Miles's "top-secret" inspiration spot was a joke.
Maybe it was my own fault for expecting a gorgeous landscape with beautiful flowers and waterfalls or something when I joined him after work for the trip I had daydreamed about the rest of the afternoon in between manuscripts and business phone calls.
It looked like a wasteland's first cousin once removed.
It seemed to have had flowers at some point but now only dead, yellowing grass covered the length of the field like nothing beautiful could survive growing there.
The only redeemable aspect of that place was the swing sets that stood at the entrance of the field, the creaking sound the only indication of life.
"This is your inspiration spot?" I asked, shooting him a questioning look.
He gauged my expression with amusement. Understated fun lived in his eyes like he was constantly playing a joke on me.
His fingers combed through the misbehaving strands of his hair that seemed to fit right into the current setting.
"It made sense for the book, I swear," he said as we sat down on the two-person swing. "You know, what screams wasted opportunities and regrets like a depressing field?" Then as he noticed the confused look that persisted on my face, he added, "It made me think of second chances. There's a moment in the book when it seems like things would stay ugly for Clara. But despite all the heavy stuff going on, the opportunity that it could only get better always loomed in the background."
"Did things get better?" I asked, and felt curiosity settle in my mind about his infamous Clara, dancer, and now also the manifestation of a desolate field.
"Why don't you find out?"
The grass grazed my feet every so often as I took the book Ace had given me this morning from the backpack I had brought with me.
The laughter that came bubbling out of him brought life back to the otherwise dull surroundings.
"You come prepared." His fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee that he had brought with him as a slight breeze rocked the swing, gentle and soothing.
I stared at the ominous design of his book for a second and felt him mirroring the intensity with which I observed the cover.
"It wouldn't surprise me if you were the tragic kind of writer who murders random characters for fun," I said, turning to the back of the book to read the synopsis.
A small chuckle distracted me from the words I was trying to read. "Don't tempt me."
Tuning him out, I opened the book, bracing myself to read what I assumed would feel like a materialization of a hundred of Miles's smiles.
Unlike I had done just hours earlier, he didn't bug me every second to find out what I was thinking.
He sat next to me and sipped on his coffee. The wasteland lay in front of us, waiting for something that would cause a lasting distraction from its boring impassiveness because relying on the summer breeze hadn't worked so far.
"Starts with a relationship," I mumbled, talking to myself as I read. The terrible habit I had inherited from years of hearing my mom do it about her emails.
"Scandalous, heh?" he joked and brushed his fingers against the discolored chains of the swing set.
"They're traveling now," I said, updating him on every new detail I read. I was doing it more consciously this time, hoping it would tick him off. I had no idea why I even wanted to get under his skin.
"Are you planning on traveling too at some point?" His fidgety hand now rested in between our two corners of the swing. It nearly breached into my personal space—but then again, the smallest movement would on that couple-sized swing that we had had the bad idea to share.
"Now, now," I said. I did my best to keep my voice collected so that he wouldn't pick up on my nervousness as I avoided glancing down at his hand, "I won't get very far if you keep interrupting."
"You do know that I don't actually expect you to read it now, right?" His fingers drummed and covered the squeaky noise the swing emitted whenever they moved. "I was mostly kidding."
"I know. I wanted to get the general concept of it so that I could rationalize staying up all night tonight to finish it. Any warnings?" I asked, waving the book that he had probably seen a traumatic number of times during extensive signings and interviews.
"Don't read it on an empty stomach," he said, a deadpan look on his face. "I'm only half kidding," he added as a response to the disbelief on my face.
"I don't know," I said, finally answering his question. "I used to. Now I can't picture myself cluelessly diving headfirst into another culture."
"You don't give yourself enough credit." There was no hint on his face that he was joking. "The hardest part is to get on the plane."
My fingers ran along the soft spine of the book as I asked, "How did you come up with Clara's character?"
"I don't remember the exact details. It's been a while." An elusive look settled on his face as he avoided my eyes, suddenly very focused on the label of his coffee cup. "She's the classic overthinking kind of person."
I nodded and pretended that I hadn't noticed the change in atmosphere as he eluded my question.
Carla's overthinking trait was evident just from the small excerpt I had gotten the chance to read as she hung out with her boyfriend. "She does seem to be stuck in her head a lot." Then because it had been a while since I had last embarrassed myself to the point of flaming red cheeks, my mouth continued, running wild before my mind could catch up, "Trust me, school is the last thing I'd be thinking about if you were kissing me."
As soon as the words came out, I wanted to eat them back but they were too far out of reach by the time he heard them and choked on his drink.
It didn't help that it had crossed my mind once or twice during those nights when I couldn't fall asleep. Fine. Maybe it was one of the main scenarios that zoomed across my brain when it wouldn't go to sleep despite my explicit commands.
"Not that I would like for you to kiss me," I corrected immediately, my voice much shoutier and more high-pitched than it had been earlier, "or that you should... or that I'm even thinking about this right now." I stopped talking, tempted to press my hand to my mouth in case it decided to try to say something more embarrassing. But by then, Miles was already grinning, visibly amused.
I liked to think I had better self-control most days—so it had to have been the wasteland, the proximity, or the humidity that played tricks on my cognitive functions. Whatever it was had made me lose my mind for a moment; I really had to learn to keep better track of it.
"Man, the weather is wonderful today," I said, doing my best to recover from the slipup.
Despite my most optimistic wishes, part of me knew I would remember every detail of this conversation even sixty years later. And I would still want to bang my head at the memory against everything within reach.
"It is, isn't it?" he said as blood painted his ears red once the initial playfulness of the situation wore off.
It wasn't. But the sun had temporarily hidden its taunting face behind the clouds for a glorious moment of the afternoon, which made being outside much less intolerable than it could have been.
Quick, new topic! Talking about the weather wasn't going to cut it for very long.
"So, how's your inspiration spot working out for you so far?" I asked, my words jumbling up, blending into each other as I gestured to nothing in particular in one wild movement that nearly smacked his face.
"I have to say..." His dark eyes peered into mine, searching for something I couldn't pinpoint. "I've been a little distracted."
Another sentence I would probably regret died in my throat.
"I've been here quite a few times between writing my first book and afterward. I can't say I've ever found this place as entertaining as it was today."
I caught his eyes slide down past my eyes and heat rushed to my cheeks as I turned away from him, the grass became the most intriguing thing I had ever seen all of a sudden.
"It's good that you enjoyed the trip, but you're going to need a little more than that if you're hoping to beat me."
Something close to a snort echoed a little too close to my ear. Then, out of nowhere, I heard him say, "Come to the wedding with me."
My fingers clutched onto the book for support or whatever else I could expect from a collection of stacked printed sheets.
The words sounded much more confident than I felt as I replied, "Are you trying to get your prize before you put in the work?"
"It's not about the prize."
Before I could answer or freak out, he stood up and held on to the coil chain so the swing wouldn't spin with me. The thought was gone as soon as it had come, and the serious look on his face faded before I could check that it had been real.
"We should probably head back. I'm sure you'll have a lot to do if you want to stand a chance."
As I stood, I avoided looking at the hand he had held out to help me up. I wasn't avoiding it... I just didn't see it looped in my head.
I wasn't ready for the trip back in his car in that enclosed space that made me consider jumping out of the vehicle and right in front of oncoming traffic.
But it wasn't like being out in this open field helped with whatever this was either.
Half an hour later, I climbed out of his Infiniti as soon after he parked next to my car at Triple W.
The ride back, filled with occasional moments of silence, had given me just enough time to sort through all the unnecessary and dangerous comebacks I had stored up there.
"Remember, bring your A-game if you have it, Whitman. You're going to need it," I said, giving him a small wave before shutting the car door behind me.
"Oh, I'll bring it." His eyes mirrored the challenge he probably read in mine. "And for what it's worth," he added after my hand had grasped the handle of my own car door, leaning across the passenger seat to speak out of the rolled-down window, "I've thought about it too."
The drive from the field and the several topic changes had clearly not done anything to erase the last stupid thing I had said.
My hands and eyes focused on helping me make it back to my apartment without drifting onto the roadside shoulders while my brain was busy obsessing over his last words, and could already hear it mocking me: "Good luck getting any sleep tonight."