All the Waters of the Earth

Chapter 9: Something from Nothing

"So what made you start writing novels?"

It was later that night. Jake, chambray boxer-clad, no shirt, enveloped me in his arms. I couldn't get enough of him, enough of feeling his skin, enough of smelling his clean, but somewhat spicy, scent, of feeling his stubble against my cheek, my shoulder, my back. I had slipped on a cami and pajama pants, and spooned against his big body, my face clean and makeup-free.

A little scared of letting him see me without makeup, I nonetheless allowed him to follow me into the bathroom and watch me take it off. This felt very intimate for him to be there, leaning against the counter, chatting with me, as I washed my face. After I toweled off, he reached out a finger under my chin, saying "I didn't think you could be more beautiful, but here it is. The evidence." And he leaned in and kissed my bare lips, running his finger along my cheek. "I love the way you look, Lucy, but without makeup? You are stunning. You are truly a natural beauty."

Praise was difficult to take, because like many of us, I was conditioned by society to be modest, to deflect, to not celebrate myself. But I tried to allow it in, to let myself accept that he thought I was beautiful, even without makeup, and it warmed me up.

Without talking about it, we had decided that he was spending the night. There was no reason for him to go back next door. I would ache for him. Now that I knew what he was like in bed, how generous and how honest, I didn't want to get more than a few inches away from him at any given time. I wanted to touch him, constantly.

But for now, curled up with him in my bed, warm and comfortable, I answered his question.

"I don't remember when it started because I always wanted to be a writer. Stories touched me when I was a kid. It was funny. By reading, I felt listened to. I realize that doesn't sound quite right, but I mean it. I felt like by reading and understanding the people in the story, and the author, I was understood, especially when they reflected something that I was thinking. There was someone who got me, who thought things that I thought, and who wasn't scared to put them down for other people to read. So it was like the author heard me and put my thoughts down for me. Or gave me new thoughts to think about.

"I love losing myself in books. I love connecting with the characters or the situations in the stories. And I love telling the stories, coming up with a different, but honest, way of saying something that I think or feel, and hoping that it resonates with a reader.

"And I think the creative process is amazing. Something from nothing. Without me, my fifteen novels would not exist. And there is something to be said about allowing the creation to come into existence. Kind of like having a kid."

I didn't know if I should talk about kids with Jake or not. I had no idea what he thought about them. I was a little scared to ask him if he wanted any. A lawyer once told me that you should never ask a question that you don't want to know the answer to. I didn't want to know the answer to that one, so I stayed quiet.

"What do you write about?" He nudged his nose in the space between my ear and my shoulder blade and kissed my back.

"Romance." He pulled his face away and turned me to look at him.

"Real life isn't romantic, Lucy."

I flopped over all the way and looked at him, fully facing him. "How can you say that? We just had the most romantic date. There is plenty of romance in our lives."

He smiled, a little sad. "True. But then I have to go back to work tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"Yeah. And I'll be back to working crazy hours and not seeing you."

"Why do you do that?"

"What are your parents like?" he asked, not answering my question, running his finger up and down my arm.