I managed to put off checking YouTube for forty minutes. Puttering with making coffee and jogging to the bakery on the corner for some Paris-Brest just from the ovens had kept me occupied. Now that I was home, with coffee and a sinfully sweet doughnut that had been sliced in two and sandwiched with cream, I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  Let’s be honest with yourself, Dane. Just say you don’t want to put it off any longer.

  As the page loaded, I picked off a slivered almond from my doughnut and popped it into my mouth, the nutty taste combined with the dark chocolate icing made me sigh. I adored French pastries. If not for daily walks, my love of sweet treats and a sedentary profession would have packed twenty or more pounds on me over the past year. Living on the same street as a patisserie was both a blessing and a curse. I sat down at the small round table in the corner, setting things up neatly with my laptop in front of me and my coffee and treat to my right.

  I glanced from my breakfast to the page and found it fully loaded, the video sitting there, white arrow resting inside a white circle. I wiped my fingers on my shorts then scrolled down, unable to hit “play” and have our song filling the air when I found that he had not replied to my comment. When I found the comment, I paused, wishing the almond slice were sitting in my stomach better. Exhaling deeply, I scanned the comment from Dragonfly Boy and saw, under the thumbs up or thumbs down ratings, that there were two comments.

  Two.

  I lifted my coffee to my lips and took a sip, rattled badly, hoping for some calm to settle over me yet knowing none would. I put my mug back down beside the plate my doughnut rested on and clicked where it read “view all two replies”. My heart thumped against my ribcage like one of René’s birds newly caged.

  Mouth dry, blood rushing in my ears, I read my comment, pulled in a breath, and then scrolled down just a bit more. There was the yellow cat staring at me, and one short but powerful comment that made me weepy as I read it.

  Is this my Dane the wordsmith from Silver Fir? If so, please private message me.

  The tears broke free, and I hurried to dash them away because I had no idea how to private message someone on this site and oh sweet Jesus it was Khalid. My Khalid.

  “My Khalid,” I choked, the emotions too strong to hold back.

  “Are you okay?”

  Gloria’s soft voice from the doorway startled me. I spun around in my chair, stared at my sister-in-law—the first and only love of my brother’s life—and shook my head.

  “I don’t know how to private message him,” I croaked, tears streaming, nose running.

  She hurried to me, her slippers making soft sounds on the hardwood floor. Her arms came around me, and she pulled my cheek to her breast. That made me cry even harder because I’d not had a woman’s arms around me for years. Not since the last time I’d seen my mother when she flew over when I’d first found out about my husband’s infidelity. Mom had held me like this, her standing, me seated, my cheek on her heart. My inner child was starved for this, and the man who I was on the outside had no chance of denying that needy young lad we all harbor inside.

  “We’ll figure it out,” she murmured softly, her hand on my back, moving in small circles, consoling and caring. I wrapped my arms around her waist, inhaling the feminine scent of her perfume, the fabric softener clinging to her cotton robe, and the warm scent of a woman. Bo-yah.

  “I’ve lost it.” I chortled as I pulled away, my eyes blurry, to gather myself. “I’m quoting Al Pacino inside my head.”

  She smiled and then sat beside me, taking my hands between hers. “Something about Attica?”

  That made me choke out a weak laugh. “No, nothing about Attica.” She let go of my hands so that I could rise from my seat and find some tissues. After I’d blown my nose, wiped, and splashed some cold water on my face, I was able to look at her without too much shame pinkening my cheeks. Thank the stars my scraggly beard now helped to cover the blushes I still experienced now and again. “I’m sorry you walked into that.” I waved at the laptop in a vague sort of way.

  “Don’t be. You were obviously upset. Care to tell me about it?”

  I’d only confided this sweeping, sad saga to one other person…James. My mother knew the big parts, obviously, such as Khalid and I breaking up and then me opting to stay in France, complete my schooling here, and then marry René after graduation. My brother was the only one who knew the juicy bits.

  I poured her some coffee and grabbed her a doughnut then sat down beside her. “You’ll want those.” I jerked my chin at the mug and plate I’d placed in front of her. “This will take some time to tell properly.”

  Gloria settled in, and I began my tale of love lost. It took much longer than I’d thought it would as I made sure to elaborate on the key points, mainly how madly I loved Khalid and how terribly I’d treated him. When I finally rambled to the end, my coffee was cold, and my doughnut was gone. Gloria looked as if someone had run over her dog. I pushed to my feet, the coffee pot my goal because looking into her miserable blue eyes was making me feel weepy.

  “That is so tragic.” I nodded as I stirred some sugar into my coffee. “But it might be salvageable. He did ask for you to private message him.”

  I turned to look at her, ass resting on the counter, coffee in hand. She had wiped away the miserable expression and had plastered on one that was damn near chipper.

  “He might just want to tell me off one more time. He might be married or with someone. He might—”

  “He might want to talk to you as badly as you want to talk to him,” she slipped in before holding up her cup in that universal way that means “Fill me up!”, so I ambled over and refilled her mug, sitting down beside her after putting the pot on a round trivet with a bold red rooster on it. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Which brings us round to my original meltdown which is not knowing how to do that.” She rolled her eyes, placed her mug to the side, and held out her hands.

  “Give me that laptop. You’d think an author would be all kinds of tech-savvy.”

  “You’d be mistaken. I know how to work in Word, send it to my editor, and make vague but rather authorly posts on two social media sites,” I informed her as I passed her my laptop.

  Within minutes—as in two at the most—my beautiful sister-in-law had located the messenger thingy and was waiting for me to tell her what to type, her eyes wide with expectation. “Well,” she prompted when I sat there sipping my coffee loudly and staring stupidly at her. “What do you want to say to this man who stole your heart?”

  “Uhm…”

  “That’s a brilliant opening line for a man who claims to be an author.”

  I wagged a finger at her pert nose. “You’re starting to sound like your husband.”

  “Thank you.”

  She was far too cute and smug. “He’s taught you to say that in reply to that comment.”

  “Stop stalling, Mr. Hugo Award Winner.” She rolled her eyes to the laptop. “Create some stunning words to make this man fall in love with you all over again. That is what you want, isn’t it? Or am I reading this all wrong?”

  I stared at the delicate lace sewn to the neck of her lightweight robe, blue as robin’s eggs, as I thought about a suitable reply.

  “Uhm...” That got me a stellar eye roll. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to dictating.”

  “Well then here.” She pushed my beloved Dell to me and got to her slippered feet. “Write something yourself and send it to Khalid.”

  I whimpered a little.

  “You can do this. You make up worlds, civilizations, and races that reside in far-off galaxies.” She bent down to kiss my hairy cheek.

  “That’s not the same. This is romance, something that I am obviously ill-equipped to dabble in given how the two relationships that I’ve been in have—”

  She placed a finger over my lips. “Stop putting yourself down. Now write something back to this man.”

  “Will you proof it for me?” I gave her my sad puppy face, which was not as compelling as James’s was, but I hoped it might sway her. We did have the same eyes according to my mother…

  “Yes.” She patted my cheek. “You might want to think about shaving this off. It adds ten years to you.”

  I sat there, slack-jawed, as she exited the kitchen and climbed back up the stairs. I patted my beard. Did this really make me look older? Everyone in the publishing house said it gave me sophistication and that scholarly look that worked well on the back of book covers. Did they mean scholarly like an old academic? Shit. Now I felt musty and in sudden need of a tweed jacket.

  “Stop stalling.” Gloria’s voice drifted down to me.

  How do women do that? “I’m not stalling,” I called out. “I’m planning what to write.”

  “I want a text in five minutes showing me what you’ve come up with.”

  “You should have been an editor!”

  “Hey, someone is trying to sleep here. Can we stop shouting!?”

  “Sorry, James,” I yelled, snickered at his cussing, and then settled my mind to the task.

  Five minutes went past, and I’d written nothing but “Dear Khalid” fifteen times then erased it. I was beyond sad. I was pathetic. A hairy-faced fairy with no flowery prose skills whatsoever, which was why I wrote about aliens and colonizing planets I made up at will.

  Closing the laptop, I stepped out my back door into the small alley. Stone walls lined the skinny passageway, many with creeping vines that had flowers of brilliant red and pinks popping open as the sun touched them. I sat down on the step, bare feet on the cool cobblestones, elbows to knees, hands dangling, and closed my eyes. The sounds of Paris entered my soul, the bustle of traffic, the sound of pigeons cooing, the seductive sound of sleepy French escaping the open windows of my neighbors. There were times I felt like a sardine packed into a can in this city. Then there were mornings like this when the allure of picnics along the Seine where one enjoyed baguettes, wine, strong cheese, and fruits combined with the cultural and liberal mindset of Parisians…well, I wondered if I could ever be persuaded to leave this city.

  I pushed to my feet, wiggled my toes, and then went back inside and opened my laptop.

  Khalid,

  You cannot know how I have struggled to come up with a fitting greeting, something that would capture all the fear and joy I’m now experiencing. “Hey!” or “Yo!” or even “It’s so good to hear from you!” feel inadequate and sickly. So, since I can’t think of one damn way to open this message in a manner that captures all the emotions swirling inside of me, I’ll just say that I cried when I saw you had replied. I have so many things I want to say—NEED to say—to you and have dreamed of being able to do so one day. I guess that day is here, but before we dive into supplications, I just need to know that you and your mother are well and happy. Let’s begin our talk with that.

  Dane

  I sent Gloria a text with those exact words copied into it and sat waiting, chewing on the inside of my lip while stroking my facial hair.

  “Perfect! Hit send!” she shouted down the stairs. I took a mighty breath in, tapped the reply button, and then nearly fainted with relief and anxiety.

  ***

  Three days passed without a reply, not that I was checking on a daily—or hourly—basis. I’d gotten James and his lovely bride off and had settled into my humdrum life, whittling out a measly plot skeleton for the third book in the Black Star series. I needed a blurb and a new title because the previously agreed upon title sucked dick. Ruth would be thrilled to hear I now hated the title we’d spent several hours agonizing over.

  Authors seem to never be one hundred percent happy with their creations. Even when the book is published and in the hands of readers, we’ll think that perhaps we could have written this passage a bit more tightly or tweaked the opening sentence for chapter eight to make it hookier. It’s a life filled with nitpickery and self-doubt and so is not a recommended career path for anyone who tends to be a wee bit skeptical of themselves or their skills. Which we all are, so most authors are metaphorical mammoths wallowing in tar pits of vacillation and insecurity. It’s a wonder our kind hasn’t died out completely.

  And I was procrastinating yet again due to my hatred of coming up with titles and writing blurbs. Also, it had been at least fifteen minutes since I’d checked to see if maybe Khalid had replied. Pathetic, thy face is Dane Forrester.

  Just one quick check and then titles. Seeing his reply threw all my plans to be a good author out the window that looked into my neighbor’s flowerbox, which was overflowing with ruby red begonias and dark green ivy.

  Thank you for asking. We’re both fine. Let’s take this to email. You can reach me at: keenov@silverfirlodge.com

  I was slightly euphoric and hurried to open a tab and get my email server open. I typed in the address, my addlepated brain catching the last part of the addy. Silver Fir Lodge. My God. Had he truly gone back and whipped the place into shape?

  Then I sat there like a dullard with no idea what to say yet again. How did I ever make enough money to buy my wine, whiskey, and baked goods writing books when it was obvious I was a slack-witted moron? Nerves making me edgy, I settled my sights on the begonias instead of the missive I was failing to write. A bumblebee visited the blood red flowers. A child laughed in the distance, the joyous sound floating over the drone of traffic and city noise. Oh, to be young and innocent, lost in the feel of that first kiss…

  My fingers came to life, and I typed out what I hoped was somewhat erudite since my greeting “It’s been too long” was making me gag every time I read it, but I had no clue what to write in that empty slot under his email address that might make me less of a loser.

  Khalid,

  I’m happy to hear that you and she are well. I have so many questions but will limit them to one per email so not to overwhelm you. I couldn’t help but notice that your email is going to the Silver Fir Lodge. Have you taken the reins there and hauled them into the new century?

  Did I have to sign my name? Would it seem cocky if I didn’t? Ugh. Why was I so socially inept? I had to assume Khalid had enough intelligence to know that it was me who had sent the email, so I left my name off. Should I take his name off as well?

  “For fuck’s sake.” I punched the blue SEND button before I spent two hours tweaking myself into a bottle of Merlot. Gaze roaming back to the begonias, mind on a million things not excluding a trip to my dank little wine cellar for a nice Merlot, I threw the screen a look and was stunned to see a new message from him sitting there. I couldn’t click on it fast enough.

  D,

  Yeah, I’ve managed to fool them all into thinking I’m suitable assistant manager material. It’s taken a few years and lots of headbutting, but the guest lodges now have Wi-Fi and new carpets. Bloody fools fight me tooth and nail but once they’ve seen how bookings have climbed since we added internet accessibility, they’re a bit less scared of the queer guy who spends part of his lunch break on a rug by the creek during the summer months.

  Wow. So he was out now. And an assistant manager back where we had met.

  K,

  I knew you’d take that place and make it into the jewel of the Poconos! So proud and happy for you. Does your mother live there with you during the summer or are you going stag from May to September?

  I was rather proud of my subtle ways of asking if he had anyone in his life.

  Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back, Dane.

  I went off to get some coffee, pee, and make a trip to the cramped little cellar to bring up a Merlot for dinner. When I was seated at my desk, coffee to my right, begonias still as stunning, bumblebee still bumbling, I found another reply. Checking the time in the corner of my laptop, I did a quick time zone calculation in my head. It was two in the afternoon here, so it was early morning in Pennsylvania, around eight a.m. or so.

  D,

  You can just ask if there’s someone in my life. You never were good at subterfuge. My last relationship ended about eight months ago and my mother still lives in Ealing with my new stepfather. What does your husband think of us touching base after all these years?

  Damn. Fuck. Shit. Poop. This called for a quick and honest reply.

  K,

  I haven’t a clue what my ex-husband thinks. The last time I saw him he was deeply embedded in the ass of a young Italian twink who was, literally, one quarter his age. Our divorce was finalized five months ago. I live alone in a moldy little townhouse in Montmartre where I spend my days drinking wine and throwing words onto a virtual document with only my old housekeeper and her daughter to keep me company. I don’t even own an author cat.

  I should get a cat. Every author needs a cat. I like cats. Maybe I could name him something witty and artsy like Shnookums. His next reply took several minutes, leaving me time to fret about my waspy words. Had I been too bitter? Not bitter enough. This email conversation was more distressing than the meeting with René and our lawyers to hash out who got what after the split. The Merlot called from within the confines of my fridge, so I went to see what she wanted. Turned out the minx wanted opened because she had to breathe. Then she insisted I pour some into a wine glass and take a sip—or several. It was a nice little red, not quite chilled enough, but so what?

  When I came back to my workspace where no work was being done, I placed my wine beside my coffee and found a final reply from Khalid.

  D,

  It took me a bit to sort out what I wanted to say in reply. I know that’s petty. Seems no matter how often I pray, I can’t work past being vindictive about that man and how you threw me aside for him. Knowing that he hurt you pleases me on some nasty level that shames me. I’ll keep working on that vicious part of my personality. Funny how hearing that you’re single made me feel two wildly different things at the same time. A vindictive happiness (bad feeling) and pure happiness (good feeling). To be honest, I’m not sure how to feel right now since my heart is all left side and right side about it. I have some work to do. We’ll talk later.