Amish Jedi: In a City Far, Far Away

Episode 2.3 ~ Pooh

Back upstairs, I change into my Pooh shirt and sweatpants. Then I grab a slice of cold pizza and my cocoa and sit at my desk with my laptop. After quickly checking my emails, I process a few orders that came in and send them to Daed's fax for him and his workers to fill. Then I get to the work I came here to do. I find the file on my computer with the research and planning documents I've been working on all summer, since a couple weeks after he ended us. Though he'd say I ended us. He should have known I would never take the route he chose.

This isn't about him, I remind myself. This is about what I need to do. The question is, where do I start? 

I scroll through the plans and notes I've made for my first serious novel series. I've written stories all of my life, but I've never felt about them the way I feel about Anya's tale. All those other stories have been ones I wanted to write, but this one—I have to write it. It is a burning sun in my gut aching to get out, keeping me up late nights, waking me early in the morning, stopping me throughout my day. But I've tried to start the first page a dozen times and have thrown out each attempt. Lately, I've realized I can't begin until I've settled on an ending—the one part of the outline that keeps alluding me. How does Anaya's story finish?

After staring at the blank screen for a half-hour, playing various songs on my inspiration playlist, I shut down the laptop, grab my battered yellow notebook, and climb out onto the fire escape. It is warm out, but my hot cocoa is still half full and room temperature. I take a few sips, set it down beside me, and put the led tip of my purple pencil to the page.

Okay, Anaya, where do you want to go? I ask and wait. My biggest issue is I have three male characters and I can't decide which Anya will ultimately choose. The friend. The steaming romance. Or the mystery from a forbidden land. Each plot line is complex and has a strong pull on her heart, but for the story to work and have the impact I feel in my heart, I've got to get her to a certain end and I can't force her there. I've got to let her navigate her way—she's strong-willed this one.

On top of that, there are world-structuring issues. All of my stories to date have been set in a world I know—Amish country. This story is set in a post-apocalypse world with laws and rules of its own. I've changed those laws and rules at least three times, rebuilding the world from scratch to meet Anaya's story needs, but I think I might finally have an Earth that will work—or what is left of Earth.

This pondering sparks an idea, and my hand flies across the page. I'm not sure if I'm writing the entirety of the last chapter, but it is certainly toward the end. Hopefully, I'll be able to decipher my handwriting later. No one else will if they stumble upon this notebook. A comforting thought. I'm not ready for Anya's tale to be "out" yet.

Ten hand-written pages in, my hand throbbing, I look up for just a moment and notice a dark figure standing in my room. Again, I gasp instead of scream, and jump so hard I knock my cold cocoa off the fire escape. It lands with a splat in the alley behind Bagels.

The figure bends down so I can see his face—Jason. "Do you have a moment?"

I am frozen to the railing of the fire escape, my hand over my racing heart.

He extends his hand to me.

I take a moment to pull myself together before, out of sheer curiosity, I take his hand and let him help me back through my window.

His palms are rougher than Teddy's. Calloused, but warm. He releases me a moment after I'm no longer in need of his support.

Trembling a bit, I set my notebook on the desk, thankful my words didn't meet the same fate as my drink.

"I'm sorry," he says when I turn back to face him.

I cross my arms. "For?"

"Startling you... What I said earlier."

I stare at him. "Why are you being nice now?"

"It was never my intention to be mean."

"Well, you're really good at it, you know?"

He frowns. "You're not so bad yourself."

"Oh yes, please lecture me about my ego again!" My voice is much too loud and carrying. My cheeks burn at the idea of Leah hearing a second squabble between Jason and me in one day. "Apology accepted. Just go, okay?"

Jason's jaw twitches. "Teddy would like your help in the morning, so you have your job back."

"Teddy doesn't need my help, and I don't want to further abominate your grandfather's business."

"You just accepted my apology for that statement."

"But you still mean it! And," I'm screaming and I don't care anymore, "you come in here with your pitying, cold tone as if I need your charity. Well, I don't!"

"How are you going to pay your bills? Have you given any thought to how you will practically live in this city on your own."

"Of course not. I'm a silly little girl with issues that is completely clueless about how to take care of herself. That's what you think of me. That's what everyone thinks."

"Because it's true!" He motions toward the living room. "What would you have done yesterday if I wasn't here to protect you from balloons?"

"Get out. Get out now!"

He glares at me for a moment longer, then walks past me pausing at my door. "It will only be Teddy in the kitchen tomorrow if you change your mind. If not, I won't bother you again."

I huff, but keep my back to him because the waterworks are welling up. A voice in the back of my mind says to keep quiet, but I just want to hurt him back so I ignore it. "Don't worry about me. If I'm low on funds, I can start a bagel stand—people like my recipes."

I close my eyes and listen to his footsteps fade away and the door slam. Instantly, I feel like a horrible person. Worse even than Jason. Maybe this is why he chose the way I could not follow. Maybe I've always been this awful person and never realized it until now. I should run after Jason and apologize, but I open my notebook instead and stare at the half-scribbled pages willing myself to write something.

It's no use. I can't think in this mood. I get up, grab my purse, and go looking for Jason. When I can't find him at his apartment, Bagels, or the café, I revert to the oldest pain-numbing trick in existence—homemade chocolate-chip cookies and a Star Wars marathon.

Megs finds me half-a-dozen cookies in and staring at the pieces of the check Jason had left on the coffee table—I can't take his money, even though it's more than I've ever made per hour.

I hold up the plate as an offering.

She drops her bag and jacket by the door, skips to the couch, and plucks a cookie from the top. "Boys are stupid."

Thank you, God, for Megs.