Love Your Life(11)

“Thanks.” He squints to read my name badge. “Aria. Nice name. Thanks.”





Three




At break we mill around in the courtyard with glasses of homemade lemonade. I sip mine for a while, then let my eye catch Dutch’s, casually.

Super-casually.

Like, barely interested at all.

“Hi!” I say. “How did you find the writing exercise?”

We’ve all just written the first sentence of a book and handed them in to Farida. We’re going to discuss them later in the week. Mine’s quite dramatic; it goes: Emily’s bosom dripped with blood as she gazed at the love of her life.

I’m quite pleased with it, actually. I think it’s pretty riveting. Why is Emily’s bosom dripping with blood? Any reader would be dying to know. (The only thing is, I’m not sure myself; I must think about that before we get to the discussion.)

“I froze,” says Dutch regretfully. “Didn’t write a word. My brain…” He bangs his forehead with his fist. “Just won’t do it. I was never any good at this kind of thing. Give me a practical task. Or numbers. I’m good with numbers. But creative writing…” A tortured expression passes over his face.

    “That’s OK,” I say encouragingly. “It’ll come.”

“It’s interesting, though,” he continues, as if determined to be positive. “I liked hearing what everyone else thought. Interesting crowd.” He spreads his arms to take in everyone wandering around the courtyard. “You know. It’s different. Sometimes it’s good to step outside your comfort zone. Try something new.”

“This courtyard is beautiful, isn’t it?” I can hear Scribe saying behind me.

“Oh, it’s stunning,” Metaphor replies in a loud, definitive voice, as though she’s the only person who can pronounce on what’s stunning or not and no one else had better even try. “The ancient, craggy stones, worn down by a thousand footsteps,” she continues in declamatory tones. “The echoing cloister, full of history. The scents of herbs, mingling with the cascading blooms of flowers all around us, while swallows speed through the cobalt sky, tumbling and shooting like endless darts of…” She hesitates for only a moment. “Quicksilver.”

“Absolutely,” says Scribe after a polite pause. “That’s just what I was going to say.”

I want to turn around and catch Scribe’s eye, but before I can, Black Belt approaches.

“Hi,” he greets Dutch. “Hot out here.”

    He’s taken off his pajama top and I’m trying not to stare, but those muscles. I’ve never seen anyone that ripped in real life. Basically he looks like a less-green Hulk.

“It’s weird, huh?” He addresses Dutch. “This no-name shit. Did you write anything?”

“No.”

“Me either.

“You write anything?” He’s turned to Lyric, who is walking up to us, holding a glass of lemonade.

“A bit.” She shrugs. “Not really my thing. I thought it would be more interesting.”

She’s gazing at Dutch over her drink, I suddenly notice. In fact, she can’t take her eyes off him. Oh God. The horrible truth suddenly hits me: I have a rival. A rival with tawny hair and toned arms and slimmer legs than mine.

As I gaze anxiously at her, Lyric seems to become prettier before my eyes. Her hair is feathery and frames her face perfectly. She’s chewing her lips in an adorable way. She probably looks incredibly hot when she kickboxes. Of course she does.

“Are you into this?” she suddenly demands of Dutch, almost aggressively, and he flinches at her tone.

“Don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’m not,” says Black Belt flatly. “I think it was a mistake. Shall we take off?” He addresses Dutch directly. “We can still get a refund.”

What?

Panic shoots through me, but somehow I summon a relaxed smile. Relaxed-ish, maybe.

    “Don’t leave!” I say lightheartedly, making sure I address all of them, not just Dutch. “Give it another chance. Come to the next session, see how it goes.”

Farida is banging the little gong that signals us to return to the group, and I can see Dutch is conflicted.

“I’ll try another session,” he says at last to the others. “I’m not bailing yet. We’ve got until tomorrow to decide.”

Black Belt rolls his eyes but drains his lemonade and dumps the glass on a nearby trestle table.

“If you say so,” says Lyric without enthusiasm. “But I think it’s pretty shit. I think we should go for the refund. We could go and have a drink now, in the town. Have some fun. Get on a flight tomorrow morning.”

“You don’t have to stay,” says Dutch, sounding defensive. “But I want to have another go. I like listening, even if I can’t write. Maybe I’ll pick up some tips.”

He turns and heads back toward the doorway leading to our meeting room. Lyric watches him for a moment, then clicks her tongue as though in frustration and follows him in, along with Black Belt.

She’s so after him.

As we take our seats, I sneak a few glances at her and she’s gazing at Dutch, an unmistakable look in her eye. It’s so blatant. So obvious. I mean, it’s inappropriate, if you ask me. This is a writing retreat.