He was wearing his uniform—clearly he had more than one pair of working whites hanging in his closet, because the last one had gone head to head with that bucket of shit. That he’d taken, square in the back as he’d kept her from getting slimed. Or worse.
She sighed. It was very clear that he was trying. “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “And you’re also right. It is a hot button. I’m not writing, and it’s scaring the hell out of me, because I’ve never not-written before. It’s never been easy, but I used to do ten, maybe even fifteen pages a day. Now I’m lucky if I can get a half a paragraph down. Normally, writing feels like pulling a grand piano—on those little teeny, tiny, creaky wheels—up a very steep hill with a rope. But for the past two years, I feel like I’m doing it with my hands cuffed behind my back, with that rope now clenched between my teeth, as that hill keeps getting steeper and the road keeps getting longer.”
Peter smiled at that. “See, that’s a really good image. If you can describe things like that…”
“Why can’t I write?” she asked. “I don’t know. I’ve always taken the judgmental Writer’s block is bullshit approach, but here I am, fully blocked.” She laughed in exasperation. “You don’t want to talk about this. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“Now, see, that was a cliché,” he said.
“Clichés are cliché because they’re so commonly true,” Shayla defended herself, and yes, her tone came out a touch self-righteous.
“A cliché, and a conversation ender. You don’t want to talk about this is code for I don’t want to talk about this,” Peter pointed out. “Which is baffling. You never speak in code. That’s one of the things I like most about you.” He glanced at her. “Which means this really does scare the living holy fuck out of you, doesn’t it? Kinda like me being terrified at the thought of leaving the Teams, but knowing it’s the right thing to do. Who am I, if I’m not a SEAL? Who are you, if you don’t write?”
Shayla stared at him. “Okay, I do want to talk about this,” she said. “You asked for it. Last chance to back away and keep it safe, like, we could talk about the weather….”
He smiled. “Nope. Go for it.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m dealing with this…horrible thing that I didn’t ask for. I used to love to write. It brought me incredible joy—being able to make a living and support my children doing something that I not only loved but I was damn good at doing. I woke up every day, filled with excitement and an urge to rush to my computer so I could continue to tell whatever story I was currently writing. It was never easy, but it was always fun, and somewhere down the line, it stopped being fun. And then, I stopped wanting to do it. Instead, I’ve been waking up every morning filled with dread. So now it’s hard and painful and literally dreadful—and I feel like it’s draining the very life out me. It’s like the book that I’m writing—that I’m trying to write—is a vampire and it’s sucking me dry, so by writing it I’m cutting my life expectancy by ten years, and it doesn’t seem worth it. Not anymore. So I’m in free fall, because you’re right. I don’t know who I am, or what I’ll be if I just stop writing. Except I’ve already stopped, and not-writing sucks worse than writing, because the not-writing is sucking me dry at an even faster rate. So I guess I’m wondering why you would even think about quitting something you love before you actively stop loving it.”
Peter nodded. “That was impressive. Particularly the redirect, away from you—”
“Answer the damn question.”
“Because I desperately want to be Maddie’s father,” he told her quietly. “More even than I want to be a SEAL.”
Shay felt her heart go into her throat. She’d written that line countless times, but she’d never actually felt as if it—her emotion—was on the verge of choking her. Not until now.
So. Now I’m completely in love with you. Things not to say aloud.
Instead, she cleared her throat. “Okay, that’s valid. And deeply appreciated. But step outside of the, uh, gooey bubble of parental love for just a sec and look hard at the logistics. Maddie’s fifteen. In three years, she’ll be graduating high school and going off to college. I’m facing that next year with Tevin, and Frankie’s right behind him. And that scares me even more, because even though right now I’m a not-writer, I’m also still something important: I’m Tevin and Frank’s mom. And I love that job, but it’s got an end date. And yeah, yeah, I’m going to be their mother forever, and I know they’re going to need me—at times—when they’re twenty and even when they’re fifty and seventy, and I will be there for them. Shit, even after I’m dead, I’m gonna be there for them. I know that. I do. But the job gets a whole hell of a lot less work-intensive when they no longer live in your home. And when I look three years into my future, I see myself dropping Frank off at college and coming home to an empty, lonely, too-quiet house where I will wake up filled with dread until I finally just don’t get out of bed, unless it’s Parents’ Weekend or Thanksgiving.”
Nothing sexier than announcing to the man you’re having crazy hot sex with that you anticipate sliding into debilitating depression in the relatively near future. Run, run, as fast as you can….
But Peter couldn’t run, because he was trapped in his truck with her. So she kept going, bringing this discussion back to him. “Best-case scenario, you have three years to be Maddie’s father twenty-four/seven, and frankly? There’s not a fifteen-year-old girl alive who wants her father helicoptering around her every damn minute of the day. You’re going to have a lot of free time on your hands out there in Palm Springs. And in three years…? That’s gonna increase. I know exactly nothing about the U.S. Navy’s hiring practices, but…if you resign now, can you un-resign in three years?”