Chapter 9: Bad jokes

Rejena

Writing has always been my passion. In high school it was short little poems, then after that, journaling had become my number one go to as I was struggling to talk to people about my thoughts and emotions. Writing as much as reading had been my safe haven and I have lost my passion for writing when work came in the way. The books I had been writing for the past year were books I started writing two years ago and after Collen passed away, I just didn’t feel that passion anymore. For one, I write romance books. How are you supposed to write romance books when every time you even consider getting romantic with someone, you feel like you are cheating on the person that you loved and never learned to unlove?

My fingers are flying over the keyboard, the clicking of the typewriter a different kind of music all in its own league. The story I am writing is not one I will ever publish. Not because it isn’t good or worthy of people swooning over it, but because it is private. It is my life, and how just a day with the elusive Dalon Sorrin has me back to wanting to get something out on paper. I will apologize to Collen later for writing about another man on the gift he gave me, but knowing Collen, he would smile right now. He only wanted me to be happy and even though I am not truly happy at the moment, I am doing what I love, and I am doing it for myself, not for validation or for money.

It is dark outside by the time there is a knock on my door, and I nearly jump out of my seat. I haven’t eaten, haven’t even stopped to drink water. I have been so lost in the story, it trying to put all my emotions on paper, that I haven’t stopped unless it was to stretch. I get up from my chair and nearly sit right back down as a muscle in my back pulls from being bent over the typewriter for what is probably hours even if I am only about a quarter of the way through what I want to get out.

“Jane?” I hate that he calls me Jane, but until he is ready to come clean about who he is, I am not going to correct him. The only thing I have been lying about is my name. Not that it is a complete lie. If he were to g****e me, he would find Jane Cater, but no pictures, just my books.

“Coming.” I shout and he groans, and I realize that he really has a dirty mind. I should probably think twice about what I allow to come out of my mouth. I open the door to find Dalon standing there with two cups of coffee in his hands. He is dressed in a white casual, button up shirt with sleeves that are rolled up to just below his elbows. His linen trousers are a light beige color and he has brown loafers on that really looks a lot like a more modern version of South African vellies. His hair is a cury mess on his head, and I am tempted to run my hand through it to see if it will just bounce right back or stand in every direction. Why does he have to be so devastatingly attractive in real life?

“I thought it is about time I returned the favor.” He explains, handing me a cup. “I didn’t know how much sugar you take in your coffee, so I got the sugar separate.” He says, handing a stack of sugars. “That Mila woman shook her head when I asked for the sugar, so I am slightly unsure if the sugar was necessary.” He says, but he doesn’t make a move to come into the room.

“You know, I can do with a break. Is there anyone still at the market or is there a restaurant open? Have you eaten?” I ask one question after the other. I realize now that it might not be a good idea to let him into my room and I should probably lock the door if I want to stop him from reading my book. That would give away the fact that I know exactly who he is, and I really want him to get to that point when he is ready to admit it to me.

“Well, Mila is still open, and there are a few other places we can try if you want to try something different than just that one caffé.” He says, sounding nervous. Does he feel like I am asking him on a date?

“We are friends, right?” I ask him, and he seems to think about it for a second and then he starts to relax.

“Yeah, sorry, not sure why I feel nervous. I am not really use to that feeling.” He says, and I can bet he isn’t used to it. I mean, he drives a car at breakneck speed around a racetrack. Some of those tracks are practically designed to cause you to crash if you just make one wrong move. Count in the fact that there are nineteen other cars driving with you, constantly trying to overtake you or waiting for you to slip up, there is no space or time for you to be nervous or distracted.

“Jack, how old are you?” I ask him, wanting to bring a point across, that is if he answers me honestly about his age.

“I am twenty-five, going on twenty-six.” He says, and I am reminded myself just how young he is. Sure, one of the drivers and his closest friend on the track, Michael, is currently dating a woman seven years older than him, but I don’t think Dalon plans on following his footsteps with that one. “Do you have anything against guys your age?” He asks and I laugh. I have always looked younger than I am. Far younger than I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel my age.

“You think we are the same age?” I ask him and now, he looks like he is not so sure. He scratches the back of his head, his biceps popping out with the movement, drawing attention to his arms and the veins that are running along it, all the way down to his hands. I had those hands on me. I really need to focus on my point.

“Well yeah. And if you want to keep just being friends, you need to stop looking at me like that.” He says, making me snap my eyes down to the ground. Focus, Rejena!

“I am thirty, going onto thirty-one.” I tell him, still trying to get my thoughts off his hands and how I am most definitely going to be writing about it in my book. The sound of him choking on coffee has me snapping out of my thoughts and focusing back on the here and now. Dalon is turning red, the veins popping out in his neck and temples. “Shit, what happened?” I start to panic, hitting him on the back as he coughs up a storm.

“Coffee, went down the wrong pipe.” He forces out in a strained voice between coughs.

“Shit, that happened to me once, though it spilled out of my nose and practically had me turning blue in the face. Not a fun way to die, I can tell you that.” I tell him, not trying to distract him but it seems to work as he clears his throat and then looks at me.

“Seriously, you nearly died from choking on coffee?” He asks with a laugh, though it still sounds strained, but at least he isn’t choking anymore.

“Yes well, you would too, if you had just taken a large sip and heard what I heard at that moment.” I tell him, trying to act offended, but I end up smiling instead.

“What was so shocking it made you choke?” He asks and I lift an eyebrow at him.

“You just choked because I told you my age. You have no right to judge.” I tell him.

“Fair enough, but go on, tell me.” He says, and I hesitate, it is really not the nicest story to tell.

“Fine, I was working at this retail store, and I was always a very happy acting person at the time. I laughed a lot, like a lot.” I emphasize on a lot because it has a really big part to play in my story. “So, I was taking my coffee break and one of my colleagues were on the phone with her son. He plays in a band, but here comes the stinger. They play at funerals and weddings.” I tell him, and he starts to take a sip of his coffee, clearly interested in hearing more. “I would rather not have you ending up like I did or how you were two seconds ago, so please refrain from drinking your coffee while I tell you the story.” I tell him and he quickly drops his hand back down and swallows the sip he had taken from his coffee.

“So, as it turns out, her son had just finished playing at a funeral and he was telling her that he had five funerals that week. Just as I was taking a very large sip as I had a limited time to be in the back of the store, she replied with; ‘Well, people are just dying to see you.’” Dalon burst out laughing and I can’t help but join in. “Now imagine you were halfway with swallowing a large sip of coffee while bursting out with laughter. No matter how good you are at multitasking, you can’t swallow and laugh at the same time. So, I choked, with coffee spraying everywhere. I tried to explain that I wasn’t laughing because I have this horrible laugh where I sound like I can’t breathe and that is more or less how I sounded when I choked on coffee that was blocking all my airways.” Dalon laughs harder and I love seeing him like this. He looks more free that what I had seen him since he started truly competing for the championship. “So, the reason why I told you I laughed a lot, is because the staff in the store knew how I sounded when I laugh, so they weren’t in distress, thinking that I am just being funny again. It took my colleague that was talking to her son a while to realize I wasn’t laughing but really couldn’t breathe. By that time, I was already blue in the face and just about ready to pass out. One of the clients that were in the store at that time asked if I was alright and the store manager that was helping her told her to just ignore it, I was just laughing again. My colleague ran out of the back screaming that I wasn’t laughing, I was choking, and they needed to help.” He is no longer laughing but looking concerned. “Everything turned out fine though. I mean, I am here, and I haven’t lost my ability to breathe, so there is that.” I tell him with a chuckle, but that doesn’t seem to help bring back that smile.

“You really could’ve died from coffee and a joke. Her son was about to have another person dying to hear him sing.” He says and we both end up laughing. “I would suggest that you put other clothes on.” He points out, and I realize I never got dressed. I am still in my bikini as if I am ready to go jump in a pool.

“Yeah, before I give some poor old man a heart attack.” I tell him, handing him back my coffee to hold while I quickly get back inside my room to dress. Luckily, Dalon doesn’t ask to come inside and waits at the door. I quickly pull out one of my sundresses and fix my hair. My contact lenses are begging to be taken out, but instead I throw in a few drops of eyedrops and then put on some mascara. I grab my sandals, and then I am out the door. Dalon does a double take when I get out of the room but stays quiet and hands me back my coffee. “By the way, sugar is called zucchero and I don’t drink any in my coffee.” I tell him and he tries to say the word a few times.

“I will try to remember that.” He says, and then leads the way out of the guest house.