
“OK, here’s the edit,” I side-eye Cordelia as she chuckles. “When you said those things about me today, Cordy, you made me feel visible. You made me feel seen. You got me. And I just want you to know that I don’t care if I lose everything. I just don’t want to lose you.”
I lean back, semi-satisfied with my declaration.
Cordelia scoots up on her knees, climbs into my lap, and places her hands on my cheeks as she gazes down into my eyes. “It’s going to be fine, Steve. It really is. It’s going to work out the way it was meant to work out because you did everything right. Both spellings.”
And then she kisses me, sweeping me off my feet, and we make classic romance-novel gold right there in the back of a boat.
Leslie Munch’s foray into the life of a victim was going quite well for several weeks in a row now. That table move—every time she thought about it, she just thanked her lucky stars that she was so drugged up on painkillers and rage, she didn’t really consider the consequences of falling flat on her face again.
Didn’t really feel it, either.
Not until the next day.
This rage, and numbness, is what allowed her to keep the accusations going. One after the other after the other as she was wheeled out of the hotel on a gurney—again. And even she could admit that some of her allegations are borderline ridiculous. However, she was wearing a cat nightgown when all this went down that day, and that damage needed to be controlled.
Steve, as far as Leslie is concerned, was responsible for her wearing that nightgown. He drove her to the edge of madness. On purpose. Whether he had anything to do with how it the nightgown got on her body was beside the point.
He needs to pay.
And pay he will.
Her lawyer sent the offer over earlier that day and the early word was, Steve was gonna take her up on it.