The Best is Yet to Come

Six: Emma

Typically, I don't like showing up at work on my days off. Every time I walk through these doors I get bombarded with questions from everyone, sometimes even from Glory, herself. It was like no one else knew how to put paper in the printer or reorder labels. I swear sometimes I felt the place would fall apart without me.

Today was special though, as the store was the rendezvous point for the very first meeting of a local creative writing group. Ever since I was little, I would write poems and stories. I've never shared my work with anyone before but Dr.Greene tossed the idea to me a few weeks ago, stating he thought it could only be therapeutic. Writing seems to be the only thing that can get me out of my head these days. Why not try to at least get better at it?

With my bag slung over my shoulder, I pull open the doors to the shop. It looks like Glory had cleared off a few display tables and put several folding chairs around them. There were already several people here, chatting in small groups. waiting for the meeting to start. Choosing not to mingle, I take a seat at the quietest table in the room. There was only one other person sitting there, a blonde girl scribbling furiously into a leather journal. Rummaging through my bag, I take out my notebook, a pen, and a highlighter. I flip through the pages of my journal, silently rereading my work.

What am I doing here? Suddenly feeling overly self conscious, I take a look around the room. I felt so small compared to everyone else. These people were writers, I wasn't. I just wanted to be.

I start to panic; second guessing my decision to show up here and then second guessing my reasons to exist. I pick up my journal, intent to shove it inside my bag and get the heck out of this place but freeze when my eyes drift to the door.

There he is.

I was wrong. I recognize him almost immediately. My heart drops into my stomach and I realize I caught him looking right at me. I must not wipe the shock off my face fast enough though, because the corners of his lips tilt into a sly grin. Oh God, he has dimples! Why does he have to have dimples??

To my horror, he starts walking toward my table. I panic a little, trying to calculate how fast I could scrape my stuff back into my bag and book it to the door.

But it's too late. He stops at the chair beside mine, placing his hand on the metal back, "Is this seat taken?"

I blink from shock, unable to articulate the words I'm supposed to say, so I shake my head instead, hoping that was enough to answer his question. He takes the seat but not before scooting the chair several inches closer to mine. I adjusted myself nervously, my eyes glued to the notebook laying in front of me.

Commotion rumbles through the room as a sophisticated, dark haired man in a tweed jacket walks into the book shop. People scrambled to find their seats, some choosing just to lean against the bookshelves instead.

I sneak a glance to my right and see Brown Eyes lean back in his chair, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. I glance at the bare stretch of table in front of him, noting his lack of supplies. What kind of writer doesn't come prepared to a creative writing meeting?

The man at the front of the room starts speaking with a baritone voice, introducing himself as Dr. Robert Walsh. I lose my focus when the stranger beside me taps me gently on the shoulder. I try not to jump at the contact but I'm unsuccessful and bite my lip in an effort to wrangle control over my wayward emotions.

"Excuse me," the guy whispers in my ear. His breath tickles my neck and I feel my cheeks flame, "I forgot my notebook. Can I borrow a piece of paper?"

It was an innocent enough request and yet, with his breath hot against my ear, I feel goosebumps raid my skin. Without looking at him, I gently rip a page from my notebook and pass it over.