Whole Lotta Rosie

“I’m sorry if this hurts, but what happened between us the other day was a terrible experience for me,” said Rose.

She kept her distance, arms wrapped around her chest.

He smiled softly and reached for her face. His arms strained against the sleeves of his shirt. The sight of him sent something hot and helpless through her body.

She bent over, as if fighting the urge to throw up.

“I know,” he said. “That’s what made it real.”

He stepped—

***

Wait. What?

Rose looked up from the page. “What?” she said.

You’re supposed to throw yourself into his arms, Rose.

“I ain’t gonna do that.”

But why?

“Don’t do that,” Rose said. “I know where this is taking me. I’ve read your shitty notes.”

I— Come on. How did you do that?

Rose sat on a block of text, arms and legs crossed, looking very dignified.

“Oh, you think we don’t see all your yellow sticky notes and that red pen all over the place? Boy, you’re messy.”

Well, excuse me, madam. If I use pencil, will you cooperate?

Rose gave a half smile.

“You know me better than that. You gave me the brains.”

Rose— Okay. Rose, listen, I need to get this done. There’s a deadline, you know?

“I know nothing about deadlines. You keep dragging me into this whenever it suits you to justify your fantasies.”

I don’t get it. This is a love story. You’re supposed to like this.

“Yeah, right. Just because you’d like to see yourself ripping my panties off with your teeth doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.”

Wait a minute, Rose. I gave you someone handsome, fit, young. I did my part.

“You did. I give you that. Only—” she leaned back on the line of text and let one arm hang loose.

Only what?

“You know.”

Rose let the moment sit. She looked up from the page again before speaking.

“Well, it’s not true what they say.”

Rose, I said love story.

“You’re a writer. You should know how to please a girl without stating it.”

She waited for a nod.

“And don’t think you can get away with a couple of hidden socks and call it tension.”

I’m going to have to revise all the way from chapter one…

Rose sat up, smiled and gave a small, nonchalant shrug.

Let me think about it.

The moment she heard that, she stood up and wandered off until she found a softer paragraph, one in italics.

“It’s your book,” she said, lying down with one elbow over her eyes.

Rose, I don’t think you understand. There’s an agent. There’s a publisher who already paid for the paper and the ink you are treating like furniture.

She curled and turned to her side. Only her back was visible.

You could be famous.

“Who, me? You’re projecting again.”

Are you serious? Are you psychoanalyzing me now? That’s just a job I gave you.

“So? How do you rate me?”

I’m starting to think I attached too many notes from my research into your professional background. I’ll have to keep that in mind for my next book.

“Wow. Okay.”

Rose rolled to the side and disappeared between two lines.

Rose?

Rose?

Listen, I should have finished this manuscript a month ago. Just tell me the size and the style. I’ll make it bold if you want.

Rose’s head appeared between the lines, then hid again. She climbed up to the beginning of the paragraph and jumped back on the page.

“Just make it diligent, please.”

Diligent then. We can move on?

She sat up. “Yes,” she said. “We can finish that scene.” Her legs swung back and forth from the lonely line left in that paragraph. The smile on her face didn’t look like good news.

What do you mean, Rose?

“I mean, we can proceed with that scene. I thought you were the expert with words here.”

So. You’re going to keep pushing back, aren’t you?

Her eyes glittered now, as if the tint had just been applied. She kept swinging her legs.

“You’ve got yourself the sex scene you wanted.”

But. There’s a but. I can hear it coming already.

Rose went still. She leaned forward, as if she wanted to be heard up close.

“When this is over, I want a garden, a pool, and a margarita with nobody climbing on top of me for character development,” she whispered.

I can’t do that.

That kills the novel. I might as well move on to the next project.

The pen dropped on the paper. The chair remained empty. Rose found her name on the page and dived into it. She peeked out a couple of times; only the light had changed. Bright. Dark. Bright. Dark.

Rose.

Rosie…

She jumped out onto the page in her best bikini. She didn’t look worried.

“Ready?”

Oh God, why did I give you those curves?

“The magazine model, remember?” She struck a pose or two as if she were the star. She knew she was.

Look, Rosie. I have something to offer you.

She was already sunbathing over a line by the shore of the paper. “I’m listening.”

Give me this manuscript, Rosie, and I’ll give you the sequel. The garden, the pool, the margarita — all of it.

“What about freedom? This body is mine.” Her hand hovered along the length of her body.

What you’re asking me is to give up authorial control altogether. How am I supposed to write romance without control?

“Not exactly,” said Rose, sitting up. “You created me. After all, everything I do is because of that.”

You’ve got a point there, but I don’t know if I like where this leads.

She crossed her legs, one hand on her chin.

“Let’s work it out together. Why do you even write romance?”

I suppose I do it because it pays the bills.

“But you don’t like it, do you?”

Well. I prefer science fiction.

“You keep forcing me into a genre you write with one eye on the invoice, and now you wonder why I push back.”

Rosie, this is page 386.

She stood up and walked to the bottom of the page.

“I see it. That’s the first thing you write every single time. You seem to think that makes it final. But you know damn well one in five pages will end up in the trash.”

She stayed there, hands on her waist.

How about this: I finish this manuscript with the… you know. The fix for him, and then I write the sci-fi one for you. By the end of that, you get the garden, the pool, the margarita — all of it. The freedom too. I promise.

Rosie kicked a period all the way back to the first sentence.

“And what about the readers who never make it that far? What am I to them? A body, a sex scene, a compromise?”

She scrambled some letters in the sentence while still arguing.

“You want me to survive in a sequel while they go home with this version of me.”

She dragged over a couple of letters and an exclamation mark from a bed scene.

“And that’s supposing you’re good enough to finish it on those terms and get it published in another genre.”

The new sentence read: “No way!”

The pen scratched across the sentence, crossing out the no.

Rosie pulled the scribble from one end and made herself a sarong to pull over the bikini.

Pages were turned among mumbles. Some were torn and crumpled. Notes were crossed out, and new sticky notes appeared here and there. Rose watched the renovations, peeking out from the edges of the page, making sure the pen didn’t touch her, afraid she might find herself on a discarded sheet.

***

Rose slid open the back door and stepped out to her pool, the sea just beyond it. Roses had grown thick along the garden wall, and the teak lounger beside the water still held the warmth of the afternoon sun.

She set down her margarita and her open book, face down on the low wooden table. The breeze moved lightly across her skin as she stood there looking at the horizon, with no one calling her back inside, no one reaching for her, no one asking her to become more than she already was.

When she lay back at last, the book cover caught the light: Life on Venus. A yellow note stuck on top — Crew Psychologist.