When are you going to let me read the book you’re writing?

His text comes back almost immediately.

K: Wow! You’d want to?

I roll onto my back, excited. Maybe reading his book would give me some kind of insight into who he is.

Of course! I love to read.

K: Okay, I’ll send it over. But I have to warn you, there aren’t any throbbing penises or heaving breasts in my book.

I drop the phone on my face before I can respond. I may have a black eye tomorrow, but also Kit’s unfinished manuscript.

What in the world would give you the impression I read that sort of thing?

K: I don’t know. It was a stupid thing to say. You’re way too uptight to appreciate a good fucking.

I frown. I don’t know if we are still kidding around, or if he really thinks that about me. It doesn’t really matter anyway. I’m a tiger in bed. Right out of one of my smutty novels with the embracing couples on the cover. That’s a lie, but only to myself.

After texting him my e-mail address, I pull out my sketchbook. It dawns on me that since my dream I’ve become obsessive about making it come true. At least portions of it. Why else would I sign up for art classes when I’ve never drawn a serious thing in my life? And what happens if I never get better at it? Does it mean my dream failed? Or I failed?

I don’t do anything that day but wait for Kit to send his manuscript. I should be looking for a job—a nice, cushy accounting job to rest my fat numbers brain on. I was top of my class at UM. There are already e-mails gathering in my account, so-and-so’s uncle who is looking for an accountant. My mom’s gynecologist who knows someone who is looking for an accountant. Even my uncle Chester is looking for an accountant for his snow cone business. All the free shaved ice I can eat.

I draw instead. Neptune looked at a tree I did last week and made a weird sound in the back of his throat. I’m no grunting expert, but it sounded like impressed approval to me. I’ve imitated that sound twice since then—once at a restaurant with Neil who asked me if I had something lodged in my throat, and once on the phone with my mother who wanted to bring me soup for the cold I was coming down with. Some people aren’t good with expressive communication. It’s not their fault. Finally, Kit sends me his novel. It appears in my inbox with the title: Doers Don’t Do. I have no idea what that means. But when I transfer it to my iPad, it’s only six chapters long. I’m disappointed. I was expecting War and Peace after all of the time he took off from Della. I settle down in my bed with a bag of cashews and my dream husband’s book. Not the husband of my dreams, just the one from my dream, I remind myself.

Kit’s story is about two boys who love the same girl. One of the boys is rash and impulsive; he enlists in the army and almost gets his arm blown off. The other is a librarian—deep thinking, kind of stalkerish. He stays in town to moon over the girl, Stephanie Brown. Who the hell names their character Stephanie Brown? Kit is who. Stephanie is lackluster. She has all the pretty things pretty girls have, but I can’t figure for the life of me why George or Denver would want her so badly. It will come, I think. Slowly, Kit will unfold the story, and the obsession, and in the end I would be madly in love with Stephanie Brown, too. I close out the document after chapter six and pull up my e-mail.

I want more.

I hit SEND. It doesn’t take him long to respond. I am in the middle of tossing cashews into the air and catching them in my mouth when I hear my e-mail ping. His response is enthusiastic and just one word.

Really!?

I like his use of an exclamation point and a question mark. It hits the spot.

Yes, I send back. Have you written past chapter six?

Almost immediately, there is a new file in my e-mail. Six more chapters! But they’ll have to wait. I have art class. I dress in all black to channel my inner artist and put my hair up in a bun. When I walk into class, Neptune nods at me. Everyone is taking me more seriously lately. I wonder if he nodded like that at Joan Mitchell when he was a young man. We are given reign of our own art today.

“Draw anything you like!” Neptune announces, punching the air. I feel inspired today. I draw George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown. All holding hands, standing by the fishing boat they restored together. Except they don’t look like regular people. Instead of arms, I give George guns, and Denver has a giant computer as a head. Stephanie Brown, I draw drab, with soppy, weak shoulders. Neptune gets really excited when he stops by my work area. He claps his hands.

“All this time you draw trees and submarines, and here is your real talent,” he says. “Pop art impressionism.”

I beam. I take my work home that night with the intent of showing Kit. But, when I get home, Neil is waiting on my doorstep. He looks so angry I almost turn around and go back to my car.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, as I pull out my key. Neil has a key, right on his key chain. I’m not sure why he’s waiting out here.

“You forgot the dinner,” he snaps. And when I just look at him, he repeats it, only with more emphasis. “The dinner.”

The dinner, the dinner, the dinner…?

The whoosh of failure hits me hard. I feel pitiful, and sorry, and sick to my stomach. Neil’s dinner. That his boss threw for him. To welcome him to the firm. It was important and exciting. We bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate, and I planned out my outfit—not too sexy, not too serious. How could I forget Neil’s dinner? I don’t know how to verbally express my sorrow with words. This results in my mouth opening and closing in a speak failure. Neil is waiting for me to say something, his hair sticking up and his tie pulled loose.