When the Heart Falls(27)

"What about those who take their own life? Do you think they deserve hell?" My heart falls into my gut as I wait for her answer.

"I don't think it matters how you die," she says. "My aunt and uncle used to work in the World Trade Centers. When the planes hit, they died painlessly, my parents told me. They died instantly, they told me. But I know that the heat melted the flesh from their bones like it melted the steel around them. I know that the smoke burned their throats and scorched their eyes until nothing but a corpse of ash remained."

Her voice hitches, and I reach for her hand, holding it as she talks.

"I can't think of a worse way to die." She squeezes my hand. "And I've tried. So, do I think there's a hell? Yes, I hope there is one. I hope the people who killed my aunt and uncle are there now, burning, just as my aunt and uncle burned. But do I think the way you die matters? No. Because life is hard and fleeting and cruel. And those that do well while alive, deserve some peace for it."

"What about those who are left behind?" I ask. This time it's her hand, her touch, giving me comfort. "Isn't it cruel to take your life, when it means leaving your loved ones behind to pick up the broken pieces?"

"Possibly, but I don't think that condemns them to hell. I imagine you're already living in hell if you feel forced to take your own life. We all do things that are construed as cruel by others, even if that's not our intention. Sometimes we, as humans, are just so wrapped up in our own misery we aren't capable of seeing past it into the lives of those we love. Isn't that level of pain punishment enough? If, indeed, any sort of punishment is even warranted."

I think back once again to my dad asking me, "What's bothering you, kid?" And I realize she's right. We are all cruel to each other, intentional or not, at one point or another. It's the nature of being human that, in our own blindness, we lash out and blind others.

Examining the sculpture with a new light, I smile and stroke her hand with my thumb. "I like it."

Winter grins. "Me too."

"I hope your novel does well, Winter." I can see her future, the success and dozens of books on the New York Times bestseller list. "Some people deserve to have their dreams come true."

Winter is silent for several minutes, deep in thought until she turns to me, a shy smile on her beautiful lips. "I can help you, you know? With your French."

I'd said no once before, convinced I could handle it myself. That didn't work out. So I surprise myself and go against my natural impulse for once. "I'd like that. I'd really like that."





WINTER DEVEAUX

CHAPTER 11





I HATE TO delete a sentence, let alone an entire scene, but it can't be helped. Cringing, I hit the delete key, and 3,127 words—words I endured great pain to bring to life—disappear. I want to weep at the loss, but instead, I close my eyes and picture the date as it should have been written. I see them meeting, feel the beating in the protagonist's heart when he pulls out her chair and his hand grazes her cheek, smell the food as it's being served, as the couple takes those first tentative steps toward something more, something deeper.

Details lodge into my mind, I open my eyes and write, letting the feelings, the hopes and dreams of my characters speak to me as I type. The words flow easier, the scene like a movie or memory begging to be transcribed.

The museum must have inspired me, breathed life into my creative mind. Maybe being surrounded by the work of geniuses is like finding creativity through osmosis. I breathed in their talent and transformed it into my own work.

A shiver travels up my spine when my characters reach for each other's hands, when they touch, his hand hot, warming hers. My typing falters when I think of Cade, how he held my hand when I told him about my aunt and uncle. The way his eyes softened in empathy, his body moving closer to mine, offering comfort without words. He's suffered too; I can see it in everything he says and does.

Pushing aside the distracting thoughts of Cade, I dive back into my scene, when Jenifer walks in carrying bags.

She holds them up, smiling. "I shopped. You are not going to believe what I've found." She hands one bag to me. "Got you a present too, for tonight."

"Tonight?" I pull out a dress, a red dress the color of my lipstick, with matching shoes. "What's this?"

Dumping out the contents of her purchases on to her bed, she rummages around until she pulls out a black dress and shoes. "It's your thank you present."

"For what?" I know I'm not going to like the answer.

"For going to the party with me tonight."

Definitely not liking the answer. I toss the dress back to her. "No way. I'm so done with the Paris party scene."

Dropping her carefree attitude, Jenifer goes for the big-eyed pleading look. "You have to go, Winter. I need you there. It sounds like a lot of fun, but I don't want to go alone." She holds up the dress she bought me. "Plus, you'll look stunning in this."

"I can't. I'm finally making progress on my novel, and I'm in the middle of a really great scene."

Jenifer looks at my laptop like it's the anti-Christ. "You can write later. We're only young once, and we have to live it up."

"I think I lived it up plenty last time, if you don't recall. I have work to do." I sit at my desk, ready to ignore her if necessary.