Though he desperately refuses the conformities of modern novel tropes, George acknowledges he's just the same as every book character. A side character that is. Studying his way into writing a hit novel George has to master the ups and downs of his...
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"One of us has gotta try to keep a promise." I'm trying (not friends) Maisie Peters
"This is depressing."
"Give me the book."
"I think you should revise it a bit." George grappled for the first rough copy of his novel the agents sent him for approval process number one. The blue book has an abundance of ugly green trim that we agree needs to be rethought and reimagined. "Maybe cut the ugly parts about me out of it."
"You deserve to be slandered, asshole."
George, the ever-pretty man he is, flutters his lashes down unknowingly. He moves with quiet ease while brushing hair from his eyes straining under the harsh hospital light. I have no fear when he's here, that might be on the right edge of cliché but George changes everything.
"And you should enter a beauty pageant, you'd win."
"Shut up."
"You won when we were younger!"
"Only because I was the only one in my age category!"
"Hey," I huff offended slightly, "I entered as well."
"Congrats on runner-up," came his deadpan reply. And here I am once again, minutes before a major surgery laughing much like a young child in our secret hideout. George's stern expression gave way to a fond grin before he dropped all his distractions to look at me seriously. "It's okay to be scared you know."
"I'm not." A pause, "what if it doesn't work out?"
"Then we find your new dream."
Chewing on my lip, the nurse silently walks in to secure a few more things over my head before walking back out to find the doctor.
Whispering, as if not to break our peace, I say, "can it be you? Us?"
"Dream..."
"Not like that."
George, with his beautiful simple mind, frowns and grips the edge of my bed. "Like what then?"
"We should be roommates. Best friends who live in a nice house together." The idea is smile-worthy. "You can have a library and I can have a fancy computer office or something."
"That's not exactly a dream."
"No," I say firmly now, certain. "It's a plan. How do you feel about it?"
I don't get his answer because the doctor walks in ready to wheel me out. This surgery has a ninety percent chance of working. In the best case scenario, my shoulder will be fixed, and able to start training for Fire and Ice three weeks out. Worst case, I can't ever lift anything heavier than a fork or T-shirt in my left arm ever again.
