The Bad Jokes #2: The Blonde

Chapter 16 (Gracie): Any More Words

The cursor blinked at me endlessly against the blank Word document. 

The extremely blank Word document. 

With nothing written on it, not even a word.

Fuck that.

Okjdhgf dgfjhetr khj dgjh. Qldfjk dsoif hsedroitfdgh dsfgkdfg sdferw.

There. I'd written something and the document was no longer blank. I beat you, you damn blank document! Letting my head fall to my desk so I could avoid looking at all that nonsense, my mind went once again to Wyatt.

In the week since the elevator incident, I'd thought about Wyatt's words. He'd never spoken that much all at once in our eight months together. He would talk with me, of course, and we'd have many wonderful conversations, some deep, some informative, some funny, but often he'd say, "Tell me about your latest idea." Then he listened to me as I plotted my stories out loud or talked about characters and their personalities. He'd asked insightful questions and made thoughtful suggestions, showing me that he was paying close attention to what I was saying. Like Mouse, he was my sounding board, except he talked back, and he helped me to think through certain character decisions and behavior, giving me the male perspective.

"That doesn't seem like something Draximilian would do as the king of the alien planet," he'd say seriously as we talked on the couch. "He'd need to be more ruthless with the invader and kill him on the spot, make an example out of him to ward off other invaders. Then he'd go use his double tongue on his sassy female to work off the aggression."

That was my cue to straddle his lap and take his face in my hands, trying to look innocent, eyes wide. "Do males need to work off their aggression like that?"

He'd grin, flip me to my back and show me exactly what Draximilian would do with his sassy female. It didn't even matter that Wyatt didn't have a double tongue; one was more than enough for this talented man.

I missed that.

I missed him.

But...second choice. Runner up.

Runner up for the man who'd stolen my words from me.

When I was a little girl, Alexander would taunt me by stealing my toys. I'd scream at him, pounding on his door, demanding that he give whatever back and the little asshole would just laugh from inside his room. At that point, I'd go crying to my mother and explain the whole dramatic, earth shattering, end-of-the-world situation to her, expecting her to go get whatever toy back from my stupid brother so I could live my life again. 

She never did. Instead, she always asked me, "Gracelyn, did you ask for it back nicely?" Eventually, I caught on and stopped detouring to her and just going right to Alex.

Basically, Mom taught me that when someone takes something from you, you have to ask for it back. Nicely. Sounds kind of ridiculous, but its success rate was pretty high. Except for Faith Gustafson in fifth grade when she stole my lunch box. She didn't give it back until I told her I was secretly a witch and could cast a spell on her that would turn her two front teeth black. I added a lot of details to my story and, in the end, she was scared enough to return my lunch box to me.

So, desperate to get my words back and with Mom's advice ringing in my head, I found myself knocking on Wyatt's front door one evening. He answered, wearing gray sweats and nothing else, his incredible chest on display. I missed putting my head on it while he cuddled me close. He'd always held me so tight to him, as if he were afraid to lose me.

His smile was gentle but genuinely happy to see me. "Hey, Gracie. You OK?"

"Can I talk to you? I mean, if you're not busy."