Unwanted Days of HOLY HOLIDAY

THE AUTHOR AND THE BOOK PT 2.

“I love the opera here,” he said, unbuckling his coat and tossing the keys on the polished marble counter of the hotel lobby. The warm light reflected off the glossy floors, giving the space an almost ethereal glow. Plush velvet chairs dotted the corners, and golden chandeliers hung like suspended suns, their light refracting through crystal prisms onto the marble below. I could almost hear the faint echoes of footsteps on the polished stone, and I imagined even the waiters were trained in etiquette and grace befitting such luxury.

We moved through the lobby in near silence, his confident strides leading me forward. The walls were adorned with framed posters of past performances, their ornate gold edges shimmering subtly. When we reached the opera hall, the scene was almost surreal. The grand seats, upholstered in rich burgundy velvet, were mostly empty, and soft, melancholic music whispered through the air. Only one waiter lingered discreetly at the side, polishing glasses as he waited for instructions.

He watched as we selected our seats, and I sank into the one opposite him, my notebook of writings resting lightly on the table. He didn’t pause to ask my preference, casually summoning the waiter before I could speak.

“You didn’t ask me what I wanted,” I said immediately after the waiter turned away.

“I heard women don’t know what they want,” he replied smoothly, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“What?” I blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected remark.

“That was a joke. Don’t take it seriously. Anyway, you’re too easy,” he added with a half-smile, leaning back into the high-backed chair.

“What do you mean, Sir?” My brows furrowed.

He leaned forward slightly, his arms resting on his knees, eyes glinting with amusement. “A woman who will drive for over fifteen minutes without asking where she’s going—well, it’s easy to know what she prefers.”

Shock slammed into me like lightning. My tongue tangled, and my heartbeat surged, thudding violently against my ribs. “Excuse me?”

He leaned back, casually dismissing my discomfort. “Where were we? Ah, your writings…”

“What do you mean I’m easy? Too easy?” I cut in sharply, my voice higher than intended, heat rushing to my cheeks.

He let out that ridiculous, knowing chuckle of his, and I fought the urge to curl into myself. I had never felt such a strange mix of humiliation and intrigue before. “I think you’re overreacting. I’ll just take a beginner,” I snapped, grabbing my papers to leave.

“Look at a crying baby—will you ever be a writer with that attitude?” he barked, his voice sharp, startling me. A solitary tear slipped from my eye despite my best efforts.

“What do you think my students will say seeing me with a new student at an opera already?” He didn’t even glance at me, eyes fixed on his hands as if weighing them. “They’ll think she’s seducing a lecturer to stay in the intermediate class. That’s what they’ll say. You’re… too cheap.”

“I didn’t ask you to bring me here!” I snapped, frustration clawing at my voice.

“I never said you did.” He finally met my eyes, the intensity of his gaze unsettling. “You can sit down if you don’t want me assuming you’re serious about going back to that lady professor.”

Reluctantly, I slid back into my seat. The waiter appeared almost immediately, placing two crystal glasses on the table along with a bottle of deep, ruby-red wine.

“I don’t use wine,” I muttered, feeling my hands tighten around the edge of the chair. He gave a brief glance at me, then at the waiter, who waited attentively.

“What do you use?” he asked casually, as if he had just discovered some vital fact about me.

“A glass of martini will do,” I replied softly, unsure if I sounded assertive enough.

He turned back to the waiter. “Martini for both of us.”

“What about the wine?” the waiter asked politely.

“I’ll take it with me when I’m done here,” he said dismissively, without sparing the man another glance. I noted the ease with which he commanded the room; it was almost intoxicating in its quiet authority. The waiter nodded and left silently.

Mr. The lecturer opened my papers and began to read the first page—the blurb. “Interesting,” he said, flipping to another page, voice low and contemplative. My cheeks warmed. He was the sixth person to read my work, the first to give a reaction. The other five had only seen my deleted book, leaving no trace of feedback. Now, I felt both terrified and exhilarated.

He continued reading silently, absorbed in the words, paying no attention as the waiter returned with our martinis. I watched him in secret, my pulse quickening. Was the book really that captivating? I hardly dared hope.

Finally, he raised his chin, a sly grin forming as his glass remained untouched. Then he leaned forward, voice calm yet probing: “What’s the motivation behind this writing?”

“This was my first attempt at expressing something I’ve felt for a long time,” I admitted quietly. Whatever he read, it was a fragment of my heart, an echo of my ambitions. I could not, of course, speak that aloud.

“And your dream?” he asked, tilting his head, curiosity threading through his tone.

“I want my pen to save, heal, and mend,” I said simply, but with all the conviction I could muster.

He laughed, leaning back, the sound rich and amused. “How do you plan to achieve that?”

“I’ll keep writing,” I replied without hesitation, as if conviction alone could shape destiny.

“How many have read your work already?” I hesitated, thoughts flickering to the tiny audience on that old online platform. “You are the first,” I said, carefully crafting a lie, and he accepted it effortlessly.

“Do you believe Guentemalla University of Literature will make you what you want to be?”

“I can make myself what I want to be. I just need more education to refine my craft,” I answered, trying to sound confident.

“I like your energy,” he said, raising his glass for a toast. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I replied, clinking my glass softly against his.

“Guentemalla is a remarkable place,” he continued, a sheepish smile crossing his face. “It made me an artist in my own right, a lecturer of writers, though I’ve never written a word myself. Few here have the ability to turn dreams into reality. I’m glad you landed in my class.”

He seemed perpetually happy, effortlessly radiant, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy.

“I’m the one who should be grateful,” I said softly. “Thank you for your time. Truly.” I longed to share my dreams with someone who would understand, someone who would ask me what I hoped to achieve with my pen. His questions made the literary world feel less solitary, less like a void where no one could reach you.

“We haven’t done anything yet,” he said comfortably, leaning back. The reassurance in his voice made me feel as though I was finally part of a living, breathing literary community.

“Have you read what I gave you in class?” he asked, voice careful.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“I want you to read it and then create a new piece. This one is fine as it is—I don’t want you to change it; leave it with me.”

Relief flooded me. He actually liked it. Had he disliked it, I wasn’t sure how I would have recovered.

“Why did you reject the wine?” he asked after a long silence. I took a small sip of my martini, reclining slightly in the chair. “To show me you know what you want?”

He chuckled, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And you’ll make decisions even when you’re not paying?”

“I’ll pay,” I said sharply, though inwardly amused by his teasing.

“You’re not a defeated type. I love that.”

“I think we’re done here. I’ll pay for the drinks at the counter,” I said, standing. I needed distance before his devilish charm could completely unhinge me.

“Let a man drive you home,” he said casually. His eyes didn’t meet mine, yet I knew he was testing my pride.

I smirked, refusing to let him see the flutter in my chest. “A man I like drives me home. Otherwise, I’d rather walk myself.”

“A man you like drives you home, but any man can take you to a hotel?” His tone was teasing but sharp, and he finally faced me fully.

I felt my heartbeat spike, my cheeks warming with a mixture of anger and something I couldn’t name. “That shows how much I respect the person I choose to go home with,” I said, turning deliberately and walking away, leaving him to his mischievous grin.