Counterfactual

02 | muse

CHAPTER TWO

MUSE

( — the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like. )

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          ROWAN MUST HAVE TRULY BEEN OUT OF HIS MIND.

          He knew sending his application was a terrible idea, much like he knew accepting to travel to Nova Scotia for an interview was even worse. Though traveling by land and by sea is certainly better than passing out on a plane thanks to his abominable vertigo, the bumps on the road and the bile rising up his throat certainly give it a ride for its money.

          Hell, someone even pukes on the bus as it travels from New Hampshire to Maine, where he'll have to take the ferry. Poor Rowan has a sensitive stomach, not to mention a solidary one, meaning he's highly prone to throwing up as soon as the strong smell of vomit reaches his nostrils. He gags as soon as he hears it spill all over the floor, truly wishing there was a way of opening the window on his right, grabbing his suitcase and throwing himself to the road instead of having to deal with such things, but he's pinned to his seat.

          The woman sitting behind him is joined by her son, who seems to be around four or five and has taken a particular liking to kicking Rowan's seat. Rowan himself feels on the verge of tears, desperately wanting to run back to his apartment and pretend the past week has never happened. If he turns back now, it would mean he'd be proving his parents' point—and, to an extent, Jasper's—when they said he always gives up on things.

          That's not entirely true. There are things he doesn't give up on, such as this ghostwriting business, but it's mostly because it pays well enough to sustain his . . . eccentric ways, as his parents like to put it. He knows he should enjoy what he does, especially considering how far he's willing to go for a job (and going to Nova Scotia certainly classifies as a drastic measure), but it's draining and, quite frankly, Rowan has realized it has also become sort of . . . monotone.

          There's nothing wrong with wanting to spice up his life a little bit, Rowan thinks. Though he'd rather not do it by nearly throwing up in a bus full of people who just want to either a) get to their destination, which happens to be the same as him or b) annoy the hell out of him during the entire trip. Either way, both things make him lean forward, resting his forehead against the seat in front of him, and close his hands into fists to control his gag reflex.

          The kid behind him laughs. Rowan whimpers, sincerely hoping he'll have enough self-control to prevent him from turning around to yell at the boy and counts down the seconds until it's over. He risks getting slapped by the kid's mother, who certainly won't allow anyone to piss off her preciously annoying son. Rowan partially wishes his mother had been more like that as he was growing up instead of letting others step over him to 'toughen him up'.

          He loses count around two hundred seconds because someone throws up again. Through a rare spark of luck, it's not him.

          Thus, when he stumbles out of the bus by the port, he can barely stand upright on his feet and everyone around him must be thinking he has had a little bit too much to drink as he stumbles towards the ferry and almost loses it in the process. He flashes his ticket just in time to not watch the boat leave without him and decides the first order of business shall be drowning himself in a bucket of coffee before he vomits.

          It's a terrible trip, let him tell you. It's one of the worst things he has ever forced himself to endure, and it's torturous, even, and he forces himself to refuse lunch when a crew member approaches him. Arms swung over the railway, Rowan stares down at the ocean water, letting the sea breeze blow back his hair (there's a bottle of hair-gel in his suitcase because he never goes anywhere unprepared), and, for a split moment, he feels able to handle anything Nova Scotia throws his way.