An Unfinished Story(66)
“Me too! I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to throw my laptop in the trash and get on with life. If I keep trying to write, I will die unhappy and alone.”
“You’re not alone.” She took his hand and repeated, “You’re not alone.”
Whitaker wasn’t sure about that. They might have built a nice friendship, but in the end she was sitting there for her husband. He took the stack of composition books and the picture and handed them to her with yet another apology. He hated to hear himself apologizing, whining. She was right. Enough already!
She accepted them with her head down.
“I need you to take these and go. Believe me, we will find someone way better than me to take Saving Orlando home.”
“I’m not taking these back.” She set them on the coffee table. “What are you going to do, Whitaker? Go find another job you don’t love? You can’t stop writing.”
“I most certainly can stop writing. I’ll go to work for my father. Even saying it out loud makes me feel lighter, like there’s less on the line.”
Claire shook her head. “I’m so sick and tired of feeling like I’m begging you, but this isn’t about me or David’s story. This is about you pulling your head out of your you-know-what. Stop with all this whining and woe-is-me. It’s not who you are. You know what? Don’t finish the damn book if you don’t want to, but to say you’re hanging up your pen is nothing short of cowardice. Quit acting like the world owes you something and grow up. They are just words, lined up one after another. Stop taking yourself so seriously.”
As if she could ever understand. Whitaker stood and took the books and picture back off the table. He held them out. “Take them. Please. They’re not safe in my hands.” He said that last bit as a way to force her to take the books. He wanted them out of there. He wanted this responsibility off his back.
Claire took the books and went toward the front door. Watching her walk away might have been the saddest thing he’d ever seen. Cue the Roy Orbison and a tuna melt.
“I’ll email you what I have so far. And I’m sorry, Claire.”
Once she was gone, Whitaker returned to David’s chair and clicked his way back to his OPEN PROJECTS folder. He could finally let go of his ego, and he could finally settle into being a normal human. He dragged Saving Orlando to an email and typed Claire’s address into the form.
Whitaker moved his mouse to the “Send” button but hesitated. This was it, his goodbye to writing. Yes, a retreat and surrender. Perhaps a cowardly one. But also the start of a new life.
Whitaker pressed his finger down but pulled back at the last moment. He lifted up the mouse and slammed it as hard as he could onto the desk. It shattered, plastic shrapnel shooting out across the desk.
It wasn’t enough to satisfy his rage. So many people had commented over the years that they could never imagine Whitaker losing his temper. How wrong they were. Swiping his right hand along the desk, he knocked everything off: the laptop, the writing books, the broken mouse, the cup of cold coffee, the lamp. The bulb of the lamp sparked in a final blue flame as the cold coffee spread like a pool of blood.
Just in time, he saved his laptop from the coffee and set it back on the desk. Pulling the computer open, he prayed that it was still operational, that he hadn’t lost the latest iteration of Saving Orlando. As the display lit up, he reached for the mouse by rote until he remembered that he’d smashed it. A longtime hater of the trackpad, he fortunately had a spare in the desk.
Whitaker put his hand on one of the iron pulls of the drawer and tugged. It slid a couple of inches into an abrupt stop, like it was caught on something. With his anger still lingering, he jerked on the drawer until it broke free and came flying off the casters. As it crashed onto the floor with a boom, something white slid out, a piece of paper, maybe.
A photograph?
It must have gotten stuck behind the drawer. Out of breath from his tirade, he reached down. It was an image of two people standing in front of a baseball stadium. Whitaker recognized the man in the picture instantly. It was David.
A young boy stood smiling next to Claire’s deceased husband.
“What is this?” Whitaker asked. Chill bumps fired on his arms, and he had a sudden sense of lightness, like he was flying. He stared hard into the boy’s eyes.
“Who are you?”
Chapter 28
POP CULTURE
With David’s unfinished story in her hands, Claire traipsed down the steps of Whitaker’s house and went to her convertible. Though a very small part of her hoped that Whitaker might change his mind, she could see the defeat in his eyes—his white flag waving shamefully. And she didn’t know if she was strong enough to help him dig out of it.
This felt like the end.
Setting the composition books on the seat, she took a moment to look at David’s picture. “I’m so sorry, David. I’m trying my best.” It was as if he’d come back from the grave to ask her to write this story, and she was not fulfilling her part of the bargain.
Then the sound of a door opening and closing. Turning, she saw Whitaker leaping down the steps, waving something like a piece of paper up in the air, yelling for her to wait.
“What in the world, Whitaker? What are you doing?”
He wasn’t the man she’d left moments before. He was glowing as he handed her a photograph.