Chapter 95 Start with a letter
He turns to me, his eyes searching mine with a sudden, sharp intensity, then he sighs, "Fine...but you have to be honest with me, Ryan. No 'boyfriend' points, no sympathy votes. If this is utter garbage, if it’s pretentious or hollow, you have to tell me."
I manage a small, tired smirk. "I take my critiquing very seriously. If I find the concept lacking, you’ll be the first to know. I’ll be painfully brutal."
He lets out a short, dry chuckle, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. He stalls for another moment, watching a seagull dive into the wake of the ferry, before he straightens his posture.
"Alright," he says, his voice dropping into that professional tone he uses when he’s deep in his element. "First, the legalities: Any resemblance between the narrative and actual people, living or otherwise, or to actual events, is purely circumstantial. Just a byproduct of the author’s imaginative desperation." He gives me a pointed look, one that says he’s lying through his teeth. I nod and gesture for him to go on.
He takes a breath, the salt air filling his lungs. "I’m imagining a gardener," he begins, his voice steady. "A man who has lived his whole life craving a profound connection but has always been a bit of a ghost in his own world. He finds out his heart is slowly turning into glass. Not metaphorically....literally. It’s beautiful, clear, and incredibly intricate, but it’s becoming impossibly fragile."
I watch his profile, captivated by the way he animates the words, his hands tracing shapes in the air.
"He’s obsessed with fulfilling his father’s dying wish. To restore the orchard before the first winter. Something that requires absolute, physical and emotional stillness to maintain. But then, a childhood crush returns to town. Suddenly, the stillness is an impossibility. Every time he feels a surge of genuine emotion....like grief, or desire, even just the terrifying spark of hope....a tiny, jagged crack appears in his chest. He can hear it. Like a little ping against his ribs."
Michael turns to look at me, the wind messy in his hair, his gaze searching mine. "So, he’s stuck with this impossible calculus. Does he live a perfectly still, cold, emotionless existence to stay 'whole' and finish his father’s work? Or does he let himself actually feel the connection he’s spent his life wanting, knowing that every heartbeat of love is literally shattering him? Does he die 'complete' and alone, or does he risk ending the season as a pile of shards, just to know what it feels like to be touched?"
He stops, his gaze fixed on mine, waiting for the verdict. I look at him, a slow smile pulling at the corners of my mouth despite the biting wind. "It’s not garbage, Michael. Truly."
He scoffs, shaking his head slightly as he looks away toward the water. He doesn't believe me, or perhaps he’s just too close to the work to see anything but the seams.
"I mean it," I insist, my voice low and steady. I wait until he looks back at me before I lean in just a fraction. "If my dying wish was to read it, would that give you the motivation you need to actually finish it?"
The humor vanishes from his face instantly. He gives me a hard, unimpressed look, the kind that says ‘don't go there’, and for a second, the air between us turns heavy.
"Okay, okay. Bad joke," I say, chuckling softly as I raise a hand in apology. "I’m sorry. But I’m being serious about the rest. I’d really like to read it. Something written entirely by you.... I’d be first in line for that. I’d be your most devoted fan."
Michael sighs, his shoulders dropping as the defensive edge leaves him. "Writing is hard, though. That’s the thing. Picturing the architecture in your head is the easy part. You can see the whole cathedral when your eyes are closed. But actually laying the bricks? That’s a different story." He lets out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. "I have a newly formed, very humbling respect for all the writers I used to harass over deadlines. I think I owe a few people an apology."
I watch the way his hands fidget with the strap of the backpack....the backpack full of my life-support....and I realize he’s overthinking the vastness of the task. He’s probably trying to build the whole cathedral at once.
"Just start with a letter," I tell him, my voice catching his attention. "Then a word. Then a sentence. You have to coax it out, Michael. That’s how the most enduring things begin....gradually, almost invisibly. You’re trying to force the current, but you should be looking for the leak."
He looks at me, listening now.
"The words are probably just shy," I add, a bit more softly. "They’ve seen you as the judge for so long, the one with the red pen and the high standards. They’re intimidated. They don't know if they're allowed to be messy around you yet. But once you show them you're confident, that you're willing to be as vulnerable as they are, they’ll start to trust you back. They’ll show up for you, but only if you stop acting like their critic and start acting like their home."
Michael stares at me for a long beat, the intensity of his gaze making the pain in my joints feel like something distant and secondary. The ferry lets out a long, mournful blast as the docks of Bainbridge Island come into view, the sound vibrating through my chest.
He doesn't look away this time. Instead, he just watches me, his gaze softening into something heavy with affection and a depth I’m still not entirely sure I’ve earned. It’s an unblinking, quiet kind of reverence that makes the air feel thick.
I feel the heat climb into my cheeks, that familiar, flustered prickle that always surfaces when I’m being perceived too clearly. I chuckle awkwardly, shifting my weight and looking out at the approaching shoreline just to break the circuit. "What?" I ask, my voice sounding a bit too airy. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Has anyone ever pulled you aside to tell you how remarkably incisive you are?" He asks, his voice low but firm against the wind. "How your mind somehow strips away all the layers and gets right to the core of a thing, almost effortlessly?"
I shrug, keeping my eyes fixed on the green slopes of the island. "Not that I recall. Most people just found me nerdy. Or pretentious."
"Well, you’re neither," Michael says, and I can hear the smile in his tone. He steps a half-inch closer, his shoulder a solid, grounding presence against mine. "It turns out I’ve managed to snag a boyfriend who isn't just aesthetically pleasing to look at, but who's also really fucking smart. Lucky me."
He says the word boyfriend again, and this time, it doesn't just sound grand, it sounds like a fact. Like a title I’m finally allowed to wear.
"Lucky you," I repeat softly, finally brave enough to look back at him. "Though I’d bet the ‘pleasing’ part is purely a side effect of seeing me through biased, rose-colored glasses."
Michael just laughs, a warm sound that carries over the water. "Trust the editor, Ryan. I know a masterpiece when I see one."