“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you’re sick, but I just had to hear your thoughts. Did you read it?”
“How do you know I’m sick?” He had coffee breath.
“I really don’t mean to come off like a stalker, but I went by your work again.” She put up a hand. “Before you say anything, please know that I need to get his book finished. It’s . . .” She shook her head. “A higher purpose is pushing me. I can’t sleep. I can’t do anything without thinking about it.”
“Claire, you can’t hunt me down at work and go looking through my windows. I’m sick and tired and obviously not accepting company.”
She ignored him and cast an eye toward the backyard. “Do you need a number for a landscaper?”
He let down his guard and rested an arm on the doorframe. “I’m going for a more natural habitat, a place for wild things to roam.”
“You’re a mess, you know that? You can’t get mad at me for stalking you. Someone needs to be checking on you.”
His voice rose an octave. “You’re coming in hot today. Is this the real Claire?”
Something about this man. His whole “thing” was comical, like a cartoon character who’d come to life. She put her hands on her hips. “I’m seriously considering Baker Acting you.”
“Aren’t you a firecracker? I kind of like this side of you.”
“I have my days.” Enough small talk, she decided. She lifted her glasses and rested them on the top of her head. “Did you read the book? Start it, at least?”
Whitaker’s grin vanished, and his eyes ran away as he let go of the doorframe and backed up a step. After the longest minute of her life, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I did. Most of it.”
By the tone in his voice, she knew a no was coming, and she waited as if his mouth were a firing squad of anxious trigger fingers. “And?” She winced, bracing for the worst.
“It’s good. He’s a good writer. But it’s not for me.”
There it was. Finality. Claire almost lost her balance, and her breath leaped from her lungs. “What? Why is it not for you?”
“I can’t finish his book. I gave it a chance. It didn’t speak to me, and I can’t help you. This is my final answer. I’m so sorry. And I’d like to help you find someone who’s much better than me.”
They were facing each other as if about to duel. “There is no one else.”
“Sure there is.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Why do you feel this need to get his book finished, anyway? It won’t be his words.”
Rather aggressively, she took a step toward him, entering his house. “You know what the saddest thing in the world is?”
Whitaker backed up.
“For someone to die without accomplishing their dream. This book meant so much to him, and I know he wanted to get it out there. It’s the only gift I can still give him.”
“It’s just not for me.” Whitaker’s tender heart showed through his eyes. She could see that he wanted to help her, but that he didn’t feel he could. That didn’t cut it, though. He needed to toughen up.
Whitaker shook his head again, crossing the t in finality.
Claire was so sad that when he opened his arms to her, she fell into them. He pulled her in and hugged her. Did she really have to find another writer? She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him. “Please, I’m begging you. Please write the book.” She hated hearing herself beg but felt like she was fighting for her life.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing her tightly.
She held him for a while and didn’t know why. Part of her wanted to punch him, to wake him up from this fog he was living in. They both squeezed hard and held on longer than usual, and to Claire it felt like they had both needed this hug—any good hug—for a long time. She certainly had.
Claire let go first. She descended the two steps and backed up into the tall grass, wiping her eyes.
A cricket sprang from her feet to find a better hiding place.
Whitaker whispered an apology. “Can I walk you to your car?”
Claire shook her head and started back around the house.
Whitaker called after her, but she ignored him. Enough trying to get this guy to help. He was a lost cause. Why was she wasting her time?