"You should write a book about it." My husband's suggestion comes over a disproportionate casserole dish of Mussels Marinara and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. It's our first anniversary and my first day as an associate chemist at Lincoln Medical & Mental Health. There is only one place where we could celebrate; it's the place where we first met, the place where it all began and where it all ended.
A book. What's there so interesting in my passion for molecular biology that people in their right mind would want to read? It takes three mussels and a sip of wine to realize that maybe he is talking about something else. "A book about what?"
"About that..." He pauses, for drama effect or because he really has no idea how to call it? In a repeat of my gesture, he empties half glass with a gulp, then winks at me. "That experience."
"I don't need to write a book. People just have to google my name. All the interesting stuff is out there for everyone to read and to see." I remember the one time I committed the terrible mistake of searching for the signs of my ephemeral celebrity. Years later, I'm still trying to keep the sense of revulsion at bay.
"But it's not your version of the events," he points out with that disarming, almost naive certitude that made me fall in love with him.
I lower my voice to a grim whisper. "Nobody is ever interested in the real version of the events. Truth is boring."
"Not yours."
YOU ARE READING
Six Months
RomanceAlicia works as a waitress to put herself through biochemistry college. Every night she watches celebrities come and go but knows better than to step some boundaries. Except, one day, rockstar Rick and his band land in New York City to record their...
