Silas

She’s changed my name three times already.

You might think I’d be used to that, being a fictional character. “What does it matter?” my fellow characters ask. “We’re characters. We’re meant to be molded and morphed as the Author sees fit.”

That’s nonsense, as far as I’m concerned. When the Author originally wrote me, she wrote a fiery character with a mind of my own, and in my opinion, the first name she gave me - Mel - was a perfect fit. I will not be called, as she was attempting to do in her most recent rewrite, Pinky.

So Mel it is. My appearance has been unchanged despite the Author’s constant rewriting. I have long wavy hair, hazel eyes, and a wide smile.

The Author writes every day. We characters are all part of a longer project she’s been working on - her first novel. Lord help anyone who’s involved in the writing of a first novel. The self-doubt, the constant worrying, the long stretches of time when she abandons us to do other things when we all know she should be writing.

The quality of her writing fluctuates. Her dialogue and descriptions are generally well-done, but she’s not great at plotting, especially when it comes to big twists. Everything is so predictable. It’s agony.

Today, though, is the day I’ve been waiting for. She made a note for herself yesterday. For tomorrow: scene when Silas finally kisses Mel.

Thank goodness. The sexual tension has been building for weeks.

*****

The strangest thing about this plot point is that Silas is a man and I, Mel, have always been a lesbian. The Author is gay and loves writing about girls who like girls. She uses many of her characters over and over in her stories, and always I’ve been a feisty gay woman who goes by Mel and doesn’t take any crap from anyone.

Mel dominates every room she walks into. Mel is desired by every woman she meets, and she knows who she is. I’ve always loved that about my character. Even though I wasn’t the one writing the story, it felt like I was leading the narrative.

Until Silas.

*****

It started in the manuscript as it often does in real life, so I’m told - innocently. Mel was pressured by her life partner of five years, Allison, to attend a support group for grieving adults who’d lost a parent. Mel’s mother collapsed and died of an aneurysm at the end of the first chapter of the book.

“It’s just a Zoom meeting,” Allison said. She knew I’d be resistant to it, but it didn’t matter - I had no choice. The Author sent me there two paragraphs later. I was plopped down on my bed, ready to turn my camera off if I needed to roll my eyes. These self-help groups were the kind of thing Mel would mock regularly. That said, I was shattered by the sudden death of my mother, and it made narrative sense that I would have been gutted enough to be open to consider a non-characteristic option. Plus, you know - if the Author’s characters only did what was expected of them, why would anyone keep reading the story?

I’m guessing that’s why the Author had me - a lesbian with a committed life partner, a woman who’d only ever had sex with women, a hardass who stormed into that grief group with no intention of letting her guard down - fall in love with a man.

*****

For the first few weeks, I thought Silas hated me.

The facilitator of the group was a sweet-faced woman a few years older than me, and she started every group with a check-in, asking each participant to give a number from 0 to 10 to describe how they felt that day.

I told them all I was a ten every time. The Author wrote it, of course, so I shouldn’t have gotten the full blame for it. She liked me to be sassy. It was part of how I kept my effortless cool vibe going, especially now that I was practically married to Allison.

After the check-in, participants would share - things like sad moments or memories of the person they’d lost. I never shared. If the facilitator called on me, I told her I thought of my mom exactly as many times as was appropriate for the length of time she’d been gone and the intensity with which I’d adored her.

The third time I made a comment like this, I received a private message from Silas via chat.

Quit screwing around.

I'd noticed him already. He had sandy brown hair and always sounded a bit irritated. I knew he’d lost his father six months earlier to suicide, and I knew he was going through a painful divorce.

I stared at his message. Quit screwing around. The hell with him. Hadn’t the facilitator talked about humor being a way to cope? If I couldn't be snarky, which was a trait my mother and I shared, then I didn't want to be in this group at all.

A moment later, the facilitator called on Silas and asked him how he was doing.

I watched him closely. I knew he was forty-five years old because he’d had a birthday the week before - thirteen years older than me. But he looked younger. He was extraordinarily fit, and I had noticed dimples on the rare occasions when he smiled.

“I don't like it,” he said, “when people make a mockery of this group. This was a hard week for me, and I look forward to coming here because I get support from all of you. From most of you.” It’s impossible to know on a Zoom meeting if someone’s staring at you, but I had a feeling Silas was gazing right at me. “If this group isn’t for you, leave it.”

His words hung in the air, but possibly only for me. I don't know if the facilitator or the other participants knew who he was talking about, but the sharing moved on, and nothing more was said about his comment.

Typically, in a situation like this, Mel would get angry and lash out, maybe leave the group forever. But that day, as the Author wrote, I felt something different than anger. I felt ashamed.

It wasn't a familiar feeling, nor was it a comfortable one. I didn't know Silas at all, and he really didn't know me. Why did I feel my face flushing red, as if this person’s opinion meant anything to me?

“It’s not my fault,” I wanted to tell Silas. “I was written this way. It's the Author.”

But I knew deep down that written characters take on a life of their own. They say and do things their authors never intended. I was created by the Author, but my choices – those were mine.

*****

There was a knock at the door, and I answered it in my pajamas, my long wavy hair messy and loose.

There he was.

He looked nervous. My entire body was tingling. I felt my thighs shaking, and I was self-conscious about the placement of my hands. I ended up resting them on my stomach.

“Hi,” I said quietly.

“Hi,” he said. “I don’t know why I'm here.”

I took a half-step toward him. “Yes, you do,” I said quietly. I placed my hands gently on his chest, and stood on my tiptoes. He took my face in his hands, tenderly stroking my cheeks. My entire body burned. Then, he -

*****

Dammit!

I can see the Author scribbling notes in the margin.

Will she never stop second-guessing herself?

Why would Silas even go there? she writes. Need a plausible reason they would be in the same place at the same time.

Great. The Author will search for a plausible reason. Meanwhile, my entire body is on fire, and will feel no relief.

*****

After the day with the messages, I assumed Silas despised me. I was probably right.

I changed my behavior during the group. I started listening and sharing. Whenever I told a story about my mother, I could see Silas nodding and smiling softly.

Everything was virtual, of course, and I preferred it that way. But then one day, after I’d been attending the group for about seven months, one of the participants suggested we all meet for dinner. Everyone agreed.

I didn’t want to go. It was Allison who made me, a fact that I sometimes used to console myself when things worked out the way they did. Of course, it was her character - she was someone who cared deeply for others and encouraged them to take care of themselves.

When I arrived at the dinner, Silas hadn’t arrived yet. An hour later, he still wasn’t there. I found myself feeling disappointed, but didn’t think much of it and focused on chatting with the other group members.

I felt it immediately when he walked into the restaurant. It was a heat that rushed through my body, starting at my toes, running up my calves, lingering between my thighs, and then rushing up my back and arms until my face flushed and I felt a bit dizzy.

I had no idea what was happening to me, and why. I only knew that when I caught Silas’s eye, his face broke into a smile - a giant grin that I hadn’t known he was capable of producing. By then, I knew that he was thirteen years older than me, but his smile and his twinkling eyes made him look younger. When he took the empty seat beside me, rather than in the other open seat down at the end of the table, I was elated.

“Mel,” he said, smiling. “Good to see you.”

“Yes,” I replied dumbly. What was happening to me? I always had witty greetings for people, smart things to say. It didn’t seem to bother Silas, though. He launched into a short tale about why he’d arrived late, a story which I hung on every word, despite its relatively uninteresting content. I’d only felt this way a couple of times before. The first was my first crush, when I was thirteen years old, a gorgeous high school senior who was captain of the cheerleading team and didn’t know I existed. The second was a woman I met in my late twenties, shortly before I got together with Allison. That woman was on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list; she was wealthy, classy, and out of my league.

Silas wasn’t exactly out of my league. He was, however, a man - and I was a lesbian. Whatever sensations I was feeling over the course of that dinner, I knew they’d fade quickly.

*****

We all drove from various locations to attend the grief convention at the request of one group member, who’d heard of it from her therapist and thought it would be a helpful part of her process. I booked a hotel room, kissed Allison good-bye, and drove to Bethany Beach.

The sessions I attended were helpful, but I was a bit absent-minded all day. I knew exactly why this was, and it perturbed me. Silas was coming - he’d texted me that he was on his way. But he was late, and I found myself watching the door all morning and wondering when he’d arrive.

I retreated to my hotel room before dinner, and took a quick shower. I was towelling off and staring at my phone, wondering if I should call him and see why he was delayed, when there was a knock at my door. “Just a minute,” I called out, pulling a white T-shirt over my head and slipping into a pair of shorts.

I peeked through the peephole before I opened the door, and I grinned involuntarily. I opened the door.

My grin faded.

Silas looked terrible.

“Si?” The nickname slipped out and I felt my face flush, but Silas didn’t seem to register it. “What’s wrong?”

He crashed into the room, almost knocking me to the floor.

“Shit - Mel, I’m -”

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” I said quickly. “Silas, what’s the matter?”

“We found the letter,” he said quietly. “The note. My dad left a note.”

The story poured out of him - his joy at finding a note, his anger after he read it, and the deep guilt he felt when he read what his father had written about Silas in the final hours before he died.

“I let him down,” Silas said quietly. He sank down on the end of my bed.

I sat beside him. I wanted to give him a hug, but I hesitated, aware of the intimacy of the moment.

“Do you think -” He glanced at me. “Do you think I could just lay down for a few minutes?”

“Of course,” I said, jumping up and beginning to clear off the bed. “I’ll go to dinner and you can have the room -”

“No,” he said, catching my hand in his and pulling me toward him. “With you.”

A moment later, I was crushed against him, his ridiculously strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me down on the bed, and then -

*****

If I could become sentient and leap off the pages of this so-called novel and murder the Author, I would do it. I wouldn’t feel a bit guilty about it.

She’s deleting the words she’s just typed and scribbling more notes to herself. Doesn’t make sense, why would they all go to a grief convention? Dumb.

Good grief.

*****

When the phone rang, I had a feeling. I knew something life-changing was about to happen.

I was in the middle of reading another text from Silas - we’d texted and e-mailed non-stop ever since our first in-person meeting - when my phone buzzed. I silenced the call at first. Then, my heartbeat quickening, I changed my mind and answered it.

“Is this Melanie Marshall?”

It was a calm, soothing voice. That’s when I knew Allison was dead.

*****

What in the actual - was this necessary?

I understood the Author’s dilemma better than anyone. Allison and I were in a committed relationship. How could I possibly leave it to be with Silas unless something happened to free me from her?

I could just leave, of course. I could admit to Silas how I felt, see if he felt the same way, and I could leave. The Author could write it that way. I don’t care how it’s written, but it feels unfair for Allison to die simply because of my desire for a different character.

*****

We met for coffee one Saturday morning. It was innocent enough - Allison knew about our friendship and likely suspected nothing. We drove an hour away to avoid the gazes of people we knew. After coffee, we walked along the beach.

Our hands brushed together, and I glanced over at Silas. He looked nervous. Was he feeling the same way I was? These moments of uncertainty were agony - as was walking by his side without taking his hand and pulling his face toward my own. I found myself fantasizing about placing my hands on his chest and kissing him lightly on the lips. Me, a woman who’d only ever been attracted to women’s bodies.

“Mel, I -”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. The next time our hands bumped together, I grabbed his and held it tightly. A moment later -

*****

She did a strikethrough of the words before I even saw it coming.

This one was the hardest to let go of, because her words described the fantasy I’d been replaying in my mind ever since our characters met. I wanted to be with him - alone on a beach, beneath the stars, letting go of all my inhibitions and allowing myself to submit to this implausible yet exhilarating feeling.

I’m a character. This is a fictional story. It’s not real.

And yet, I’ve been in love with Silas from the moment we met. Don’t I deserve the payoff of a well-written first kiss?

The Author is building up to something incredible. That last passage - I thought it might be the one she finished. But now - maybe she’s got something else up her sleeve.

*****

It was a song I knew by heart, and, as is my habit, I was singing it softly to myself as the band played.

When I looked up, I caught Silas gazing at me, smiling. His forehead was wrinkled, and it was hard to tell what he was feeling - happy? Worried? We didn’t really know each other all that well yet, despite the frequency with which he’d been in my fantasies.

I looked away for a moment. Before I knew it, he’d laced his fingers with mine and was spinning me around to face him.

“Si, I can’t -”

“I know,” he said, and it all hung between us - Allison, his ex-wife, my sexual orientation. But before my mind could spin off into worrying, he kissed me. I felt jolts of electricity shoot throughout my body, and I pressed my body closer to his, sliding my hands around his neck, leaning up and kissing him back hungrily.

If only I’d known that this was the moment when Silas decided that I had to die.

*****

Do you know what my first thought was, after learning of the Author’s betrayal and the plan for my demise?

I hated the Author, but I was proud of her. Because damn - what a twist.