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This week, I’ve got something a little different for you. Some of you asked about my fiction writing, so here you go!
This is the beginning of a novel I’m working on, called Love Bugs. Rather than provide a ton of backstory that might influence your response, I’m going to let the words speak for themselves here. If you like what you read and would like for me to keep posting excerpts from the book, please let me know.
November, 2017
Anastasia slid the door open, pulled the key from the lock and dragged her suitcase behind her. Her legs ached from all the walking she’d done in the previous two days, after that phone call in the hotel room jolted her awake at 3:47 in the morning.
I’ve become too old for airports, she thought ruefully as her eyes scanned the room.
The stillness hit her like a slap. Everything was outlined in sharp relief, an image of her home rather than the home itself. This couldn’t possibly be our condo, could it? she thought. Motes of dust floated in a beam of light behind the empty sofa. A shaft of sun shimmered on the oak floor, silent. The perfectly clean fireplace remained dormant, turned off months before.
The place had that odd feeling of vacancy, like a stage set after the audience has left. All the inanimate objects lined up neatly: the vase on the mantelpiece. The comfy chairs with pillows arranged at just the right angles. The piano in the corner.
Why had she never realized how barren the place looked? How austere and lifeless it felt to walk into this big, empty room? Why hadn’t someone told her that it looked like an abandoned attempt at a home rather than the home itself, that no human could ever really survive here?
You’re just exhausted, she told herself. It’s hard to believe that just a couple of nights ago, I was in New York, toasting the new contract and clinking glasses with Bridget and Leslie. Another book in the Relpek series--the last.
A triumph of my career. The final book I’ll ever write.
Her stomach tightened, the gnawing emptiness a sharp reminder that Bradley was gone.
She left the suitcase by the door, the soft whoosh and click as it eased itself shut behind her. She wandered across to the kitchen. There was a lone mug still on the countertop, half empty. He must have been drinking when it happened, she thought.
Bradley’s stool. Where he should have been sitting, waiting for her to get home.
Instead, she was met with gaping silence, punctuated only by a low buzz from the refrigerator. She closed her eyes, tried to will him back into existence. She half expected him to turn round to face her, mug in hand, as if nothing had happened. She imagined him standing, turning to her as usual, their arms around each other as they kissed hello.
“Cup of tea?” he’d ask, already on his way to put the kettle on.
“Thank you, darling,” she’d say, before launching into a random story about the trip.
Did I tell you what Leslie asked for this time? She wants me to completely revamp the first three chapters. Or, Would you believe they booked my room just down the hall from the pool? I had to call Bridget directly to get her to change it. Inhaling chlorine all night would not have been the best preparation for my two-hour reading on Friday.
Then they’d both laugh, sip their steaming drinks. Bradley would regale her with stories of goings-on at home while she was away. In the early days, these invariably revolved around Cassie: Cassie’s first steps, Cassie’s inexplicable attachment to purple ribbons in her hair, Cassie’s difficulty with fractions. But more recently since Cassie left, he focused on his own work, buildings he helped design in Boston or Sedona or Montreal.
She turned to the living room, its open space taking up most of the condo’s interior. Peering down the hallway, she saw the door to their bedroom, the corner of the bed visible. Thankfully, Bradley’s office door was still closed. She couldn’t bear to see his things, lined up neatly on the desk, a reminder that he was no longer there. Better to let Cassie come and take care of it. No doubt she’d want some of his pens or a blueprint he’d drawn. Anastasia knew if she touched anything, it would be enough to crack her tenuous control over the situation, knowing his belongings remained but that he was never coming back.
The clock read 2:12. Too many hours of the day left to endure. But the flight had been long, a layover in Chicago, then the final transfer to Toronto, three hours in line at customs before she could finally grab her bags and hail a cab for home. She felt spent.
I should go to sleep, she thought. She glanced again toward the bedroom, decided otherwise. I can’t go back there right now.
The idea of sleeping in the bed alone felt unbearable. Don’t be idiotic, she told herself. You were in a bed alone last night. But she was meant to be alone in an airport hotel, glaring lights and anonymous cars, everyone darting about the lobby like cockroaches surprised by daylight. But not in my own bed. Not in our bed, where Bradley should still be beside me.
Instead, she made her way to the sofa and slumped into it. Its softness embraced her and she could feel her back and shoulders relax. I’ll need to find the will, she thought absently. And learn where he kept everything in the kitchen.
But for now, all she wanted was sleep. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her, lay her head down on the sofa cushion. She could feel the exhaustion enveloping her like a fog.
As she fell into sleep, a single thought surfaced: Bradley, how will I ever manage without you?
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Makes me interested in reading the book - I assume he died, but it's not clear...very interesting