Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“It’s a miracle of modern science.” He was still frowning at the bowl, so I said, “Just wait until you’re over forty. You, too, will realize fiber is your friend.”
He glanced at me and grinned. “Do you feel like you’re a hundred and fifty years old, after saying that?”
“I really do.”
“Thought so.”
After he squirreled his way through all three pancakes, he refilled both of our coffee cups and leaned back against the couch. I asked, “Now that you’re fed and caffeinated, are you feeling motivated to write?”
“So, you’re actually sticking with that plan?”
“Absolutely. I even went out and got you some supplies.”
“You’ve already been out to run an errand?” I nodded, and he muttered, “I’ve never understood morning people.”
“I’m really not a morning person. I went out a little before ten, which isn’t all that early.”
“Oh, it’s early.” He took a sip of coffee and asked, “So, when you say supplies, are we talking coffee and chocolate? Or are we going the Hemingway route with scotch?”
“While those are all excellent ideas, I actually got you some notebooks and a pen.” I gestured at the stack on the coffee table and explained, “There are five of them because they all looked nice and I couldn’t decide. Maybe you can use each one for a different project or something.”
He tilted his head and read the brand name embossed into the top of the pen case. Then he frowned and said, “That’s some kind of practical joke, right? There’s no way you bought me a Montblanc. So, what’s inside the box, a plastic cockroach? A gag pen that’ll squirt me with ink when I try to write with it?”
“Who am I, one of the Marx Brothers? It’s exactly what it says it is.”
For some reason, he started to look alarmed. “It can’t be. I know what those pens cost, because I always wanted one. I told myself I’d buy one when I got published, because to me, they’re a mark of success. You wouldn’t randomly buy me something like that.”
“But I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought you’d like it, and because I believe every writer should have a nice pen.”
He shook his head. “That’s way, way too nice. You need to return it and get your money back.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you to have it.” I moved around the table and sat down beside him, and then I took the pen out of its box. “I thought you might like this particular pen, since you have a suit in this color.”
When I held it out to him, he recoiled and shook his head. “I can’t touch it. I have pancake hands.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“They won’t take it back if it’s all smudged.”
“Like I said, I’m not returning it.”
He grabbed me in a hug and whispered, “You’re incredibly kind, and that’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me—not because it cost a lot, but because you understood what something like that would mean to an aspiring writer. I appreciate it so much, Malcolm. More than you know. But there’s no way I can accept it.” He kissed my cheek and mumbled, “Be right back,” before getting up and hurrying from the room. He’d been trying to hide it, but I was pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.
I watched him leave, and then I placed the pen in its box and put it in a drawer. I really wasn’t going to return it, but it was obviously too much too soon. Once we knew each other better, maybe he’d accept it. I hoped he would, especially now that I knew what it meant to him.
And one thing was perfectly clear now—he wasn’t interested in me for my money, which was actually pretty rare. Since I’d come from a wealthy family, a lot of the people I dated seemed to think the most attractive thing about me was my bank account. That had never been a great feeling.
Daniel returned from the bathroom looking like his usual, upbeat self. He’d put on one of my sweatshirts and was holding a pen with the name of the hotel on it. “I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed this hoodie,” he said. “I was going to put on my suit jacket because I’d like to write on the balcony, but I couldn’t find it.”
“I sent your suit to be cleaned and pressed after I repaired the seam. It’ll be back this afternoon. And I’m glad you grabbed a sweatshirt. That’s exactly what I was going to suggest.”
“When did you fix my suit?”
“First thing this morning.”
“Thanks for doing that. Also, you’re a morning person in denial. Face it.” He grinned at me before picking up one of the notebooks. After he looked it over, he announced, “This is far too nice to write in.” He picked up the next one in the stack and shook his head. “This, too.”