For about half an hour after she left, I try to pretend that Rose was never in the cabin. It didn’t work. So I give up, pour myself a glass of wine, even though it’s only two in the afternoon, and sack out on the couch with my phone to read Rose’s manuscript.
For a brief second before I start reading I roll my eyes at the picture I must represent, a grown man, until recently a Naval officer, stretched out with wine and a steamy romance novel. Linda would laugh her head off. If I’m feeling really generous, I may tell her one day. We’ll see after I read this masterpiece.
Of course, I lose track of time as I follow the romantic entanglements of Lena and Trevor, Rose’s main characters. She did a good job. They’re engaging, and it’s not long before you’re rooting for them to be together. The sex is… off the charts. There’s an added layer of emotional anticipation that wasn’t really there in her earlier books. Did I give her that? I certainly didn’t manage to instill any knowledge of anatomy in her. The physics of what they get up to still require impossible feats of gymnastics. But just like her legions of loyal readers, I don’t really care that much.
I keep reading. At this point, I’m following parallel tracks. There’s the written story and the characters and then there’s Rose, whose voice I hear reading the words. A slight stutter when she hits the dirty words because she is seriously sweet to the marrow of her bones.
At about the 60% mark, I feel a twist in my belly. At first, I think I’m getting hungry or need to eat something to soak up some of the wine. I get up and make a quick sandwich, continuing to read while I eat.
Then I finally realize what I’m feeling is pure and simple jealousy. This book is not about me. And it’s pissing me off. Even though I know it’s not about anyone else real. I’m well aware that Rose wrote the entire thing within the four walls of this cabin while I sat across the room most of the time. And most particularly because I told her to write it that way.
She still managed to write twenty-five pages of sex involving a cock that is definitely not mine. Exactly what I asked her to do. The next time someone looks around for an illustration to match up with ‘dog in a manger’ they’re going to find a portrait of me.
I dial her number, determined to find out if she was watching porn on her computer when I thought she was writing. (Yes, I’m aware this is a stupid question to ask a woman, but in my defense, I’m too pissed off to think clearly right now.) Perhaps it’s in my best interest that my call goes straight to voicemail. Only now I’m worried. Is she okay? Is she still driving or has she stopped for the night? She hasn’t responded to my earlier text message.
I keep reading until I finish the book. Then I get up and find the bottle of Scotch I stashed in the back of the cupboard, intending it to be a surprise for Tris and throw back a shot. I’ll buy him a new bottle or a fucking case of the stuff. The sunset, so similar to the one Rose made me watch, is lighting up the sky outside the picture window.
I check my phone, wondering where she is and if she’s safe for the night. Will she even bother to respond to my message? Just as I’m staring at the display, a notification pings. Rose sent me a picture of a boring beige hotel room with only I’m fine underneath it.
I breathe out with relief. I know I can’t expect her to check in with me daily. I don’t have that right, but for now, she’s safe and I can figure out where the hell I went wrong outside of touching her. Because damn my soul, I’m done having any regrets about that.