The River Speaks

Chapter Thirty Three: Amsterdam

Chapter Thirty Three: Amsterdam

I slept horribly. I had dreams, which are actual memories, of me and Aiden. I keep watching me break his heart over and over and over again. The dream makes me feel like I'm in a coma because I'm watching it from my eyes and my lips are moving but I'm internally screaming at myself to stop doing what I'm doing, but the words come out anyways and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

I hear noises downstairs so I pick up the book, deciding to ask Aiden's Mom about it.

She must know something.

Like...since when does Aiden write books? What kind of book is it? An autobiography? How to pick a lock? A story?

Secretly, I'm hoping for the last one. The thought of Aiden doing something like that just seems really amazing.

My feet hit the wood floor downstairs and I walk into the kitchen.

His Mom is home from work, putting water into a pot to boil it.

"Good morning." She says to me.

"Good morning. Thank you for letting me stay here until the storm blows over."

"You're welcome." She says. "I'm making tea."

"Okay, great." I hesitate. "Can I ask you something about Aiden?"

"Go for it." She replies.

I hesitate for a moment.

"Um, does he like...write?"

She pauses for a moment, glancing at me.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well I tripped over this last night." I hold it out to her.

She takes it from my hands and opens it, flipping through a couple of pages.

"Did you read it?" She asks.

"Well it said not to read it without permission. I didn't want to go against what Aiden wants."

She nods slowly.

"Aiden writes books." She says simply. "However, that's not my story to tell, so when you find him, go ahead and question him about it." She pauses. "But read the book. He abandoned that one because he got writers block. I thought it was really good." She shrugs.

"Oh, but it says not to read it without permission."

"I'm giving you permission."

"Well yeah, but-"

"Lily, you're...Lily." She laughs a little bit. "Aiden won't care if you read it, and if he does, tell him I told you to read it."

"Well he might not care, but it's still not right without permission."

"Yes." She nods. "But you have my permission."

"I'm not comfortable going against what Aiden wants." I say.

She shrugs.

"So don't read it."

The teapot starts to hiss and I sit down at the table, sighing.

I flip through the pages quickly, and a slip of paper falls from one of the pages.

A good author gets inspiration from the place of his imagination.

I hesitate.

A good author gets inspiration from the place of his imagination.

"Jackie, where is this story from?" I ask.