Mad Love (16 page)

I’m
not that gullible. Flattery is one thing, and who doesn’t appreciate a little flattery now and then, but if he expected me to believe that I looked like Psyche, a girl who was prettier than Venus, then he was under the impression that I was as delusional as he.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes because truly, I felt sorry for Errol. His physical pain looked totally overwhelming. His mental pain seemed equally real. Maybe the Cupid persona had begun as a game, a way to deal with the stress of being ill. I knew what it was like to spin so many lies that they start to take over your life. Or maybe Errol was one of those people Dr. Diesel had referred to—someone who walks a tightrope between creativity and madness.

“Errol, can we just talk about the story?”

“I’m trying to explain why I chose you,” he said, smacking the counter with his palm. Startled by the sound, Oscar the cat scurried away. My entire body tensed. This was the side of him that I hated—the quick temper, the parental tone.

“It’s true,” he said. “Except for your hair color, you look like Psyche. Just like her. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you walk into that bookstore. That’s why I didn’t give my notes to one of the other romance writers. I thought you were evidence that the gods hadn’t abandoned me. A girl who looks just like Psyche, a girl who’s the daughter of a famous romance writer—that couldn’t be a coincidence. I stupidly thought that the gods had sent you to me. So I told you it was your destiny to write my story because I wanted it to be true.” As he looked out the kitchen window, his tone softened. “But the gods did abandon me. People stopped believing in them, so they went away and left me behind, forgotten—to live on and on and on without them. But now it’s coming to an end and I’ve wasted precious time with you just because you look like her. I’m a fool. I should have given my notes to one of the other writers.”

The world was trying to collapse again. Everything had fallen into place but now it was spinning. Whether or not I looked like Errol’s imaginary wife didn’t matter. The fact that he was delusional didn’t matter. The story mattered. I needed that story. “We can fix the chapter, Errol. I’ll go work on it. My mom always has to revise a couple of times before she gets things right.” I knew what I’d do. I’d load the chapter with emotion. I’d steal some phrases from my mom’s books and weave them between the lines of dialogue.
Temptation filled my soul. Yearning ate at my brain. Titillation made me quiver.
Stuff like that.

“I don’t know.” He walked back to the living room and sat on the carpet. I threw myself next to him.

“Give me a second chance. I can make it work. I know I can. Tell me the next chapter.” Like a kid waiting to open a birthday present, I waited for the story that would fix everything. “Come on, Errol. Tell me.”

He ran a hand across his face, as if wiping away his doubts. “Okay.” Then, elbows on knees, hands clasped, he continued his story.

“While Psyche slept that night, I took a long walk, trying to get her out of my head. She hadn’t said a word to me, hadn’t even looked into my eyes, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The gods were waiting for my report. If I told them the truth, Venus would inflict a horrid punishment. Her jealousy was uncontrollable. Look at what she did to Medusa.”

“Medusa?”

“The girl whose hair was made of snakes. Her only crime had been beauty and she was changed into a creature so hideous that she could kill with a single glance. I couldn’t let them maim Psyche. I couldn’t bear it. So I lied to the gods. I told them that Psyche was nothing. That those who’d claimed she was more beautiful than Venus had simply had too much to drink at the festival.”

“Had you ever lied to them before?”

“Never. Oh, I’d been lazy many times. Late with my tasks, forgetful, that kind of thing. But I’d never outright lied. This is where the mythology books get it wrong. Most claim that I shot myself with my own arrow and that’s why I wasn’t thinking clearly. That makes me look like an idiot. Of course I didn’t shoot myself with my own arrow. I lied to the gods because I was in love. Real love. Not something induced by a spell.”

He paused, stretched out his long legs, then continued.

“Morning came and I didn’t dare introduce myself to Psyche. I followed her and her father home, to make sure that they arrived safely, but mostly because I couldn’t tear myself away. I kept my distance, watching from the hilltop behind their farm. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to her. It was like I’d lost all my courage. I felt … I felt …”

“Afraid she’d reject you.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Yes. I couldn’t bear her rejection. But it made no sense. I’m Cupid. I wield the power of love. All I had to do was shoot her with an arrow and she’d be mine forever. But I didn’t want to use magic. I’d used magic on plenty of girls, just to spend a night with them. But I wanted Psyche to love me for real. Nothing I did from the moment I looked at her sleeping face made any sense. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I closed my eyes and saw her face. I heard her voice.”

“Lovesickness,” I whispered.

He nodded. “I had it bad. And clam juice wouldn’t cure it because it wasn’t caused by my arrow. It was real love.”

“Go on,” I urged.

“Her father owned a small farm—some goats, a vineyard, nothing much. This is another place where the mythology books get it wrong. They will tell you that Psyche was the daughter of a king and queen and that men traveled from all over the world to gaze upon her. Because they were so busy lusting after her, Venus’s temples went ignored. Sure, Psyche got a lot of attention from the village men, but Venus’s temples were as busy as ever. The truth was, Venus grew jealous of a simple peasant girl just because she’d been born beautiful.”

“How did Venus find out the truth?” I asked.

“It was simply a matter of time. I stayed on that hillside for days, neglecting my duties, sleeping in the grass. The gods hadn’t come looking for me yet, but they would. As soon as they needed to make a queen fall in love with a bull or an artist fall in love with his sculpture, they’d find me. They’d find us. And they’d punish Psyche for her beauty and they’d punish me for my disobedience. How could we be together without the gods knowing? How could we hide from them? That was the question I asked myself over and over as I sat on that hill.”

“What did you do?”

“I disguised myself.”

“How?”

“Psyche couldn’t know my true identity. She’d tell her sisters—women tell each other everything. The mythology books claim I visited Psyche only at night, to keep her from seeing my face. The stories say we were lovers in the dark, and just before sunrise I’d disappear. That’s ridiculous because even in the dark she’d still notice my white hair. It was a lot brighter in those days. When the gods were in full power, it actually glowed.” He swept his hand over his head.

It did glow. Velvet had probably given him some hair gel that absorbed light.

“No one else had hair like mine. I wore a hat whenever I wanted to blend in, and when I wanted to be noticed I let it hang loose. But I intended to make her my wife and I couldn’t wear a hat every moment I was with her. So I went to the nearest market and bought some henna to color my hair. Then I knocked on her farmhouse door.”

The grandfather clocked ticked while I waited for the next sentence. But Errol closed his eyes. “Errol?”

“That’s the end of chapter two,” he said quietly. “I wrote the description of the farm in my notes, and the old woman who showed me how to use the henna, along with all the other stuff you’ll need.”

“But what made you change your mind? I mean, how did you work up the courage to go talk to her?”

He opened his eyes. “It comes down to this—you either go out and get what you want or you don’t.”

Oscar the cat rubbed against me. I ran my hand along his back. “Don’t worry,” I told Errol as I took back chapter one. “I’ll put lots of feelings into it. I can do it. It’s a really good story.”

“Chapter three is about our first date,” Errol said. He struggled to his feet, then led me to the door. “I suggest you go out and get some experience.”

“Huh?”

“You understand the craft of writing but you have very little experience when it comes to love. I saw the way you looked at that guy when you were standing outside the library. Your aura was on fire.”

“My aura?”

“Go ask him out and be sure to take notes. Take lots of notes about how he makes you
feel
.”

“But—” I frowned. “I thought you said he was a distraction.”

“Look, Alice. I could imbue you with all sorts of feelings, but I’m not going to do that. Even if it meant that I might relive a few cherished moments, I still won’t do it. You are not Psyche. You are a girl living in the twenty-first century who merely looks like Psyche. And even if I wanted to have a relationship with you, you are clearly attracted to this other guy. And that’s what you need to feel—something that’s real.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“We’re running out of time.” He gently pushed me into the hallway. Oscar the cat followed. “Remember, we’ve only got a few days to finish this. Go out there and get some experience.” He shut the door.

“What do you mean we only have a few days?” I called.

No answer came. I glanced over at Mrs. Bobot’s door, hoping she hadn’t heard. Then I put my mouth close to Errol’s door and said, “If I do this, if I get some experience, then you’ll tell me the rest of the story?”

The door cracked open and Errol’s eye stared out at me. “Yes.”

One
of the top places to avoid during a heat wave is a city bus, because those things have no air-conditioning and the windows only open an inch and everyone stinks. But I didn’t have the money for a cab ride all the way to Pioneer Square. So I sank onto a black vinyl seat.

I’d called Harmony Hospital before catching the bus. The nurse told me that my mother had asked for coffee. The nurse called it amazing progress, but to me it felt like an inchworm crossing a football field.

The backs of my thighs stuck to the seat. I could blame my sweaty underarms on the heat wave, but I started sweating the moment I realized I was going to ask Tony on a date. I tried to think of it as an assignment, like a journalist being sent to cover a political rally or a traffic accident. This was research.

In
Anyone Can Write a Romance Novel
, the author stresses the importance of doing research before writing the book. A writer will get into big trouble if she describes orange trees growing in the Scottish Highlands or narwhals swimming in Puget Sound. My mother got into trouble once. In
On the Road to Love
, Babette Spangles drives her Volkswagen into a ditch. As fate would have it, a mechanic comes along, this guy named Rod Marshal. After a long, steamy description of his rippling muscles, my mother wrote that Rod Marshal opened the hood in the front of the car to check the engine. Mom got hundreds of letters about that one because the original Volkswagen engines were not in the front.