A Day In The Life of Ace

“Are you coming tonight?”

The feminine voice crackles through the receiver. There is silence, as though the caller is waiting for my reply with bated breath. Perhaps because she is.

My gaze falls on an old image on my desk, buried beneath the mess of papers, files and markers. It’s easy not to notice it, yet I find myself staring at it every time, willing myself to pick it up. To look at it.

No. Those memories are gone now.

Memories which still flash through my mind on a daily basis, filling my dreams and bouncing around in my head while I try to concentrate. Perhaps the reason why I haven’t published another book, despite the stacks of manuscripts beside the wastepaper basket.

Memories of her.

I met her at the yearly NaNoWriMo convention for romance writers, a gathering crawling with haggard, lonely writers looking to revamp their careers derailed by procrastinations and chronic writer’s block.

 In other words, writers such as myself.

So you could forgive my initial behavior when I bumped into not only a successful romance writer (who coincidentally happened to be hosting the event), but perhaps the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, dressed in a pair of faded denim jeans, grey shirt and a coat I didn’t have time to wash. Ifeoma Parker was the author of bestselling romance novels Her Possession and Green, stories highlighting strong heroines in twisted worlds. She had been all over the world really, and adding to the fact that her parents were rich, she was probably already a multi-millionaire.

Naturally, my words failed me. “Uh… oops.”

“Hi there!” She waved, slightly embarrassed.

Okay, she isn’t a snob at least. Still doesn’t hide the Prada bag though.

I silenced my thoughts as I bent to pick up my files on the ground. “Hey… Excuse me… Sorry about the mess.”

The old file pick-up. Saved me from engaging in discourse many a-time.

I hurried away quickly, trying to ignore the beads of sweat on my forehead.

Phew. Barely made it past that one.

Fate wanted to put me through the wringer again however, and a week later I bumped into her again, right outside the Starbucks I regularly went to clear my head after a failed day at the office.

“Hey!” She smiled. Her eyebrows furrowed. “Have we met before?”

“Sort of.” I smiled, hoping it made me look mature. It didn’t.

Her eyes widened. “Oh! You bumped into me at the Writers’ Month Convention.”

She remembers. Crap.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I could feel the perspiration building up in all the hairs on my face. My choice of a black Nike hoodie suddenly didn’t seem as comfortable as it had that morning. I wiped the sweat off my brow and my hand brushed past the forest around my jaw.

Dammit. I picked the wrong day to not shave.

“Anyways, we didn’t get to meet each other formally.” She extended a hand. “Ifeoma. Ifeoma Parker.”

Of course I already knew her name, but it was better to just let her keep the conversation going. I didn’t have much to say, anyways.

“I’m Ace.” I said.

She said her last name, man. Don’t kill the vibe.

“Ace Chidubem.”

She was wearing a nude colored kimono over a black shirt and some baggy trousers. I couldn’t see her shoes but I was sure they were a lot more expensive than the slacks I had on. It didn’t help that I noticed the designer tags on her clothes and handbag either.

What have I gotten into?

Already I could see the people around sneaking glances at the both of us. Stamford wasn’t very busy, but for whatever reason almost everyone had the same idea as I did that morning to get coffee specifically at West Avenue. It was almost like they’d been informed I’d be here right now making a fool of-

“-here often?”

I looked up, suddenly aware she was speaking to me. “Hm?”

Say something else, stupid!

“Do you come here often?” She asked, eyebrows raised. She had brown eyes, which complimented her hazelnut skin. Her lips were glossy, and I could only imagine kissing-

Get a hold of yourself, you perv!

“Uh… y-yeah.” I stuttered, tugging at the neck of my hood. It felt like an oven inside it but I couldn’t take it off for fear of uncomfortable questions.

“I come by often too,” she said. “Whenever I need to get new ideas. A cup of coffee in a small town is a really nice getaway, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.” Unless you live in that small town and buy a cup of coffee cos it’s $2.45.

She smiled. “Anyways, this was fun. See you around!”

Huh, well that went well, I thought.

I probably looked like an idiot watching her drive away in her signature pink Benz, but it didn’t matter at that point.

I was in love.

We would meet more often as the days passed, and soon we started having regular ‘coffee dates’ (I was the only one who called them that) where we would talk about our careers and any she’d tell me stories of the stuff that went on at her meetings with high-profile writers in New York. The fact that she made the drive to Stamford every week probably should’ve convinced me that she was a bit interested, but I sat on the fence for a while, unsure of whether to make a move.

Two years passed.

It was New Year’s Day. I was at her home (and no, I hadn’t made any moves yet, I was strictly in the friend zone) and we were going over the manuscript of her latest book, Lost in His Eyes. The protagonist was Percival, a black guy with golden eyes, and the story basically revolved around him hiding his true colors (literally) from everyone he met till he met this girl Anissa and all that bullshit.

I didn’t enjoy romance, although I was a romance writer.

Probably why you’re a failed one, my subconscious chided.

I ignored the jibe. Ifeoma was at a standstill in her work, so she made the both of us act out the scenes in the book.

“That’s not how it’s meant to go!” she sighed, exasperated. “You’re meant to say it like this.”

I burst into laughter at her failed attempt. “You sound like you have a pipe stuck in your throat.”

She scowled, tossing her manuscript at me. “Like you could do better.”

“I actually can.” I smirked, lowering my tone.

She rolled her eyes, but I could see her blush slightly. “Okay, showoff, let’s continue.”

Made her blush. That’s attempt #241. About time, stupid.

I silenced my subconscious as she rifled through the pages. Her eyes fell on a page and she stood still, deep in thought.

“Turn to page 109.” She said. “The 2^nd paragraph.”

“Okay.” I replied, unaware of what would happen next. “What’s the scene?”

“It’s the scene where Percival has just shown Anissa his true colors.” I chuckled, which earned me a glare. She seemed suddenly on edge, a feeling I knew all too well myself.

“It doesn’t matter how you look, Percival.” She said. Her voice sounded softer than usual, but I assumed she was being in character.

“It does when you don’t want to get noticed,” I replied. “I don’t want attraction for my physical appearance.”

“But you’re more than what you appear to be.” She drew closer, perhaps thinking I wouldn’t notice, but I did. My nerves shot into overdrive and my skin felt like I was running a marathon. Suddenly opting to wear a grey shirt seemed like a terrible idea.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s best I keep it hidden. I shouldn’t have shown you anyways.”

I’d read the next few lines, and I knew what was about to happen next. She knew it too, and it dawned on me why she’d been acting weird.

Shit.

“Percival, you’re beautiful to me.”

She looked me right in the eyes as she said it, and I didn’t know if it was the character or her that was staring at me so intensely. But it didn’t matter.

The kiss was brief, but it felt like a lot more could’ve happened. A whole lot more.

A moment of silence passed. Ifeoma was mindlessly looking through her manuscript, trying to pretend like it didn’t happen.

Do something, Ace! You’ve got to have an ace up your sleeve!

My subconscious mind was quite creative.

“Sure wish I was Percival right now.” I quipped.

She stared at me for a second, puzzled.

Then she started to laugh. She laughed so hard she fell over on the couch and tears welled up in her eyes. I laughed as well, happy to let go of the tension in the air. And so began the story of a romance that would span half a decade.

She would tell me later that she’d seen my blond hair when I was sleeping on her couch one time, and she’d felt moved to write the scene. I wanted to ask what moved her to add the kiss but I decided not to push it.

We spent more time at her apartment in New York (and a few unfortunate nights at my home in Stamford), writing and meeting other writers in the day and engaging in erotic paraphernalia at night, our bodies dancing languorously as we reached peak excitement. From the onset it was obvious I would never fit into her social circle; although I’d moved to New York I still had to settle for a rundown apartment in the Bronx.

Because living with her would just be weird. Right?

Meanwhile, all the people we met lived in duplexes and drove fancy cars, and the only ones who didn’t were the Bohemian minimalists I befriended, Jeffery Elvick and the eccentric Salome, who lived on the road with her boyfriend Mason. The five of us spent time together in the evenings in an informal critique circle where we’d discuss each other’s works, and times like those were times I felt like I could be myself with Ifeoma without worrying about the high standards of her other upper-class friends.

Three more years passed.

“I’m gonna propose to her.” I said to Jeffery one morning. We were at a Starbucks, because I always needed coffee for my dead creative brain.

He grunted. He was poring over a manuscript, the same one for the past month. “Sure that’s gonna work? She’s worth twice as much as you are.”

Thanks for the reminder, Jeff.

“Well it’s worth taking a chance.” I said, ignoring the negative thoughts welling up in my head. “You only find the right one once when you’re a guy like me, so it’s best to never let go, isn’t it?”

“Well, good luck getting past her family,” Jeffery laughed. His face went serious. “You’re going to need it.”

Her family weren’t as bad as Jeff said.

Or so, I thought.

Like every good romance story, however, things went sour when I met Mr. Parker, Ifeoma’s multimillionaire business tycoon father who had extremely high standards and an ego as huge as his belly. I knew he didn’t approve of my relationship with his daughter, but when she wasn’t in the room he always found ways to kill my spirits and remind me just how inferior I was to them.

It all reached a climax one Sunday morning.

We were having breakfast at the family’s ranch in the countryside, a property so large it made my home in Maine seem like a room.

Perhaps because it was.

Mr. Parker started the discussion as usual, highlighting successful rich writers who were friends of Ifoema’s and inquiring about their whereabouts. Mrs. Parker chipped in a tired comment in an attempt to stop his mockery before turning to her Spanish dish, what appeared to be rice mashed up with a whole lot of spices.

“-you, Ace? How’s your latest endeavor coming along?”

I turned to stare into his smiling face, like that of a predator taunting its prey before killing it. “It’s down well, I’ve got my manuscript with the editor and hopefully I’ll get something out of it.”

“Do you really want to stake my daughter’s life on hope, Ace?”

Shit. I walked right into that one.

“N-no, sir.” I replied, suddenly feeling the temperature of the room rise. I turned my attention to the number of animals I could see on the embroidered tablecloth.

“Is that the future you want her to walk to into?”

Silence. One, two, three…

“Do you even have enough for yourself?”

Ten, eleven, twelve…

“Dad, stop.” Ifeoma’s voice cracked.

“I have a right to ensure my daughter’s security.” Mr. Parker replied. “I can’t just give you to any tramp on the street now, can I?”

“That’s not very nice, Thomas.” His wife sighed, lazily picking at her food.

“Ace isn’t a homeless man, dad! You know that!” Ifeoma yelled. “And so what if he is anyways? Why does that matter to you?”

Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…

I could feel the anger rising in my chest. I tried to focus, but my vision blurred.

“Well I can’t have the men at the Polo Club-”

“It’s always about your stupid friends, isn’t it?! Do you even care what I want?”

Leave this place, Ace. You don’t belong here.

Leave.

Now.

“-care about what you want!” Mr. Parker was yelling. “I’m your father, goddamit!”

“Ace is a writer just like me! Isn’t that what you always wanted?!” Ifeoma’s voice croaked; she was crying.

“Ace isn’t a successful writer! He’s got three books flopped! He’s a damn failure, Ifeoma!”

I had done a good job keeping all the negative thoughts about myself at bay. Most of my entire life I’d been forced to come to terms with the fact that perhaps I wasn’t good enough.

But sitting at that table, I realized Mr. Parker was right.

I was a failure.

“Very well, then.” I said, getting up from the chair. It was imported wood, carved like the mouth of a dragon. Mr. Parker had weird tastes.

“Thanks for the meal.”

I turned my back on them in an attempt to hide my shame and headed for the door.

“Ace, wait…” I heard Ifeoma’s seat scrape across the tiles.

“You’ve scared the poor boy away, Thomas.” Mrs. Parker sighed.

“Dammit he didn’t belong here anyways.” I could imagine the look of disgust on his face, although I couldn’t see it.

She caught up with me as I was about to enter my car. “I’m so sorry…”

“It’s fine.” I replied curtly.

“I know you’re upset.” She sniffled. “I know my father’s a dickhead and I’m sorry. Can we just go?”

“It’s alright, I’m leaving now.” I made to enter my car but she held my hand.

“Please, Ace.” She said, her puffy eyes pleading. “Please.”

I probably should’ve stayed. Probably should’ve fought for her. But you know, sometimes it’s better to let nature run its course.

“Your father’s right, I am a failure.” I said matter-of-factly. “You deserve better, and I know you’ll find someone better.”

“I don’t want anyone better.” She said. “I only want you.”

Dammit.

I wrenched free from her grip, sighing. “You’ll find someone better, okay? I know you will.”

I didn’t look back, but I could hear the sobs as I turned the key the ignition and drove out of her life.

I stare at the phone in my hand, sighing. She is still at the other end, waiting for my reply. I know I don’t have any good suits, and I can’t turn up at the wedding wearing a hoodie.

Screw that, man. You’ve have nothing to lose anyways.

Yeah, that’s right. I’ve already lost it all.

I’d gone back to Stamford soon after that, and spent the next few months in a masochist life of work, booze, and more work. Somewhere along the lines I’d actually come up with a bestseller, a story loosely based on my life. I was at my wits’ end by the time the editor called me up for a title, so I uncreatively named it ‘A Day in The Life of Ace.’ It gave me enough money and recognition to be a part of the upper-class writers I’d once tried to join, but I gave most of it away to charity, hoping it'll make me a better person, and stuck with my one-bedroom apartment in Maine (save for the embroidered curtains with animals etched on them).

It didn't make me a better person. Still same old Ace.

A man named Bill Argyros had been at one of my conventions. He had lived in Athens, and played basketball for the New York Knicks. Somewhere along the line I’d offered him some random relationship advice.

It ended up coming back to bite me in the ass. You can already guess what the outcome was, but if you can’t then assume the story ended happily for me.

I pick up the photo buried beneath the files on my desk. It’s a photo of she and I, as well as Jeffery and Salome, the time we’d gone camping in the woods while trying to rejuvenate our creative spirits. I stare at her face, smiling sadly.

Been a while, ain’t it?

I have to show up, anyways. Although my body still goes into oven mode at the thought of such a crowd, it’s only fitting at least one protagonist has a happy ending, isn’t it?

If not, it won’t be a classic Ace Chidubem story.

I picked up the receiver. “Yes, I am.”