When the Heart Falls(151)

The air is crisp, clouds heavy and dark in the sky, as I walk to the restaurant. A chill sends goose bumps up my arms that aren't from the cold. I turn, expecting to see someone behind me, but no one is there. Still, the feeling of being watched doesn’t leave me, and I pick up my pace until I reach the warmth of the restaurant that’s so full of memories.

Monsieur Bellugue has a table by the window, and I sit across from him and order hot tea and nibble on the bread that now tastes like Styrofoam.

"So, what'd you think?" A lonely butterfly flutters in my stomach, as I wait for him to reply.

We carry on the conversation in French, which is a perk of talking with Monsieur Bellugue.

"I loved it The romance was fantastique. Especially those steamier parts. Those parts, well, my wife should read those parts. She could learn a thing or—"

"You said you had critiques."

"Oh, oui. Oui. The Lance character needs more development."

I shrug. "He's not that important."

"He's the heroine's best friend."

"But after she falls in love, she forgets about him. The lovers are so enamored with each other that everything else seems trivial."

"I understand," he says. "But Lance has not forgotten them. He has not forgotten her. Would he really disappear?"

Pause. "I don't know."

"But you must. You must see the story through Lance's eyes."

My shoulders slump. "You didn't like it.”

"What?"

My voice is monotone. This pain isn’t any worse than what I’m already feeling. "You didn't like my book, did you? You hated it."

His eyebrow shoots up. "No. I enjoyed it, really. There are some scenes I'll be reenacting later. That shower one, for example. I never knew a person could physically do that."

"So you loved it?" I’m skeptical.

"Comme ci, comme ?a. I liked it."

"How should I develop Lance more?"

"That's for you to discover."

Le sigh. "You must have some ideas. What would you like?"

Monsieur Bellugue chuckles. "You don't have to change the book for me, Winter. I had some ideas on how to improve it. But others will have their own ideas. Make the changes you want."

"Then I'm done."

He claps his hands together once and smiles. "If you think it's finished, then great."

I shake my head. "No. I'm done writing."

Monsieur Bellugue nods. "I thought the same, once."

"Why?"

"A stupid reason. I grew up with three older brothers. Two of them became writers."

"And the third?"

"He became a mime."

"How is he?"

"I don't know. He hasn't spoken in years."

My lips twitch up in a reluctant smile. "Hope you didn't have metamfiezomaiophobia." Though we’ve been speaking French, I say the last word in English because even my French isn’t that good.

"What's that?"

"A fear of mimes."

"I can't believe they have a word for that. And I can't believe you know it."

"I read dictionaries as a child."

"Ah. Well, I had no fear of mimes. I had a fear of writers. Is there a word for that?"

I lay my hands on the table, staring at them for no real reason. "There's bibliophobia. A fear of books."

He tugs on his tweed jacket sleeves. "No. I didn't have that. No. I was scared of my brothers. Scared of their success."

"Couldn't they help you?" I ask, thinking of my cousin, Daring, and her support.

"Of course. But when they helped me, I worried. Does this mean they're better than me? Does this mean I'll live in their shadow?"

"Did you?"

"For a while I did," he says. "They were older than me. Of course they were more successful. But I didn't see that, didn't care. If I couldn't be the best, then there was no point in trying at all."

"So you stopped writing?"

"For three years."

"What'd you do?"

"Miming."

"So that's why I never heard of you."

He chuckles. "A joke. You should write that down."

"Sorry. What changed?"

"My oldest brother passed away, and I realized, I wouldn't live forever."

"What a plot twist."

"No condolences?"

I soften my voice to take the edge out of my snarkiness. "You have mine."

"Thank you. That was a dark time. I realized that any day I might die as well, and if that happened, when that happened, I would no longer be the best. So being the best no longer mattered. Being happy mattered."

I sip my tea. "So you took up writing again?"

"I tried a few other things first. There are some videos out there I hope no one ever sees."

"Can I blackmail you for a good grade?"

"If you find the videos." Monsieur Bellugue winks and takes a bite of a breadstick.

I drain the last of my mug. "Are we done?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Did you like my story?"