The writer turns the overhead lights off, and plops onto his bed while she surfs through the channels, aimlessly searching for something interesting.
She stops on a gasp when a laser beam blasts across the screen. "No way! Nebula-9?"
"You're kidding. You wanna watch this crap?"
"What did you just call it?"
"Oh, c'mon. It's a phony melodrama with lifeless acting. It deserved to get canceled. Twelve episodes was twelve too many."
She narrows her eyes at him.
"Okay, maybe it's a little cheesy…but it's also about leaving home for the first time. About searching for your identity and making a difference. And the acting isn't all bad. The character of Lieutenant Chloe is pretty inspiring—she doesn't care what anybody thinks about her. I mean, she's a scientist and a warrior, all in spite of the way she looks," she argues.
He gawks at her, and she realizes, too late, that she's revealed way too much again. Fuck.
"Oh my god, you're a nerd," he crows, "A big, fat, sci-fi-loving nerd!"
Her cheeks flame. "This coming from the guy who claims to have a life-sized Boba Fett in his bathroom back home."
"Point taken, but I need to know how serious this is. Please tell me you dressed up in one of those outfits."
"I'm not that geeky," she says unconvincingly.
"Liar!" he says with relish. "I bet you had braces, too."
She hides her face in a throw pillow. "Only in middle school."
"And then you emerged onto the high school scene, a beautiful butterfly, freed from her wallflower chrysalis. Brains and beauty. You had everyone wrapped around your finger, didn't you?"
She surfaces from behind her pillow shield. "Do you always have to editorialize?"
"Writer, remember?"
"If you're going to be picky about it, then you can find something," she says, hurling the remote at him, satisfied when it clips him on the forehead.
"You did that on purpose," he grumbles, massaging his brow.
"Serves you right for making fun," she fires back.
He flicks through a couple channels. "Oh, look," he says, his search coming to an abrupt halt. "They're playing reruns of The X-Files. Now, this is good sci-fi," he postures. "And they're just like us. Skeptic and believer, traveling all over the U.S., debating unexplained phenomena." He glances at her. "Ever think about dyeing your hair red?"
She chucks her pillow at him in answer.
By the time the credits roll on their second episode, the writer is fast asleep beneath his covers and lightly snoring. She smiles involuntarily at the sight as she leans over, and in a slick maneuver, nimbly extracts the remote from his open palm and switches off the TV.
Moonlight spills through the sliding glass door and over his face, and she's briefly captivated by how peaceful he looks. Not one line of worry creasing his forehead. Just unruly strands of hair that she, strangely, has the urge to brush back.
And then, before she can fully process it, she's reaching toward him, but he coughs suddenly, something blocking his airway, and she's quickly jerking away, her heart ricocheting against her ribs, willing him not to wake. God forbid he discovers her staring at him like some creep.
Thankfully, he continues to slumber, snuffling softly. She wonders what he's dreaming about. His body shifts and she freezes. But he's simply turning from his back to his side. She relaxes and takes it as her cue to leave, quietly tip-toeing into her room and delicately shutting the adjoining door behind her.
He's floating on a cloud. No, wait. It's cotton-candy. A gigantic cotton-candy cloud. He tears a piece off, and eagerly consumes it, the sugar melting on his tongue and—
A scream pierces the air, wrenching him awake, fear clenching in his chest.
"Kate," he whispers, scrambling out of bed. He tries the handle on the adjoining door, but it's locked. Fuck.
Another scream.
He pounds his fist on the door and yells, "Kate! Kate! Open up!"
He pauses, waiting to hear a response. But there's nothing. Not even a scream. He places his ear against the door, straining. "Kate! Are you okay?"
He's about to head for the balcony to check her other room entrance when he hears the snick of the lock and then, the connector door is opening and she's standing before him, fuming.
"Jesus, Castle. What's with the racket?" she demands.
He surges forward, hugging her in relief.
She flinches violently in his embrace and he swiftly steps back, dropping his arms back to his side like hot coals.
"Sorry…you were screaming. Wanted to make sure you were alright."
A mixture of surprise and shame wash over her features. Like she wasn't aware she'd been so loud and she was embarrassed by it.
"Oh."
"Nightmare?"
She swipes a hand through her hair, avoiding his gaze. "No, um, I couldn't sleep, so I was watching something," she explains. "Scary movie."
He peers inside her room, eyeing the blank television screen and then, her face. She's lying. He can't fathom why…unless she doesn't want him asking what the nightmare is about.
Okay.
Fine.
He decides to play along with the farce.
"Anything good?"
Relief sags in her shoulders.
"Just some cheesy slasher flick. Thanks for checking to make sure I wasn't being murdered. Means a lot."
"Anytime."
"Well, uh, night," she says, moving to close the door, but he sticks his foot in the gap before she can fully shut it.
"Wait," he urges, "If you can't sleep, I may have just the thing to help."
He prays she won't slam the door as he digs around in his duffle.
"That's not necessary. Rick, you don't—"
Ah ha! He locates the bag of goodies in the hidden pocket and removes one of the treats he picked up at the Santa Monica pier from an over-friendly surfer.
"Found it!" he announces and hurries back to her.
"Is that—?"
"The perfect thing to chill you out. Unless you're the type that gets paranoid when you smoke a little Mary Jane," he says with a little wiggle of his eyebrows.
A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
"I think the kids call it weed."
"Did you just call me old? We're not that far apart in age."
She plucks the tightly-rolled joint from his fingertips.
"Come on, Geezer. Let's take this shindig outside."
"Stanford, huh?" he says, nodding at the maroon crewneck sweater, emblazoned in white letters, that she drags over her head. "Guess I was also right about you going to a pretty good college."
"Do you ever get tired of being such a smart ass?" she asks, crossing her legs and cozying into her rocking chair.
He strikes a match from one of the hotel matchbooks and lights one of the complimentary outdoor candles, meant to deter mosquitos and other insects. It emanates a soft glow.
"It's one of my many attractive qualities."
"More like one of your many insufferable qualities."
"As if you're such a ray of sunshine," he volleys back, cursing inwardly as soon as he lets the words loose. He watches, with dread, as she retreats, her head ducking down and her hard mask returning.
She stares out into the darkness, awkwardness cloying their little bubble.
He hadn't meant to indirectly reference her not-so-secret nightmare, the one he was supposed to be ignoring. He's an idiot.
She lights the joint, taking an experienced inhale, holding it, and then, slowly exhaling, smoke billowing around them languidly, accompanied by a pungent smell.
"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"How'd you know you wanted to be a writer?" she interjects.
Okay. New subject, it is.
"Can I get some of that first?" he asks, motioning, and she passes the joint to him. He takes a long hit as if to bolster himself. But it only ends up making him cough, too much smoke caught in his lungs.
"You okay? Need some water?" she asks, concerned.
He shakes his head, circling a fist over his sternum, calming himself. This isn't embarrassing. No, not at all.
He throws her an A-OK sign with his hand.
"One second," he wheezes, giving the joint back to her. She takes it with a bemused smile.
Oh, a smile. At least that was something. He breathes in some fresh air, deeply, and finally, recaptures his poise.
"So."
"So?" she prompts.
"Being a writer…I'm not sure exactly when I figured it out. I was always scribbling short stories, little poems and such, but it wasn't until I was fourteen and my mom sent me to this private school—Edgewick Academy," he begins. "She'd pinched all these pennies to get me in. But I was homesick and I didn't have any friends, so I wrote about it. And on a whim, I submitted a story to the school's literary magazine and...it wound up getting published."
He flicks his gaze to hers. She's listening intently.
"As if that wasn't crazy enough, the editor called me into his office and told me I was a great talent. No one had ever said anything like that to me before. He believed in me…and without him, I'd probably be a lawyer, a grifter…a rodeo clown. But not a writer. Without him, I don't think I'd be where I am today," he finishes.
There's a comfortable lull. Kate readjusts in her chair.
"I don't know, I think you'd make a great rodeo clown."
He snorts lightly.
"Remind me to never pour my heart out to you again."
She gestures encouragingly. "Buck up, Writer Boy. I think you're selling yourself a little short."
"How so?"
"You would've figured it out on your own eventually. You're practically attached to that notebook of yours. And I can tell you're jonesing to write something down right now." She nods at the restless tap of his fingers on the chair's armrest. He hadn't even noticed he'd been doing it. Huh. "I also heard somewhere that you recently graduated from college and already have a New York Times Bestseller," she adds.
"So you do find it impressive?" he says, his cheek dimpling with a smile.
"I can't be held responsible for the things I say while under the influence," she says airily. She takes another pull from the joint, craning her neck to the sky as she gently blows smoke out. "I think I see the Little Dipper."
He looks up at the dark swath of velvet, glittering with an array of bright stars.
"Yeah, me, too. The North Star is the tip of the handle right there," he says, pointing.
"And there's the Big Dipper," she proclaims, "The two of them look like they could be the Yin and Yang of the night sky," she observes dreamily.
The writer chortles to himself.
"What's so funny?" she asks.
"Nothing. I've just never thought of it that way."
Yeah, she was definitely high.
"Look at them, just circling each other but facing opposite directions. It's a sound observation," she retorts. "What's their story, anyway?" she asks, looking at him expectantly, like he holds all the answers. His heart trips in his chest.
"Depends on who you ask. Would you like the Greek, Norse, or Native American version?"
"Which one do you like the best?"
"The Native American stories are some of the oldest. They talk of hunters and bears. That's why those constellations are also called Ursa Major and Ursa Minor."
She makes a flourishing motion with her hand. "Go on, then."
"What am I, your court jester?"
"If the cap n' bells fit," she smirks.
Bathed in the halo of candlelight, he's powerless to resist the upward curve of her lips and the sparkle of mischief in her eyes.
"Some native groups interpret the bowl of the Big Dipper as a bear, while the stars in the handle are hunters chasing it. The orientation of the Big Dipper is also always changing with the seasons."
"And what do they say about the little one?"
"There's a legend about a group of hunters who got lost in the forest. They prayed to the spirits to send them help to find their way home. That's when a small girl appeared to them, saying she was the spirit of the pole star, which we know as the North Star. Anyway, she led them home and after that, they called the star Polaris—the star that does not move. And when they died, the hunters were placed in the sky where they forever follow Polaris."
"So the Big Dipper is always on the move, and the Little Dipper, in a way, stays in place."
"And because of the Earth's rotation, the two of them are constantly rotating around one another. When one is right side up, the other is upside down."
"See? Just like Yin and Yang. Balance and harmony," she says, triumphant.
"Balance and harmony," he chuckles in agreement, enjoying this playful side of her. He'd stay up for hours if it meant getting more time with her like this. But in self-betrayal, the maw of his mouth opens wide with a loud yawn. Kate follows up with her own, quiet and drowsy.
"So that rules out psychopath," he says.
Her eyebrow lifts in askance.
"Yawns are contagious, but people with psychopathic personality traits don't tend to "catch" them because they lack empathy," he explains.
"Isn't that just an old wives' tale?"
"Not according to my psych professor. They've done studies on it."
"Well, as long as there's evidence."
"That's right. You're all facts and logic. Should've led with that."
Amusement dances in her eyes. There's a brief moment where he thinks maybe there's some affection there, too.
"Thanks for this," she says after a long beat, raising the dying joint. "I really didn't meant to wake you," she says, shy and demure, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
"It's okay. What else are road trip buddies for?"
"You keep saying buddies like we're in second grade or something. You gonna pull my pigtails, next?"
"I was thinking more of a yank." She lets out a low laugh, and it's instantly one of his new favorite sounds. "Road trip partner, then," he provides, tentative butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
They erupt into a swarm when she replies with a heartfelt, "Okay." She holds the last bit of the joint out to him. "Want to finish this, Partner? Or is it too much for you?"
"Oh, I can handle it," he says assuringly, snagging it from her and taking a confident pull, the embers glowing brightly. This time, he inhales and exhales smoothly.
"Bravo," she applauds.
He ashes the joint in a nearby novelty tray with a silly grin, feeling light-headed and practically giddy.
"See you in the morning?" he asks, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up his belly a little and he swears she takes a peek of his exposed skin but before he can goad her for it, she's blowing out the candle and opening the sliding glass door to her room and throwing a warm look over her shoulder that leaves him at a loss for words.
"See you in the morning."
xxx
A/N: Thank you for the great responses! I'm glad to hear I'm evoking old memories for some of you. And to those really hoping our pair will keep traveling together, I promise I have some really fun (and not so fun) plans set in store for them. We've still got over 20 chapters left on this thing, and I can ensure you good things come to those who wait (and stick along for the ride!).
Thoughts?