When the Heart Falls

Speak of the devil, Dad’s standing outside Stevie’s bedroom when I walk out. I stand as tall as him, our 6’5” frames nearly identical in height, muscle and build. Everyone has always told me that I’m a younger version of my father, and I wonder if I’ll be as hard and uncompromising as him when I get older. I hope not. “I’ve decided to go.”


He nods. “Okay. A summer in Paris. I can live with that.”

I think about the college acceptance letter in my suitcase. “It might be more than a summer, Dad.”

“More than a summer?” All kindness in his face vanishes. “Who’s going to help with the ranch for more than a summer? Who's going to take care of your brother for more than a summer?”

My stomach tightens. “He’s—“

Dad raises a fist. “He’s what? What is he?” He steps closer to me, face inches from mine.

I force the words out of my mouth. “He’s not my responsibility.”

Dad stumbles back, as if in shock. “He’s not your responsibility? He’s not your responsibility? We’re family. We’re supposed to help each other.”

“Then help me.” The words come out before I can stop them and the moment I speak, I wish I could take them back.

Dad moves aside, leaving enough space in the hall for me to walk by. “You know, I just realized, you’re not my responsibility, either. So, just go. Go. You want to go. Go. You’re an adult, as you’re so apt to point out. You make your own decisions. So go.”

Acid fills my gut. I don't know when I'll see him or Mom again and I don't want to leave things like this. “Dad, I—“

His fist slams against the cherry wood hall console table. “Get out of my house!”

I shove past him and rush down the stairs with a brief nod to my mother who stands by their bedroom door in her robe, eyes spilling over with tears.

“You are not my responsibility,” my dad reiterates as the front door closes behind me.

The shuttle arrives and a short man with a Hitler mustache loads my luggage into the van as my parents open the door to stand on the front porch with me.

Seeing the driver, my dad plasters a fake smile onto his face, and holds out his hand for a firm—too firm—handshake. “Come back after the summer, son.” He leans in and lowers his voice. “Otherwise, good luck in your new life.”





WINTER DEVEAUX

CHAPTER 2





THE FATE OF my career—of my entire future—is in the hands of this balding man sitting in front of me. My advisor, Mr. Posthumus, fidgets with his glasses and taps his red pen against my marked up manuscript, complete with his coffee cup stains. "Winter, why did you choose to write a romance novel?" He spits out the last words like they leave a bad taste in his mouth.

I want to grab my novel from him and clutch it to my chest. Sweat and blood and tears have gone into that pile of papers he's treating like a coaster. Instead, I paste on a smile. "I love romance novels. My kindle's full of romance novels. They say write what you read, right?" I take a sip of water and set the bottle on the table. I should pour it on his favorite book.

"They also say write what you know."

People love that saying. My dad said the same thing to me years ago. So I asked him for bookshelves and books on all sorts of things: geography, history, mystery. He built me bookshelves until my room had no more bare walls, and he bought me a book about a princess who sleeps for years and wakes with a kiss. "You scare me, child" he'd said. "Read a kid book once in a while." So I did, and it was the most romantic story. And I knew what I would write.

Lacing my fingers together, I return my attention to Mr. Posthumus. "Right. That's why I read so much."

He sighs, and his large paunch pushes against the buttons of his tweed jacket in protest of its confinement. "When they say write what you know, they mean write what you know from personal experience."

I frown. "They should really clarify that."

He shrugs. "It's pretty obvious."

"Not really."

"What do you know about romance, Winter?"

I sit up straight, flicking imaginary dust off my faded jeans. "Everything."

Mr. Posthumus raises an eyebrow. "Cocky, aren't we?"

"Realistic."

He waves his hand, as if beckoning me to continue. "So you have a lot of experience?"

"Well, I know things."

He adjusts his glasses again, leaving a thumbprint on the right lens. "What sort of things?"

I lean in and quiet my voice. "Remember chapter five? When they're in the Jacuzzi and she does that thing?"

"Oh yeah."

"And that other thing?"

"Oh yeah."

I lean back and beam. "That's what I know." Sorry Dad. I didn't read kid books for long.

"You mean you actually—"

"No." My eyes widen. "That'd be crazy." I was good girl, though, wasn't I?

He puts his hand down on the table. "See, that's my point. You're not writing from personal experience."

"You could tell by just reading my book?"

Now it's his turn to beam. "I'm trained for that sort of thing. The romance…"

"What?"

"It's a bit dry."

Ick. "So I want it wet?"

"You want your readers—"

"Don't even say it. Say… moist if you want, but don't say wet."

"You want your readers moist."

I scrunch up my eyebrows. "That sounds so wrong."