A new appalling thought hits me. If we’re not talking about ourselves, how am I supposed to find out if he’s single?
He’s got to be. He’s giving off single vibes. Also: If he’s attached, where’s his partner?
“Now that everyone has been introduced,” Farida is saying, “we can carry on with our discussion. Maybe, Dutch, you could tell us what story means to you?” Dutch’s face jolts and he looks alarmed.
“Story,” he echoes, clearly playing for time.
“Story.” Farida nods. “We’re here to create story. That’s our task in this retreat.”
“Huh. Right. Story.” Dutch rubs the back of his neck. “OK,” he says at last. “Here’s the thing. I came here to learn how to kick the shit out of my opponent. Not this.”
“Of course,” says Farida softly. “But do your best.”
“I’m not a writer,” Dutch says at last. “I can’t tell stories. Not like you can. I don’t have your skills or talent. I’d like to learn, though.” As he looks around, his eye catches mine and my stomach twangs.
“I’m sure you will learn,” I say throatily, before I can stop myself.
At once I curse myself for being too uncool and eager, but Dutch seems disarmed.
“Thanks.” He squints to read my name badge. “Aria. Nice name. Thanks.”
Three
At break we mill around in the courtyard with glasses of homemade lemonade. I sip mine for a while, then let my eye catch Dutch’s, casually.
Super-casually.
Like, barely interested at all.
“Hi!” I say. “How did you find the writing exercise?”
We’ve all just written the first sentence of a book and handed them in to Farida. We’re going to discuss them later in the week. Mine’s quite dramatic; it goes: Emily’s bosom dripped with blood as she gazed at the love of her life.
I’m quite pleased with it, actually. I think it’s pretty riveting. Why is Emily’s bosom dripping with blood? Any reader would be dying to know. (The only thing is, I’m not sure myself; I must think about that before we get to the discussion.)
“I froze,” says Dutch regretfully. “Didn’t write a word. My brain…” He bangs his forehead with his fist. “Just won’t do it. I was never any good at this kind of thing. Give me a practical task. Or numbers. I’m good with numbers. But creative writing…” A tortured expression passes over his face.
“That’s OK,” I say encouragingly. “It’ll come.”
“It’s interesting, though,” he continues, as if determined to be positive. “I liked hearing what everyone else thought. Interesting crowd.” He spreads his arms to take in everyone wandering around the courtyard. “You know. It’s different. Sometimes it’s good to step outside your comfort zone. Try something new.”
“This courtyard is beautiful, isn’t it?” I can hear Scribe saying behind me.
“Oh, it’s stunning,” Metaphor replies in a loud, definitive voice, as though she’s the only person who can pronounce on what’s stunning or not and no one else had better even try. “The ancient, craggy stones, worn down by a thousand footsteps,” she continues in declamatory tones. “The echoing cloister, full of history. The scents of herbs, mingling with the cascading blooms of flowers all around us, while swallows speed through the cobalt sky, tumbling and shooting like endless darts of…” She hesitates for only a moment. “Quicksilver.”
“Absolutely,” says Scribe after a polite pause. “That’s just what I was going to say.”
I want to turn around and catch Scribe’s eye, but before I can, Black Belt approaches.
“Hi,” he greets Dutch. “Hot out here.”
He’s taken off his pajama top and I’m trying not to stare, but those muscles. I’ve never seen anyone that ripped in real life. Basically he looks like a less-green Hulk.
“It’s weird, huh?” He addresses Dutch. “This no-name shit. Did you write anything?”
“No.”
“Me either.
“You write anything?” He’s turned to Lyric, who is walking up to us, holding a glass of lemonade.
“A bit.” She shrugs. “Not really my thing. I thought it would be more interesting.”
She’s gazing at Dutch over her drink, I suddenly notice. In fact, she can’t take her eyes off him. Oh God. The horrible truth suddenly hits me: I have a rival. A rival with tawny hair and toned arms and slimmer legs than mine.
As I gaze anxiously at her, Lyric seems to become prettier before my eyes. Her hair is feathery and frames her face perfectly. She’s chewing her lips in an adorable way. She probably looks incredibly hot when she kickboxes. Of course she does.
“Are you into this?” she suddenly demands of Dutch, almost aggressively, and he