Alive

Chapter 2

Elle

(Friday, May 3)

The hand towel.

I jump up, tiptoeing across my freshly vacuumed carpet into the bathroom. There it is, just like I thought, tilted slightly to the left. No wonder I couldn't get any work done. I straighten the white rag, compare it to the bath towel below, and then readjust it. Perfect. I can breathe again. I must've brushed passed it earlier. I'll have to be more careful.

Settling back at my desk, I check my word count. Twenty-two. At this rate, I'll finish this play by the time I'm ninety. Words aren't coming today, and even though I've read that's normal from time to time, I have my doubts. There has to be a reason, right? For me, there could be millions. A hand towel, a spot of grease on the counter, a breadcrumb on the carpet. That's why I only write in my apartment. A place with minimal distractions.

Now, with everything in order, things should flow nicely. Where was I?

EMERUS

(off)

Okeanos, Oceanus, ocean, sea. That deep blue humans stare at in wonder.

Endless depths, distant and cold. Full of secrets. Things

they can only hope to understand. I know it by a different name. I call it

Home.

(EMILIA enters, clutching a bucket of shells in one hand)

EMILIA

(timidly)

Hello? Is anyone there?

(EMILIA knocks on the castle wall. It ripples, but there is no response)

Hello?

(EMILIA knocks

Three times. Someone's knocked on my door three times now. I bolt upright in my chair, grabbing my phone off the table. My package isn't due to arrive until tomorrow, and Celeste knows better than to drop in without warning. It...it couldn't be...

I close my laptop, heart thumping in my chest. Stupid. Stupid Elle. I knew I shouldn't do something like that. Not only did it disrupt my note pattern, now I have to actually face him. Which isn't supposed to happen yet. I have the date already set. The deadline for my script. September third. His birthday. The day I'm going to knock on his door, hand it to him, and...probably run.

Another knock. What am I supposed to do? He'll leave if I wait long enough. Maybe he'll assume I'm out. I stand, staring at the door like he might invade. Then I run to the bathroom, checking my face in the mirror. I'm almost through refreshing my eyeliner when the knocking stops.

I pause, screwing the cap back on the bottle and slipping it into its pocket. The silence gives me another idea. Something much more likely than this ridiculous fantasy. Fantasy. Gross. I need to get a grip. There's no way I should be making this kind of effort for someone like him, as talented as he is. Anyway, note or not, Oliver Stanton isn't at my doorstep. Not that the odds are against me. He does live next door. But this is a Friday night. There's no way he's home.