The other day I posted a snippet I wrote for a writing prompt (read it here). Here’s another snippet from that prompt exercise, and this one is extra special because it’s a scene for Good You Were Here! It’s not exactly a deleted scene, more like a bonus scene I wrote just to play around with the characters that ultimately didn’t fit in the book. Enjoy!
4/3/17 Bonus Scene, Good You Were Here
“It’s September,” Florence commented solemnly as she handed Angela her cup of tea.
Angela looked away from her mother, making her brain pretend it didn’t make the connection. “So?”
Florence didn’t answer. She knew Angela was pretending.
“Is Evan coming over today?”
“I think so,” Angela replied, turning and walking out of the kitchen.
She walked into the living room, and found Evan already there, taking his shoes off at the door.
“Hi,” he said, smiling at her.
“Hi,” she replied, smiling in spite of the sickening sorrow her mother had awakened in her.
Evan’s smile faded. “You okay?”
“Hm? What? Why?” Angela self consciously ran a hand over her hair, realizing her hairspray had probably not been sufficient to tame it.
“What’s wrong?” Evan asked.
She looked away. So much for not being perceptive. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Just…” She sipped her tea. She took a deep breath. No point in keeping secrets, remember? “It’s September now,”
“It was seven months ago,” she said softly. “seven months ago, they told me I had eight months to live,”
Evan’s face twisted. He went to her and wrapped his arms around her. Her teacup got caught between them and pressed into both their chests uncomfortably, but she didn’t move. She pressed her eyes to Evan’s shoulder and let him hold her.
“Look at you,” Evan’s voice was unnaturally high. “You’re fine. You aren’t going to die,”
Tears began to stream from Angela’s eyes, so she kept them on his shoulder. “I mean, probably not next month. But before too long. I have good days, I have bad days. I am dying, Evan,”
He held her tighter, so tight the cup pressed into her collarbone hurt, but she didn’t pull away. She wished he could hold her tight enough to keep her soul in her body. She wanted him to be right, even though she could feel her lungs wearing out, her heart ticking down.
“I want you to live,”
“I want to live, too,”
They stood and held each other, trying to ward off September, trying to ward off the cruel, uncaring clock of congestive heart failure, until her tea was cold.