It was so incredibly ugly. She couldn’t believe it.
“If you don’t move around too much, then it should hold,” Magda said as she unceremoniously stuck a pin into the shimmery fabric—fabric that Scottie had told Nora not to choose under any circumstances.
“Should?” Scottie asked the older woman skeptically, ending hard on the d. She ran her hands over the offensive fabric and turned her face to the side in the mirror, imaging what she might look like walking down the aisle. Except for some reason she had a hard time picturing herself in the purple bridesmaids dress—something far more white and meaningful, and arguably, far more offensive, kept filling her mind.
When Scottie had voiced her sincere concern, Nora, in her typical sharp tone, had promptly called her a Cee U Next Tuesday. Scottie loved that Nora wouldn’t say the word. For someone so outspoken, she had these weird prudish hang-ups, and Scottie relished the contradiction.
“Oh, you mean cunt?” she’d said to Nora’s scowl. It had been over her last trip out to New York, right before Christmas, about six months ago. They’d gotten coffees at this Greek place in SoHo that Scottie loved and were window shopping on Spring street. It had started to snow—great big fluffy flakes—and it was on days like that that Scottie missed New York the most.
“You know what I mean,” Nora had snorted, storming off ahead, throwing her navy scarf over her shoulder like she was on stage in front of a goddamn audience. She expertly dodged the bundled up crowds of tourists and New Yorkers alike.
“I’m only here for four days, you know!” Scottie had shouted at her back as she pressed forward. Nora knew that Scottie’s stay was limited, but she didn’t stop nor turn around for almost ten blocks. Scottie had almost decided to throw in the towel when Nora finally rounded on her. Was it tradition for the bride to hate the maid of honor by wedding day? It felt inevitable. She wondered, as Magda furrowed her brow and rubbed her wrinkled chin, if Cory hated his best man as well.
“Tighter, dear,” Magda said, ignoring Scottie's earlier sarcasm, referring to her squeezing her boobs together. She sighed and pressed her palms together even harder, imagining that this must be a fraction of what a mammogram feels like. She was only twenty-nine, so she’d never had one—ONLY twenty-nine. She shuddered to think about it. She also shuddered to think about the day when placing the adjective “only” before her age lost its charm. It felt like that was going to be soon. Getting older was a bizarre and unwelcome guest that she didn’t feel like entertaining.
When she looked down at her chest, or cleavage even, it appeared that she’d gone from her size A—that she’d hated since she was 13—to a perfect size C—the size that made her green with jealousy. Nora wore a size C bra. Scottie had this secret hunch that Nora was actually stuffing because she saw her get measured at a Victoria’s Secret once in college and Nora didn’t come out as a C. She was a generous B, at most. Stuffing crumpled tissues down your bra at 29 felt incredibly sad, but then again, Nora had taken to lying about her age already, so maybe it was less sad if you were only 25. There’s that only again. It made all the goddamn difference. Scottie wondered vaguely if Nora had had some work done. She didn’t think so, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if it were true. Nothing really would have surprised her anymore.
“Just a bit tighter, dear, if you can,” Magda said again, voice muffled by the blossom of pins between her teeth. Scottie sucked in as much as she could and pressed against her boobs and, ultimately, her ribs, as hard as her body would allow.
“There – we – go!” Magda chirped, sticking one final pin in on the side.
Scottie realized once she let out a choked gasp that she’d been holding her breath. She turned toward the mirror, looking at herself from three different angles. Right mirror Scottie looked the best because her right side was decidedly her best side, but none of the mirror Scotties looked that good, which must have meant the real-life Scottie looked like a goddamn dumpster fire. This was something she’d already known in the back of her mind, but seeing it in front of her was jarring as all hell. Her collarbones jutted out sharply above the strapless sweetheart neckline, a terrible neckline for her, as you’d have it. Her dark curls descended wildly from the half-assed messy bun she threw up after rolling over, seeing the time, and throwing herself from the guest bed at her mother’s apartment. And her freckles. Her freckles looked like she’d drawn them on with a marker.
Magda sighed audibly and undoubtedly at Scottie’s appearance. Scottie tried to wipe a little bit of the raccoon eye make-up off her face from last night, but the effort was fruitless as she just smudged more, like she was drawing under her eyes with the same marker she’d used on her freckles. She had gotten home late, thrown herself into the empty apartment, tumbled into bed still dressed, face unwashed, teeth unbrushed. The picture of a woman discarded. She looked like one of the crack addicts who would sleep on her block—her old block—in Los Angeles, near the dumpsters behind the 7/11.
And as she thought of those disgusting trash receptacles, it hit her, quite suddenly, that it had been less than 24 hour since she had quit her relationship with J.J., or rather, he had quit it with her. She didn’t tell Sara she’d left and wasn’t coming back. She couldn’t tell Sara. Sara was the reason she went to Los Angeles in the first place, and part of the reason she felt she’d had to leave yesterday. It always came back to Sara and her recurring penchant for opiates.
“Fuck,” Scottie whispered without taking her eyes off her reflection. Magda shook her head and made a clucking noise.
“Just a bit of,” she hesitated awkwardly, trying to decide how best to phrase the next bit. “New makeup and….and maybe some hairspray.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Scottie said stubbornly. Magda was right. My God was she right. And that was exactly why Scottie had to get the hell out of there.
“What’s the occasion?” Magda asked, smoothing out the ugly purple skirt. “I’m going to a wedding.” Scottie replied, deadpan.
“OH! How exciting!” The bird face exclaimed as she clasped her hands and rocked side to side. Scottie returns with a tight light of a smile. Magda, Magda. Her skin was so thin, like tissue paper. It looked like it was covered in fine dust. The kind of dust that resided between flaps of stacked fabric. Scottie prayed, silently, that she would never look like Magda. Although Magda didn’t look like a woman who lied about her age, and Scottie appreciated that.
“Right,” she snapped sarcastically, “great.”
“Okay,” Magda smiled, lips tight and chapped. Scottie hitched up her slightly off purple skirt to get down off the platform. If Nora wasn’t having hair and makeup done for all of them she swore she would throw herself in traffic. Or she’d go back to her mom’s vacant apartment and stick a fork in her eye.
As she was checking her purse for money, one of the pins poked her in the rib and she winced reflexively. Reaching into the wad of cash she had taken out yesterday, Scottie shoved three twenties at Magda. She noticed and chose to ignore, as she passed over the bills, that her manicure had irreparably chipped.
“Wait,” Magda took a step toward Scottie, looking down at the crumpled money in her palm.
“Yeah?” Scottie asked, irritated. Her foot was twitching—nervous habit.
“You can’t leave like that, dear – I haven’t altered the dress yet.” Magda’s face was a mangled mess of confusion, wrinkles, and creased makeup.
“No time,” Scottie replied, turning toward the door, pulling up the tulle underskirt so it didn’t drag on the street. The only thing worse than that stupid ugly thing would have been if it were covered in New York City street grime.
“When’s the wedding?” Magda asked, following Scottie out the door into the bright sunlight that she’d forgotten about. Magda shielded her eyes to the burst and Scottie wondered, absently, if Magda would disappear in a poof of fabric dust when the sun hit her. Scottie felt like Magda was something out of a Brothers Grimm tale—old, enchanted, and ultimately, stuck on rerun.
Scottie rummaged for her sunglasses in her bag, thrusting them onto her face and turning around with a scowl. She felt like garbage, and if the mirror was any evidence, she looked like it too.
“Tonight,” Scottie said rudely, turning to face the street. Right now, actually, she thought helplessly.
She ran up West 4th Street holding her heels, skirt, and purse, scanning the street for a cab—any cab. At this point, she would have even taken one of those big vans that rattled all the fucking way. She spotted one coming up fast. Throwing herself into the street with her hand up, she waved desperately, unaware as a car whizzed by, the whoosh throwing her back, missing her by less than a few inches. She tapped her right foot again—nervous habit. The pavement was warm under her toes.
Someone whistled at her from behind. She spun around but, without losing sight of the task at hand, immediately threw her hand back in the air. Stay focused, Scottie. You need a cab.
“Put some shoes on, woman!” A man’s voice, gruff with a Jamaican accent. Throwing his hands in the air, he stood on the sidewalk with a flowered shirt that looked three sizes too big, and what looked like a bathing suit in lieu of real pants. He looked at her and scoffed, waving her off as he did. Scottie realized it was a “get her attention whistle” not a “let’s fuck,” whistle—but still, she was irritated.
“You put some shoes on,” Scottie snapped back like a rubber band. He started walking away from her, down the street but then he stopped short and shouted.
“These are sandals.”
Scottie glanced back at him quickly, suddenly feeling the grit between her toes, dreading looking at the bottom of them, but feeling secure in her decision not to eat shit and break her ankle outside Joe’s Pizza, face to pavement.
The cab slowed down, and there was a moment where she saw the cabbie see her and she knew he knew this wasn’t going to be a good ride. But he stopped in spite of the exchange. She hitched up her dress again, the fabric pulling slightly as one of the pins pressed into her back, needling her skin. Scottie inhaled and grabbed the door. It’s was, of course, a van cab.
“Fuck,” she said loudly as she yanked the door. It slid back with a harsh grinding sound that aggravated her already mounting headache. She tumbled in, gathering the fabric up in her arms like two chubby children, clutching them to her chest. She might have been showing this man more than he bargained for if she was wearing anything else, but there was too much fabric on the fucking thing for anyone to really see anything worth writing home about, and even then it probably wasn't worth writing anyone about.
“The Bronx,” Scottie nodded at him as she reached for the handle to yank the door closed. He sighed loudly and started the meter.
“Sandals,” she shouted at the man’s flowery back, horns wailing behind the cab she was stalling by lingering in the open door. “Are not shoes!” That was something that she, for one, felt incredibly passionate about, and for some reason, it felt really important in that moment to share it.
Will, as open and genuinely receptive as he was, had never really liked Nora. He’d tried extra hard to have an open mind over the years that she’d been with Cory—for the sake of his friend of almost thirty years now—but it was something about their personalities—they simply didn’t click. Nora was beautiful—Will couldn’t deny that—but God did she know it. Her troubling lack of humility knew no bounds.
She had the kind of porcelain skin you saw on cartoon princesses, so pale and smooth and blemish free it almost seemed to radiate some kind of light. She had rich dark red hair and ice blue eyes, and was so tiny—at barely 5’1”—that Will, sitting down as always was, was almost as tall as she was. But once she opened her mouth, her beauty seemed to be sucked out of the room like someone was goddamn vacuuming it up. Will knew she resented him for a few reasons—the primary and most recent being that she believed, not so secretly, that he would ruin her wedding pictures. Another was that Will had never been one to mince words. He’d been called “direct” to his face, and he was confident he’d been called a “dick” behind his back. He didn’t think there was much time for anything but honesty. And Nora didn’t like push back or feedback, but she did seem to enjoy fighting back. He did have to give it to her though, she probably made a pretty good lawyer with that kind of aggression.
She also seemed to resent Cory’s friends an unusual amount. It was always a competition for his time, but Will wouldn’t concede any fault on that one. He felt that he was fairly reasonable, being that he was an introvert and never was one to pushed to get together much to begin with. And to add to the situation, it seemed to be the case that Nora’s only real female friend worth anything was this mysterious maid of honor from Los Angeles who had apparently made a habit of disappearing unexpectedly. Will couldn’t imagine she was much though, considering whom she apparently called her best friend. Although, judging by her impending late arrival, Will questioned how mutual the feelings were. And then there was the guilt that wracked Cory. Will didn't know about this particular reason, but it might have been the one that Nora clutched most tightly. Cory had had a hard time with Will's accident as he'd been in the car the night it happened. It haunted him and that kind of bone chilling fear soaked into him and ricocheted into every facet of his life. Will represented something that Cory never wanted to remember, and Nora begrudged Will for simply existing—a living, breathing, imperfect reminder of the worst night of Cory's life. Of course, Nora being Nora, with very little room for empathy in all that insecurity, failed to consider that the night of the accident might also have been the worst night of Will's life. She concerned and busied herself with Cory's needs, as his needs ultimately translated to her own.
“Here you go Nash,” Nick said as he sat down next to Will, handing him a cold glass of champagne. Nash was Will’s last name and it had been his childhood nickname. Oddly, Pete had the same last name and people just called him Pete.
“I shouldn’t,” Will replied, a hazy foreboding hanging around his head about the speech he had to make, or rather, make up, later, but he took it anyway and chanced a sip. He liked the way the cold bubbles felt as they went down his throat. He was just starting to feel nervous. Nick was part of their childhood group, another friend of 30 years, as good as kin. He whistled as he finished a sip of his own glass. There was a boyish quality about him, with a kind round face, brown eyes and light brown hair, and an uncanny cartoony aura about his expressions and mannerisms that could extract a smile from even the most stoic.
“That’s some good shit,” he said in earnest. Will laughed. Nick was easily impressed, although, in his defense, the champagne was very good. “And that,” he continued, pointing directly at Will’s black eye, “Is also some good shit.”
Will pounded his fist into his hand and couldn’t help but give Nick his best tough guy face. It soon melted into a crooked smile and then, at the sound of the door swinging open, brusquely shifted to a grimace as Cory sauntered into the room and locked eyes with him. He looked as good as Will had ever seen him, dressed in a much nicer tuxedo than the wedding party, who were, indeed, wearing very nice tuxedos. His thick dirty blonde hair was gelled down and his face was clean-shaven—for once. But that clean-shaven face predictably fell at the sight of the affronting eye.
“Fuck,” he whispered. Then he shook his head and started to laugh. “Nora is going to fucking kill me, Nash.” But Will knew, that if Nora was going to kill anyone, it was going to be him. Between the wheelchair, which she’d known about and resented since she’d known him, and the black eye, which she would certainly know about soon, he was undoubtedly going to ruin some, if not all, of the wedding pictures. And oddly, as he tipped the champagne glass back and took another—larger—sip, it didn’t bother him at all.
They arrived at Wave Hill a full two hours after the specified arrival time Scottie had been given by the aforementioned bride. Her stomach clenched at the thought of Nora’s face upon her late arrival. The cabbie pulled into the driveway and stopped so short that she banged her face on the Plexiglas partition.
“What the fuck, man?” she yelled, rubbing her forehead frantically. Add a bruised nose to the list of transgressions.
“Sorry, lady,” he said in a thick eastern European accent she couldn’t place. Not that she was great at placing accents.
“I’m tipping 10%,” she muttered mostly to herself as she pressed through the payment screen and pulled out her credit card.
“Not an option,” he replied smugly. She looked at the screen incredulously. Fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five percent, or calculate your own.
“Ughhhh,” she groaned. It was like he was inside her head—which hurt too much to calculate the tip, plus she’d never been particularly good at math, especially not public math.
“Fine,” she conceded through gritted teeth.
“Have a nice day,” he said in a singsong voice.
“You have a nice day,” Scottie spit back, not realizing what she’d said until it was out of her mouth.
Her heart was racing as she jumped out of the van and slammed the door—hard. It popped back open and she felt him looking at her, daring her to slam it again. She took a deep breath and slid it closed quickly, but far less hard than previously. It clicked closed and she noted how much less satisfying it felt. And then she unceremoniously dropped her purse, which had been wedged between her body and her other arm, and it predictably spilled its contents everywhere.
Scottie stopped and looked at her things all over the driveway, letting out air through gritted teeth. Shutting her eyes tightly, trying to block out the intense sunlight, she took a deep breath. It was too fucking hot of day for a wedding.
Opening her eyes and kneeling down to pick up her things, she felt some of the tension ebbing away. A cool breeze came from behind her and it was a welcome relief on the back of her slick sweaty neck. Standing up, she pulled one of the little airplane bottles of gin she’d picked up this morning. The cashier had eyed her bare feet, thinly veiled disgust on his face. Scottie didn’t disagree with him, but another pair of shoes wouldn’t fit in her purse.
“Early?” he’d asked as he rung her up. She’d given him a cold sarcastic smile as she shoved cash his way and grabbed the brown paper bag.
“Doesn’t feel early,” she’d spat as she pushed the door open, bell tinkling irritatingly behind her.
She probably should have taken one of her mom’s old carpetbags, but she hadn’t really given herself any time to think, barely brushing her teeth before she pulled the bridesmaid dress out of the plastic for the first time and tossed it haphazardly over her head only to find that it fit her like a burlap sack. Thankfully, before her mother really started slip into the folds of her deteriorating mind, she’d had a tailor named Magda down the block. That was how Scottie ended up a Saturday morning pincushion.
The rush of bitter pine hit her throat with intensity, carving a hot trail all the way down to her stomach. She downed the bottle and opened her purse to stash it until she could find a trash can when she heard a voice. Confused, husky, worried even, but it was a welcome voice—a voice she knew, no questions there.
“Gin, huh?” It came gruffly as she whipped around to see his face. He was had a smile playing at his lips, but his brow was furrowed concern. She felt like he was approaching her the way a hunter might approach a timid deer in the woods with a shotgun behind his back. Ignoring that disturbing image, she stepped toward him coyly with a crooked smile.
“Gin,” she confirmed. He laughed and looked down at his dress shoes. Then he noticed her bare feet.
“Shoes?” he asked.
“Shoes,” she said, holding up the strappy stilettos in her hand. She didn’t like them at all, but she’d had to pull whatever she’d had on hand that would go with the purple dress. That didn’t leave many options. Also she noted privately that they were technically sandals, and therefore, by the transitive property, not shoes.
“Why put them on for the journey? Save them for the event,” he said, shaking his head in mock agreement.
“Max,” she continued, warmly, face feeling elastic as her smile widened. “Max!” She shouted as she walked quickly toward him and threw her arms around his neck, pulling them tight. He lifted her up and spun her around once, kissing her on the cheek. He smelled so familiar to Scottie, smoky and woody, like camping, and it put her at ease…or maybe it was the gin. She settled on the combination of the two having the mood lifting effect.
“Scottie, darling” he whispered into her hair, loosening his grip as he put her back down. He had always called her darling and it was like music for Scottie to hear it again. She took a step back to get a better look at him. His dark brown hair was gelled back a little but sticking up slightly in the back like it always did—the king of the cow lick. His dark brown eyes were flashing as he took her in. His tuxedo was flawless. Cory had chosen the cummerbund and bowtie for his groomsmen and Scottie had to admit that he’d made a much better choice than Nora had on the bridesmaid dresses. Cory did always have impeccable taste.
“You look really nice,” she said, rubbing his arm.
“You look like shit,” he replied snappishly.
“If you weren’t right, I’d argue,” she agreed.
“We’ve been calling,” he said simply, shrugging.
“I,” she started to say, reaching into her purse for her phone. She pulled it out and pressed the button—nothing.
“It’s, uhh,” she replied flatly, “dead.” She held it out to him and he glanced at it for a second then returned his gaze to her.
“We were worried,” he said.
“I know, I’m sorry,” she replied guiltily.
“Was your flight delayed?” he asked.
“Oh,” she stuttered, “Yes. Terribly. I was up all night.” The lie felt awkward on her tongue, but she didn’t fight it. She had no excuse for being late except that she’d gotten exceptionally drunk on her own last night.
“Where’s J.J.?” he asked, looking around like he might be hiding behind a tree or something.
“Oh,” Scottie waved her hand absently, “He couldn’t make it.” She bit her lower lip and took his eyes in hers, determined not to look away. She dared him to question her. She knew he knew she was lying, but Max, unsurprisingly choosing the path of least resistance, didn’t say anything. They had a wedding to attend for God’s sake.
He cleared his throat loudly to signal that this wasn’t over just yet, but he’d let it go for now, and put his hands in his pocket. She was being dodgy, but he didn’t know how to pin her down. Her hair was a mess. Her face, looked, well haggard—like she hadn’t had a good night sleep in weeks. She was tall, exotic looking, and beautiful, even on her worst day, but he felt like this might have been on of those worst days. The silence between them stretched.
“It was last minute,” she said, voice matter of fact. He saw through her attempt at brushing it off like it was nothing. She held her breath, watching him, hoping against hope he would drop it and let them move past this conversation that she wasn’t ready to have.
“Very,” Max said flatly.
“Max,” she said his name like pressing a button, taking a step closer, “I’m here now.” She reached out and took his hands in hers. His face softened a bit.
“Yes,” he replied, “that is true. Nora won’t actually murder you now.” Scottie felt herself blush a bit, letting the awful truth about how late she was sink in a bit. Fuck, she thought.
“Thank God,” she sighed, “you know how she gets.”
“It’s her wedding day,” he replied sharply, taking Nora’s side in his inflection. “And between you and the best man, you’re going to kill the couple.”
“Yes,” she conceded immediately, “you’re right. I’m sorry. I just—it’s been a long week.” She felt her face flush even more than it already had and ignored the best man comment. Whatever he’d done couldn’t have been worse than arriving hours late, right?
“Come on,” he reassured her and turned back toward the beautiful house set back on the lawn in front of them. Putting his hand on her back he immediately recoiled, pulling his hand away like he’d been burned, examining it closely.
“What the fuck is that?” he said frantically, turning to look at the back of her dress.
“Oh,” she replied, blowing air out through her nose and pursing her lips. “I, uh,” she said, “I had to get the dress taken in.”
“You do look thin,” he responded, noticing the slight curves she used to have were absent and her already slender arms were twig-like. Her boobs looked big, but he realized it was probably because the dress was constricting them. Her collarbones look sharp, cheekbones even sharper.
“Thank you,” she sang, refusing to acknowledge the serious edge in his voice. She absolutely refused. She knew was thinner than she ever had been, but she couldn’t keep on the weight. Sara’s dip back into the exciting world of opiates had taken a very physical toll on Scottie this time.
“Some things never change, do they, darling?” he asked, giving her a meaningful look that she knew meant they’d be revisiting this. She shook her head and immediately felt like there were marbles rolling around in there. “But they left some pins in the back,” he stopped and reaches for one of the more obvious ones.
“Ah,” she shouted, spinning around on her bare heel. She had forgotten that she still needed to wipe New York City street grime off her feet—something to look forward to. “The pins must stay,” she declared, holding up a hand.
“So they didn’t finish taking it in then?” Max asked, clearly very confused.
“Well, no,” she replied sheepishly. “I, well,” she started, “I didn’t try it on until this morning.”
“This morning?” he asked, making sure he had heard her correctly. Scottie was last minute, but not generally this last minute. She nodded, face solemn and lined with guilt. He was silent for a minute before his face opened up. He was laughing before he even realized it. He was laughing hard. He slapped his knee and for about the tenth time since seeing her, shook his head.
“Fucking classic,” he managed to say through the guffaws.
“We are who we are,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and doing this little tap number they used to do in college when they were tipsy, or blacked out, or hungover. The ended up doing it quite a bit more than they would ever admit to anyone but each other. Max found himself laughing even louder.
“Where’s Edwin?” she asked as Max finally came up for air.
“Ah, he’s killing time somewhere while we get the groom ready,” he answers off handedly.
“You left your boyfriend alone all day to fend for himself?”
“You left yours in LA,” he retorted. He noticed Scottie visibly recoil but he decided he didn’t want call attention to it, but he couldn’t help his eyes narrowing for a moment before returning to normal.
“The bridal party is upstairs,” he offered instead, gesturing to a wide bay window on the second floor. Scottie could see movement—ugly purple movement.
“And the groomsmen are right there,” he continued, waving at someone in a first floor window. Scottie focused a little better and saw at least six faces pressed against the glass. They were all in tuxedos that matched Max’s, and they were all laughing, which also matched Max.
“Glad you guys got a show.” Her voice was sharp, but she was beginning to crack up. Max turned to look at her and puts his arm tenderly around her shoulders. He had so much love for this woman. If he weren’t interested exclusively in men, he’d marry her on the spot.
“I’m avoiding the pins,” he said. His arm was heavy and comforting on Scottie’s shoulders. She unconsciously breathed a sigh of relief, and with that, let herself miss him for a moment. Coming back, suddenly and mercifully, felt like the right decision.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she responded with heavy eye roll.
“And that show?” he teased.
“Yeah?” she asked.
“Darling,” he replied, kissing her on the top of the head. “I’ve got a hunch it isn’t quite over yet.”
I've been a reader here for a while, am a copywriter by day, and have been writing fiction on the side for as long as I can remember. I finally worked up the nerve to share with ya'll. Excited to hear if ya'll like it, and please don't hesitate to offer feedback (both positive and constructive). I don't want to give too much away, so here goes nothing. Thanks for reading!
Thank you so much to all for reading along, and for the lovely comments (and for being patient with today's late post).
I'm going to take a two-week break, and then come back with more Shadowboxing (whew). And do let me know what you thought of this "genre" of dev story (I think of it as mundane sci-fi :) ) - I'd be very interested to hear what folks thought of the execution, whether you'd be interested in seeing more, if there are any particular assistive tech scenarios you've ever mused about, etc.
Yikes. It's been quite some time since I've posted on here. I've had some free time in the last few weeks...and I used it to catch up on some writing. I haven't forgotten about this story (or any of my others), real life has just been incredibly demanding lately. If there is anyone still following this story, I hope this update makes you happy!
I'm posting on Free Friday because although I have three more chapters written, I don't know when I'll get a chance to post them. I hope this tides you all over for a little while though.
Happy weekend and happy reading.
P.S.: If there's anyone new interested...check out Between the Pages from the beginning!
I promised you guys a midweek surprise and here it is. The third installment of Dean and Callie's story, in which they finally turn up the heat:
Callie is turning 25 years old.
It’s the first birthday she’s ever had where she’s been in a serious relationship. Her boyfriend Dean is everything she’s ever wanted in another human being. And all she wants for her birthday is…
All night long.
Dean is crazy about Callie. He’s never met anyone like her before, and he wants nothing more than to grant her birthday wish. But ever since the accident that landed him in a wheelchair, things aren’t that simple…
Hi all, I'm back, but interrupting myself with a new, shorter story - I needed a change to regain momentum. This will be three or four chapters long (just need to decide how I'm going to divide up the ending), and will give me time to figure out how to wrap up Shadowboxing.
The romance element to this one is pretty subdued; the focus is on the protagonist's relationship with his disability, and on a near-future science-fictional concept for assistive technology - one of several that I've been mulling over lately.