Not only that, but he was quite handsome.
He was quite tall. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and his eyes were hazel, almost gold. Beneath his thick dark brows, they almost looked like they were glowing in the dim lighting of the bar. His features were shockingly symmetrical, his jaw sharp and square but not too wide and shadowed by a day or two’s growth of stubble. He had dimples that were absolutely swoon-worthy, and his hands were large, his fingers long, his wrists thick.
Maybe it was his good looks that had made me wary of him at first. Men with good intentions never looked this good. Men with bad intentions? Well, they were much more likely to be this attractive. It opened doors for them.
“Are you going back to job hunting tomorrow then?” Wes asked.
I nodded and swirled my drink. Wes had ordered us a second Old Fashioned and it was going down even easier than the first. My hair had long since dried out and my clothes no longer clung cold and damp to my skin. “Yep, I don’t have a choice. I only have so much savings to last me a couple of months and I don’t want to blow through it all. Who knows what kind of deposits I might have to make when I find a place to rent? You know all about it, I’m sure. An artist’s life, am I right?”
Wes smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Struggling artists anonymous should be a support group.”
I giggled into my drink and took a sip. He intrigued me. “Can I read some of what you have written in there?”
Wes glanced at his notebook. “I fear I’m not nearly drunk enough to let a stranger read my work right in front of me. That’s the kind of stress that will turn my stomach into knots.”
“Am I not your target audience? I’m good at constructive feedback. I swear.”
He licked his lips.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “I’m just curious. And I love to read. And I want to know just what kind of writer you are, Wes. You’re tricky to figure out.”
“Women like a bit of mystery, don’t they?”
Damn him for always having a sly question prepared. “Sometimes.”
He surprised me by sliding the notebook across the bar to me. He patted the cover before flipping it open. Random scribblings filled the first two pages. Most of it had been aggressively crossed out. There were small notes written in the columns. Then as the pages went on, the scratch-outs grew fewer and farther between, like he’d found his rhythm.
I looked from the book up to him. “You’re sure?”
“Go ahead.”
I leaned over the notebook. His writing was elegant and somewhat old fashioned. It reminded me of the kind of writing one might see on an old love letter a soldier sent his woman back in the first or second World War.
A blue bird with a white puffed-up chest chirped outside the window while she swept the broken pieces of china into the dustpan. Fragmented flowers made a messy puzzle in the pan and she paused, staring down at it, lips turned down in a frown.
It had been the last one left of her mother’s china set. The first broke two years ago when a family friend knocked it off the coffee table. The second fell from the cabinet when she hit the leg with the vacuum cleaner. The third broke in the sink when it was struck with a metal pot. And now the fourth had crumbled to pieces after she hurled it at the floor.
She remembered drinking tea out of the flowery cups after dinner on special occasions with her mother and grandmother. Sometimes, they would have shortbread cookies or biscotti. Sometimes, they would talk. Sometimes, they wouldn’t. Regardless, the memories were fond and the cups were whole.
Unlike now.
She rose to her feet, opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink, and poured the debris of her mother’s last china cup into the garbage can. Her throat tightened, her eyes burned, and she closed the cupboard fiercely so she didn’t have to face what she’d done.
What she’d lost.
Why did everything she touch fall to ruin? Why couldn’t she keep things together? Why had she been plagued with the inevitability of destruction from the moment she left him that night, staring after her under a blanket of stars as she drove away in the back of a taxi that smelled like breath mints and cigarettes?
Why hadn’t she stayed?
Why hadn’t he fought for her?
Katelyn slid down the length of the cupboard, drew her knees to her chest and her hands to her face, and cried out the years of frustration that had turned her heart to stone.
I looked up from the page where the words ended and frowned. “That’s all there is so far?”
“There’s more before this. Plenty more. But it’s not refined. This is…” Wes trailed off. “It needs less work than the rest of it. Let’s put it that way.”
“It’s really good.”
“You have to say that. I’m sitting right here.”
“I mean it,” I pressed. And I did. The words were beautiful and sad. The woman was as broken and hollow as the cup she’d broken and I needed to know who this man was that she’d left behind—and I needed to know why he hadn’t followed her. “What happens in the end?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
I blinked in surprise. “What do you mean, you’re not sure? It’s your book! They’re your characters.”
Wes laughed and took his notebook back. “Yeah, you’re right. I have an idea of where it’s going. A destination, so to speak. But when I write, I have a tendency to take back roads and sometimes they lead to unexpected places. For all I know, this could end entirely differently than I see it in my head.”
“Which is how?”
“You’ll just have to wait until it’s finished to find out.”
It sounded to me like I might have just made my first friend in New York City. “Deal.”
Wes slid his notebook into his bag and checked the watch on his wrist. “Damn, it’s getting pretty late. This place closes in another half hour.”
“I should get back to my motel anyway. I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow.” I slid off my stool and collected my jacket. It was still damp but not nearly as soaked through as it had been when I first arrived.
“Can I drive you? The weather is still miserable.”
I considered saying no, but the thought of walking all the way back to my motel made my legs hurt. “That would be amazing.”
He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m parked out back. Let’s get out of here.” He called goodbye to Charlie, who waved without looking up at us while he dried freshly washed glasses. Wes opened the back door for me and we stepped into a well-lit parking lot. There were only three cars there. A red sedan, a black old mustang, and a luxury car of some sort in pearl white.
I assumed my new writer friend drove the sedan.
When he strode over to the pearl-white vehicle and opened the passenger door, I had to keep my composure. I thanked him, slid into the seat, and wondered how he made enough money to buy such a nice car. The interior was all white leather with red stitching. It smelled like new car and leather, and when he got in and started the ignition, I could barely hear it. All the lights in the dash came slowly to life, and an old rock song played softly on the radio.
“So where are you staying?” Wes asked.