Stories and Storytellers: An Excerpt from Chapter 20 of 'Reunion: Coda'

Promo artwork was generated by Designer AI

After another interstate move - my second one in 10 months - and a stressful period of readjustment from life in rural New Hampshire to being back in Miami after an absence of eight years, I've resumed work on Reunion: Coda. 

It wasn't easy. I have so much on my mind these days, and too many events that happened between 2015 and 2024 to process that my mind feels tempest-tossed and topsy-turvy. I'm not unhappy in my new home, mind you, yet I'm not jumping for joy about decamping from Madison, New Hampshire. I had to leave, yes, and at least I had somewhere to move to, but I liked many aspects about my life up North, you know?

So, yeah. Creative writing has not been easy lately. Or, more correctly, it's been more difficult than it usually is for me even under ideal conditions. I've said this countless times on my WordPress blog, but I'll repeat it here for good measure: I am at my best as a writer when I'm relaxed, calm, and can focus all my attention to the story I'm trying to tell. 

In the Good News Department of my writing life, I finished Chapter 20 - which I'd started in New Hampshire but had to set aside for the Big Move South - earlier today. It's a relatively short chapter at three scenes, and it takes place inside Jim Garraty's apartment. 

Do you want to get a sneak peek at it? Here's an excerpt!

2

Grading, General Tso, and Good Company

 

I sit at my desk, the stack of papers in front of me a testament to my students' progress. The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the desk lamp casting a warm glow over the cluttered surface. My jaw throbs, a constant reminder of last night's encounter with Miguel. I press an ice pack against it, the cold seeping into my skin, offering a brief respite from the pain.

The city outside is alive with the sounds of the evening. Car horns blare, and the distant hum of traffic fills the air. From the 33rd floor, I can hear the occasional helicopter passing by and the distant roar of jetliners overhead, a constant reminder that life goes on, even after a night like the one I had.

I pick up the next paper, the familiar rustle of the pages a soothing sound. My students have come a long way. This batch, in particular, has shown a remarkable grasp of World War II history. I smile, despite the pain, as I read through their essays. They've shed some of their misconceptions, like the idea that the U.S. and Britain fought alongside Germany against the Soviets or that FDR knew in advance about the attack on Pearl Harbor. It's moments like these that make the long hours worth it.

I glance at the clock. It's already 7 PM. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten since breakfast. I set the ice pack down and reach for the phone. Maddie offered to come over earlier, but I turned her down, thinking I needed to focus on grading. Now, with the papers almost done and the pain in my jaw a constant companion, I realize I could use her company.

I dial her number, the familiar beeps a comforting sound. She picks up on the second ring.

"Hey, Jim," she says, her voice warm and familiar. "How's the jaw?"

"Sore," I admit. "But the ice packs help. Listen, I was wondering if you could still come over. I could use some company."

"Of course," she replies without hesitation. "I was hoping you'd change your mind. What do you feel like eating? I could pick up some Chinese on the way. Any favorites?"

"Chinese sounds great. How about General Tso's chicken?" I suggest, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. "Thanks, Maddie."

"General Tso's it is," she says with a chuckle. "I'll be there in about half an hour."

I hang up the phone and lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment. The pain in my jaw is a dull throb now, manageable but persistent. I think back to the interview with Detectives Wallace and Lacerenza. They were thorough, professional, and left no stone unturned. I can still see Wallace's calm demeanor and Lacerenza's occasional chuckles as he took notes.

I get up and walk to the window, looking out at the city. The lights are starting to come on, casting a warm glow over the buildings. I think about Miguel, about what drove him to attack me. He was a good student once, bright and eager to learn. But something changed. I don't know what, but I hope the detectives find him before he gets into more trouble.

I return to my desk and pick up another paper, but my mind is elsewhere. I can't focus on the words in front of me. Instead, I think about Maddie, about how she's always been there for me. We've been through a lot together, and her presence is a comforting constant in my life.

The doorbell rings, and I get up to answer it. Maddie stands there, a bag of takeout in her hand and a smile on her face. Her chestnut hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders, and her hazel eyes reflect relief that I'm not seriously injured. She's wearing jeans and a New York Yankees sweatshirt. The scent of her perfume—a mix of jasmine and orange blossoms—fills the air.

"Hey," she says, stepping inside. "I brought the food. How are you holding up?"

"Better now that you're here," I say, taking the bag from her. The smell of the food makes my stomach growl again, and I realize just how hungry I am.

We sit down at the small table in my kitchen, and I open the containers. The aroma of General Tso's chicken fills the room, and I can't help but smile.

"Thanks for coming over," I say, taking a bite. The food is delicious, and I feel a little better with each mouthful.

"Anytime," Maddie replies, her hazel eyes full of concern. "You know I'm always here for you."

She leans in and gives me a careful peck on the forehead, avoiding my injured jaw. The gesture is tender and full of unspoken care. I feel a warmth spread through me, not just from the food but from her presence.