An Unfinished Story(65)

With determined steps, Whitaker followed them.

The man turned and waved one of his big arms in the air. “You might want to mind your own business if you know what’s good for you.”

Clenching his fists, Whitaker weighed his options. Considering the man’s size and the fact that Whitaker had not fought anyone since high school, the typist didn’t think he had a chance. But an idea came to him instead. This dude might have muscles, but Whitaker knew he could defeat him in a more passive game of wits. If he could snap a picture of him, then Whitaker would plaster the guy’s face on signs and put them all over the neighborhood, with a nice tagline like This man does not pick up after his dog.

Whitaker smiled at the potential. He fished the phone out of his pocket and quickly snapped a shot.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Whitaker raised two fingers to his own eyes and then pointed to the perpetrator. “I’ll be watching you.” For a moment, Whitaker felt victorious, like a gangster establishing his domination over the neighborhood.

The bodybuilder didn’t move like a bodybuilder; he moved like a butterfly, like Muhammad Ali.

Whitaker saw the bull logo of the University of South Florida engraved on the man’s class ring a millisecond before Whitaker’s head snapped back and . . .



With no grasp of time, Whitaker came to and realized he was lying in the grass. Lovebugs were dancing all around him. He reached for the pain raging around his jaw. He turned his head and saw the cracked screen on his phone.

The man and his German shepherd were a hundred yards down, walking away from him.





Chapter 27

THE “DELETE” BUTTON

Whitaker sat down in David’s chair and looked at his cracked phone. He clicked on the folder that held all his new projects, including Saving Orlando, and highlighted it. He rolled his mouse cursor over “Delete.”

This was all he had to do. Delete. Let things go.

He couldn’t take much more of this fucking roller coaster he was riding on through this wrecked world. Why the hell had he committed to this project?

Removing his hand, he slumped into his chair and frowned. Of course he couldn’t delete Saving Orlando. He couldn’t do it to Claire or to the children like Orlando who needed a voice. He might not be able to finish the project, but someone else could take what he’d done and continue.

The doorbell rang, and Whitaker sat up and wiped his eyes. He felt Claire’s presence. In the spirit of finally deleting the writer and saying goodbye to these youthful dreams, he grabbed the three composition books and the picture of David from his desk and carried them to the front door.

“What the . . . ?” She pulled back the screen door and reached for his face. “You’ve got blood everywhere.”

He wiped his chin. “I finally found the culprit in the park. And he was bigger than me. A lot bigger than me.” Whitaker told her what had happened.

“Honestly, Whitaker, you deserved it. I’m having a hard time pitying you.”

“Perhaps.”

“What do you mean, perhaps? You know I’m right.”

Whitaker did, in fact, know she was right. But he didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he said, “I need to talk to you about something else. Can we sit?”

She sat in the chair next to the sofa. He sat on the end of the sofa closest to her, the pain of letting her down already gnawing at him.

He collected his thoughts and then looked her in the eyes. “I can’t do this. I can’t finish David’s book. I have no idea where it’s supposed to go.”

“What? You’re getting there, Whitaker. You can’t give up now.”

“I’m finally realizing that it’s the writing that’s been holding me back. For some reason, I’ve been chasing the next story and the next word as if it’s finally going to give my life meaning. As if it might make me happy. But what I realized today, finally, after all these years, is that writing is the enemy. It’s not my calling. Yes, I’m good at it. That doesn’t mean I need to be doing it all the time. It is ripping me apart. All along I’ve been chasing the exact thing that is eating away at me.” Whitaker made a crushing sound with his fist. “Crushing me.”

“You can’t quit now,” she said. “You’re there. At the end. We are there.”

“Yes, we are there at the ending. And I’ve explored several possibilities—five or six, at least, and they don’t feel right. It’s like a higher force is preventing me from concluding his story.”

She moved onto the sofa next to him and put her hand on his. “Please don’t stop now.” A tear sneaked out of her eye.

“Claire, I can’t tell you how I feel inside, and I can’t tell you what it’s like, but I can tell you that if I don’t stop, like right now, it’s going to kill me.” He added, “You can have everything I’ve done. For free. And I’ll pay back what you’ve given me so far. Let’s find someone else to finish it. Together. I believe in the project. I want to see this through. I just don’t want to be the one writing the end. Simple as that.”

The headshake of disappointment. “You’re letting fear win. You have some serious inner-critic issues that beat you sometimes. Stop all this feeling sorry for yourself. I’m so tired of hearing it. Seriously.”