"William Lynch"
by Michael Dell

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tuesday once again found Meghan and William spending the day together. Except this time they didn't brave the outside world. Convincing her that four straight days of leaving the apartment might indeed kill him, it was agreed that they'd just lull the day away inside the comfort of their own walls.

Because of the late walk the previous night, Meghan actually didn't wake up until two in the afternoon. She was not proud of the sleeping indulgence. William, on the other hand, considered it a true sign of accomplishment. Had she not balked at the idea, there would have been a ceremony held in her honor.

After spending a few hours chatting and doing nothing in particular, Meghan went to the computer and William went across the hall to paint. Or at least that's what he told her. It was more like he went home to just be home. He seemed to draw strength from it. Plus, there was a TV.

At about eight o'clock that evening he returned to her side. He couldn't stand to be away any longer. She was still typing. "You mind if I borrow a book?" asked William, reaching for an excuse.

Meghan turned from her monitor in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"I figured I'd give it a shot. There's not much on at the moment."

"Yeah, help yourself." She focused back on the blue screen in front of her and finished pounding out a series of keys.

He perused the available titles. "Any recommendations?"

She stood up and joined him at the bookshelf. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I'm not sure. I've seen most of these. Got anything that wasn't made into a movie?"

She pulled out an aging black-covered book with a picture of a flower on the front. "How about 'The Bell Jar' by Sylvia Plath?"

"What's it about?"

"Well, it's about this girl who... on second thought, maybe that's not such a good idea." She shoved the book back into its assigned place.

"Why not?"

"It might hit a little too close to home."

"I don't even know what that means."

"We'll find something else." She knelt down to inspect the lower shelves. "Any thoughts on Hemingway?"

"Didn't he kill himself?"

"Yeah, he shot himself when he was like sixty-two, I think."

"He committed suicide in his sixties?"

"Yeah."

"I don't even know if you can still call it suicide if you do it when you're sixty."

Meghan, hating herself for doing so, looked up at him in curiosity and asked, "What should you call it?"

William, his eyes still searching the upper shelves for a desired title, responded with a one-word answer. "Redundant."

She shook it off and presented another option for consideration. "You liked 'The Great Gatsby,' right?"

"Yeah."

She stood back up, handing him a nearly identical thin blue book to the one she was reading in the laundry room on the night they became, well, really good friends. "Here, give this a whirl. It's another one by F. Scott Fitzgerald."

"'This Side of Paradise'? Wasn't this his first published novel?"

"Yeah. I'd ask how you know that, but there's really no point." She sat back down at her desk. "You can stay here if you want."

"It won't bother you?"

"No, I don't care."

"Well, then maybe I'll just hit the couch. It is kind of nice to spend some time surrounded by different walls. It's almost like a vacation."

"Almost."

The intermission did little to stifle Meghan's creative output. She picked up right where she left off. Meanwhile, William did his best to take his first few steps into literature. He got comfortable on the couch, wanting to train his complete and undivided attention on the pages of Fitzgerald.

Page one. Damn, Meghan looked good. It was the only thought that filled his head as he peeked over the top of the book at the object of his affection. She seemed completely oblivious to his presence. But he couldn't ignore her. He tried to make sense of the words. His mind was somewhere else. His heart was somewhere else.

Every so often he would turn a page in order to continue the charade. But all he could think of was how she felt in his arms. How lucky he was to have her in his life. And how he'd do anything to be with her. Anything. And he also thought of her posture. She had excellent posture. Anyone who can sit that straight at a computer is someone special. He knew he had it bad when he noticed the posture. That's always a sign of devotion. Or obsession. Either one.

The phone rang.

Meghan froze. It rang again. William didn't say a word. They never even looked at each other, but they both knew who was on the other end of that call. She picked up in the middle of the third ring.

"Hello? ... Hey ... not much," she spun the desk chair around to see William, "just trying to write."

This really wasn't a conversation William wanted to hear. He closed the book and begged off, motioning to Meghan that he would go back to his place. She gave a quick nod of agreement without ever neglecting her role on the phone. "Do you know when you'll be coming home yet?" was the last thing William heard as he closed her apartment door.

It had been nice forgetting about the specter of Mark for the past few days, but he wasn't going to disappear. He would eventually reenter the picture. Their temporary respite was almost over. The phone call was just a reminder of things to come, things neither William nor Meghan wanted to consider.

Once she was out of sight, reading Fitzgerald suddenly regained its appeal. He needed something to occupy his mind in order to keep his thoughts from collapsing upon themselves. So he read. He read with great speed and purpose. He devoured the text. The pages couldn't seem to turn fast enough. He needed the diversion. Whether it came from the Voice of the Lost Generation or not wasn't important. All that mattered was that the steady stream of words flooded his brain and rendered his own problems a secondary concern. He was just glad he wasn't going to have to write a book report. He wouldn't be able to tell 'This Side of Paradise' from the south side of Jersey.

Exactly how much time had passed was uncertain. He was on page 86 when he heard her door open. Without getting up from his prone position on the couch, he turned his head to watch her storm the apartment. Their eyes met for only a brief moment and not a word was exchanged. She never even broke stride as she proceeded hastily down the hall to the bedroom. Sherman's march on Atlanta was less deliberate.

At first William didn't know what to do. He listened for instructions. None came. He waited a few anxious seconds longer before dropping his book to the floor and following her lead.