Write Me A Love Story

Chapter Eighteen:

Coincidences are more than just that.

*

With a bowl of popcorn and a large bottle of sparkling Moscato—now an empty bottle—Reece and I sat through the first two Terminator movies without missing a beat. I loved those movies and all their cheesy 80's and 90's goodness. There was no denying they were classics.

And to learn then that he too really loved them, and placed them high in his movie list, was both exciting and made sense. This was why he saw my story and immediately fell in love with it.

As the theme music played, Reece slid his hands over his face and laughed. "I should've ordered us food to go with the movies. I feel the buzz."

Already a buzz, huh? A buzz wasn't too bad. I felt a tiny buzz, but my glasses also weren't as tall as his. I purposely kept mine small and sippable to keep it together. I wanted to be sober for... you know.

He looked at me from the top of his fingers. "I'm ordering tacos. You want tacos?"

Who wouldn't want tacos? "Sure." I smiled and picked up my half-empty glass.

"Cool," Reece slid his phone out of his pocket, "the place down the block delivers pretty quick. Maybe twenty minutes. Gives us time to recharge." As he tapped away on the screen, he stood, glancing at me. "What kind of tacos?"

"Chicken." I sipped from my glass. "There? If that's okay."

"Nah, that's fine. You'll have three," tap, tap, tap, "and I'm getting four. With fries."

I giggled. "Big eater?"

I assumed the order was done because he repocketed his phone. "Hey, gotta keep my strength up."

I looked at the muscles on his shoulders and held my breath. Strength indeed.

"Um, I'm going to run to the bathroom. There's another bottle in the fridge if you wanted more. But," he slowly stepped back, "you can stretch your legs and walk around, see a book. I'll be back quick."

As he turned toward the bathroom and closed the door, I stood. He didn't have to tell me twice. His apartment was cute, and cozy, but the bookcases sold me. How he installed these and made them look so perfect amazed me. And as I walked toward them, I passed a small wooden desk I hadn't noticed before.

What was on top of it made me stop walking.

There were journals. All kinds. All sizes. Pens—good pens beside them. I slid my hands over the spines because they were tattered, used, and had to be filled with so much love and words. He had said he was a poet.

I could've walked away with my imagination intact, but there was a small stack of papers in the center of the desk. One with a title and his name underneath:

Dark Roses – Reece Williams.

I bit my lip as I scooped the papers in my hands and flipped past the title page. The first paragraph pulled me immediately:

"Daren always felt the hand of another closing around his neck. He never knew who or why, but the suffocating pressure kept him up at night. Without sleep, he saw the shadows. People. Groups that weren't there.

He wondered, 'Am I going insane?'"

The toilet flushed, but I couldn't look away. I skipped ahead, going to the next page.

"'What do you mean I need to kill it? How can I do that if I can't see it?' Daren shouted, dropping to his knees.

The old woman in front of him only smiled.