“I tried to talk to him. He was standoffish, and then left.”
“He left?”
“Out the back door and was gone for the rest of the night.”
“Wait a second,” Bel said. “Josh walked out on his own night?”
“I guess. I mean, yeah. I went back the next day and-”
“You did? That’s great. So, what’s the story then?”
I swallowed hard.
The story was in my nightstand drawer. The letter to Delilah. That was the story. I wanted to write about Delilah. Who she was. Where she came from. Why someone had written her such a beautiful letter. The person who wrote it was so heartbroken… and yet Delilah was so beautiful and perfect, how did she not know how much she was loved?
“Amelia?” Bel asked.
“Yeah. Sorry. Uh… I don’t have much right now. I’m sorry. Grace shouldn’t have gotten involved in my… business…”
“She means well,” she said. “And I think she sees me in you. Or you in me. I’m not sure how that goes.”
“Oh?”
“I could tell you stories about my life, but it won’t matter,” Bel said with a laugh. “The offer is there, Amelia. I know it’s been a few days, but I would still love to put something up about Josh. I’m not sure he realizes how far his artwork travels. He’s done interviews before. Cliché stuff. I was sort of hoping you’d take a more fictional spin to it.”
“Make stuff up?”
“No. Write what you see. You said it yourself about him being standoffish. Write about it. Where you met him. What you said. Then he took off? That’s fantastic. Did he do that in the past? I mean, it’s a really interesting story.”
“I’m not sure… that feels like an invasion of his privacy,” I said. “Plus, I might have something better.”
“And what could that be?”
I bit my lip as I looked back at my nightstand. “I found a letter.”
“A letter?”
“On the ground. And it’s this beautiful letter to a woman. This man - or woman - was so in love with this person… I can’t describe it quickly. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever read.”
“And you want to write about it?”
“It’s in my mind.”
“Well, you do what you feel like, Amelia. I want you to write about Josh. Anything else, it’s on your time.”
“Right. Thanks for the opportunity.”
“Of course.”
The call went dead.
I set my attention back to the stories on the bed.
Josh wanted to read one.
Then he’d tell me his story.
The question was, what did I plan on doing with his story?
He was the boy (mostly a man) who came so close to tasting what was left of my innocence, only to disappear for what felt like forever.
It was tough to think about.
I ditched everything right there on the bed and reached for my nightstand.
I wanted to read the letter again.
I wanted to be Delilah.
My shift started out crazy. A table of twenty had called to give a fifteen-minute heads up. Tables were quickly pushed together to accommodate the large group. My mind was not there, but when was it really? Running around a restaurant, taking order after order, trying to make sure everything was perfect for everyone wasn’t exactly the dream I had while sitting next to my bed during the worst of nights.
I was supposed to be in a quiet apartment, somewhere in a city, near the top floor, where I would spend hours writing the most perfect and touching story for the world to experience. And when that got the best of me, I’d sneak away to a cabin in the woods where I’d hide out some more.
Dreams were good to have.
Dreams in a way saved me when I was younger.
But now… I needed something more than just dreams.
The table of twenty was a massive reunion of old college friends. Friends who were now older, in relationships, married, divorced. The group was loud, funny, and stayed for a couple of hours.
When they finally got up to leave, a sense of relief went through me.
I looked at all of them, realizing they were my age. They were all so grown up in a way. They were living a part of life I really knew nothing about. Chasing careers instead of dreams. Finding stability instead of risk.
Ed was the guy who sat at the head of the pushed together tables and had commanded the entire group while they were there. He was the last to leave as he stood there, trying to stack plates.