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The reader isn’t going to be using their imagination here because they’ll be so annoyed that she somehow draws in one second and then steps away in the next. You spent eight sentences describing the tree they stand under and give absolutely no description to their actual kiss. They are acting like they hate each other. They act like they hate kissing.

I throw my hands up in the air and write the first words that come to mind. The truth.

Well, fine. I admit it. I hate kissing. It’s disgusting. It’s unhygienic. It’s a bizarre cultural phenomenon. Do you even know how many germs are in someone’s mouth? Six billion. SIX. BILLION. And how exactly, while we’re at it, am I supposed to describe tongues playing hockey with each other in a mass of saliva? Is that really what you want? If I were to be completely honest, I’d say the whole world should give up on it altogether. We should all just give jolly soft hugs to one another. That actually makes sense. And keeps you from spreading mono.

I return from lunch to find his answer.

Holly. I know this is really your pen name, but I feel the need to press the point by calling you by name. Be it any name at all. So, Holly. Have you really chosen to write romance when you don’t actually believe in one of its biggest tenets? The attraction between two people is imperative. If this is how you feel, you should consider a new genre.

I hesitate, then respond.

They ARE attracted to each other! They just . . . prefer holding hands. And anyway, romance isn’t just about attraction. It’s about companionship. You don’t see old married couples who’ve been through two world wars and five babies together making out on a bench when they’re ninety and think to yourself, Now THAT’S what it’s all about.

You see the way they hold hands, the way they serve each other scrambled eggs on plates they got on their wedding day, the way they shuffle through the paper in the mornings together without needing to fill the space with empty conversation. Because they are happy. Just happy. Together. That is why I want to write romance. I’ve seen enough insta-meet romances at conferences and in supermarkets. Books that presume instant attraction magically leads to a lifetime of happiness. But I know what really happens after the last page.

My chest tightens but I keep on.

I know what it’s like to be left because a man gets captivated by someone prettier, someone more graceful, someone who dazzles the room. So please, don’t try to convince me to change genres because I can’t capture a kiss. What I want to see in all this, what I want to share, is a story about two normal people, with both hiccups and highlights, who share a lifetime of companionship over eggs and wedding plates.

When my pen finally stops, I lean back in the beanbag and stare at my words. I sound too passionate. Too emotional.

Too . . . unhinged.

And what’s this all about, really?

A scene. Just a little scene. And for a long minute I think about crumpling the whole page up, throwing it in the trash, and never bringing up the scene again. But I don’t.

I leave it.

Because . . . well . . . it’s the real me.

And if there’s any hope of anything happening for us beyond the margins of my manuscript, I need him to see the real me, flaws and all.

I drop my pen and, forcing myself to stop thinking, to stop hesitating, walk out the door.

When I return that afternoon, he hasn’t responded.

But when I return at the end of the day, I find his words.

Chapter 16

I’m sorry. I was speaking tongue in cheek, but my remarks didn’t translate well on the page. For what it’s worth, you have met your goals in this story, and already exceeded them. I’m proud of you.

As for the scene, though, and to stay on point, if you are going to have a kissing scene, you need them to kiss like normal human beings. Have you ever considered that . . . you don’t like to write about a kiss because you’ve never actually experienced a good kiss?

I stare. The man took my ardently felt monologue, gave it a polite pat on the head, and told it to go play while the adults stayed on task. And the task is my pathetic ability to write a kissing scene. Which has turned into an oddly sensitive personal subject on my history and ability to kiss.

Fine, I write. Since today is all about my romantic ventures, apparently, no. My former boyfriend was my first, and last, kiss, and to be completely honest here, I always thought doing laundry would be a better way to spend time. So there. Perhaps, since you’re so “good” at it, you should just write the scene for me.

I tap the period so hard with my pen it splotches and drop the manuscript on the stack of books beside the chair. Roughly I blow out the candle. Turn off the string lights. And make my way for the door.

So. Sam has had wonderful make-out sessions with glossy Giselle. That’s fine. That actually makes sense, really, given I can’t imagine any other reason he would’ve stayed with her on and off all these years. Giselle. Passionate with her words, passionate kisser.

Isn’t. That. Just. Great.

My mood follows me all the way home. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the reminder that I’m finally at the finale of my manuscript tries to push its way to the forefront and cheer me up, but despite how hard it rallies, the encouragement only lasts a moment before another brooding thought forms.

Sam has kissed Giselle. Probably a thousand times.