Write Me A Love Story

22:

[Reece's POV]

The sound of my whiskey opening echoed in my kitchen. I never drank hard. But tonight, I needed it. The bottle had been sitting on my fridge for months, barely touched. I filled up my glass and watched the ice bob to the top.

The reflection of my white shirt and black pajama pants were a distorted reflection within my drink. I sighed. I wasn't sure what the whiskey would do. I'd end up dizzy, with a buzz, or it could shut me down. I wanted it to help me think. I needed my walls to fall and disintegrate to better understand Camila. Her fear. Her anxiety. Could I let her give up her dream so easily?

She'd worked so hard on this story. It was day and night, in between work shifts. That tale was her life and her emotions, and it deserved to see the world. I knew she had it from the moment she expressed her desires to me. Shit, it was in her novel—the action, the drama, the perfect number of stakes wrapped with a romance brewing with fear, like us. I wasn't perfect and I never said I was, but I was afraid when I met Camila. I was reclusive. Meeting her was like seeing a bright light, a refreshing brightness that my soul needed. I knew she had to feel the same about me. I needed her to think about this.

Grabbing my glass, I took a swig and moved into my living room. I plopped down on my couch with a hand to my face. I felt like I failed in her dream; she came to me for help and I promised to get her there. Now, I sat back and tried to accept her decision.

She wasn't going to enter her story. She was backing out of the contest. All her hard work would sit in an unused document, accumulating digital dust within her laptop. Where would Cari and Enzo go? What about their potential to save the world? Fuck you, imposter syndrome.

My phone buzzed on my coffee table. I grabbed it in an instant. Was it her? Did she change her mind? Perfect! I was here for her, I'd run to her place if she wanted me to, and I'd do all she asked to bring her out of her slump. I only needed the word.

Pressing my phone to my ear, I accepted the call. "Camila?"

No hello, no what's up—I went for it.

"Oh, no, did something happen between you two?"

I sighed as I leaned back on the couch. My body ached and the pillow didn't help. Maybe my disappointment manifested. It wasn't Camila on the phone, but Dolores. Why was she calling me so late?

"Hey, Mama," I whispered.

"Oh boy. Something did happen." She sighed. "You only call me mama when you're flustered."

I felt a little more than that. Anxious. Heavy. I lifted my glass and drank.

"Was that ice? Are you drinking? Oh, Reece, talk to me."

I chewed on my bottom lip and glanced over at my desk. My journals were scattered over the top in a mess. My laptop was open with the screen on standby, and a screensaver with small cubes bounced around the corners. Taking another large gulp from my cup, I stood and walked over to it, hissing as the alcohol slid down my chest.

I tapped a button on the keyboard to bring the computer to life. A tiny ding sounded. "Mama, remember when I said I wanted to write poems?"

Dolores hummed on the other line. "Of course I do."

I tapped my laptop to bring up a Word document. Camila's story. "And what did you tell me?"

There was a pause. Then Dolores cleared her throat. "Is there a reason why you're asking me?"

I couldn't hide that I was upset. I was tense. It was in my voice. If she was in front of me, she would see it. I sat down in my desk chair and slowly traced the wood with one hand. "I just need to know if I should do something."

"Do what?"

"Dolores, what was it you said to me? And why?" Sighing, I rubbed my forehead,

There was another pause. And a sigh. With the silence, I remembered the day Dolores told me to follow my dreams. I'd been depressed, convinced I couldn't write a thing. The words of a teenage boy were worthless in my eyes. Yet, before I could throw my sheets of paper into the trash, Dolores took my hand and forced me to continue. She convinced me to try and keep trying.

"You need to write your heart paper and share it with the world. And never, ever be afraid of what others think. Your words are just that—yours. Another person's opinion doesn't matter."

Yes, that was it. After she spoke to me, it became harder for me to give up. It may be why I wouldn't let myself hit a wall. My words, my stories, were valid. And Dolores was the person who pushed me.

I tapped Camila's document history. She'd finished editing it. She polished it, made it pristine, and I devoured every bit of it every chance I had. I went back to the last typed sentence, the one deleted right after. I licked my lips as I reread it.

It was a perfect ending. It left room for possible sequels. I couldn't let her pass up this chance.

My fingers hovered over the space bar. "Dolores, what would you have done if I said I couldn't do it, regardless of your advice?"

She chuckled. "Well, you remember what I said."

"I know," I bit my lip, "I just need to hear it."

She exhaled slowly. "I told you if you didn't do it, I would publish it for you."

I gulped. "And why would you have done it?"

"Because I love you," Dolores said without hesitation.

That was what I needed to hear. Camila's story was there in front of me. I needed to submit it for her. I couldn't let her pass this chance. The opportunity was there in front of her. I loved her. I couldn't see her give up. She was there, right at the finish line.

I returned her final sentence to the document. I added the comma where it was needed. The word count was above the contest requirements, so I hit save. Then I turned it into a protected PDF file with her name. I moved a copy of it to my desktop and opened Pioneering Arts' homepage.

"Reece, are you going to do something you regret?"

I bit my lip. The submission form for the story contest was simple. It asked for a name, a phone number, and an email address. This was all the information I had.

"Reece, are you going to regret whatever it is you're doing?" Dolores repeated.

I filled in Camila's details. Her dreams. This needed to become her reality. I hit submit. The screen loaded, and the small circle spun in the center. Then the clarification hit. "Accepted!" Holding my breath, I stood for my glass, finishing it in one gulp.

"You know me, Dolores," I said, glancing back at my laptop. "I may regret it, but I think my actions are valid."

They must be because Camila's an amazing writer and deserves to win.

"You know I'll be here to talk if you think you did something wrong," she said.

"I know," I sighed, looking into my kitchen. My eyes slid over to the digital time clock on my microwave's screen. "Was there a reason you're calling me this late? It's almost midnight."

"Oh, I don't know, Reece. I was sitting here watching my shows and something told me to give you a call. Maybe it was a feeling."

I chuckled. "A feeling? About me?"

"Ah, you know," she laughed, "can't be mad because I was right, and you needed someone to talk to right now."

I did. And her words helped my decision.

Grinning, I walked into my kitchen and opened my fridge. After my drink, I needed some water. "What's the real reason, Dolores?"

She cleared her throat and hummed. "Can you come in early and help me log the new books?"

There it was. The library needed me, and I knew she would struggle with a big shipment like I would without her. Was that all? "Sure," I said as I closed the fridge door. "I'll be there early. Seven, good?"

"Seven's great," Dolores said happily. "Thank you. Love you."

"Love you, too, Mama."