Do Anything by Wendy Owens Page A

the package on top of the mattress. With a smile that nearly splits his face, he turns and faces me. Now he sees me, and his look of excitement twists.
    “What are you doing?” I inquire.
    He shakes his head, as if to disperse the wicked thoughts in his mind. “Oh, I have something for you.”
    It’s time to make him beg, I tell myself, and lean to one side, shoving the door closed. “Is that so?” I ask in the most suggestive tone I can muster. I know being seductive isn’t my strong suit, but it’s obvious he wants me to some extent, so how hard can this be.
    “Are you all right?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
    “Wow, I’m even worse at this than I thought.”
    “At what?”
    “Nothing, never mind.”
    “Are you sure?” he follows up in a concerned tone.
    I nod.
    He rushes up to me and takes my hand, dragging me over to stand next to the bed. “I got you something.”
    I look down at brown box.
    “What?" I gasp, surprised.
    "I got you a gift."
    What is it?” I inquire, now genuinely interested.
    “Do you remember what we talked about last night?” Holden asks me. I try to focus, but it’s difficult with him so close to me.
    “We talked about so much … what part?”
    “Outside, on our walk,” he continues. I lift my shoulders in bewilderment. “Your writing, do you remember?”
    “I suppose; what about it?” I feel confused.
    “It keeps coming up, this love you have for books, and how you wish you could be a writer."
    "I don’t get what this has to do with anything."
    He smiles and squeezes my hand. "You said in college your professors used your work as an example, and that from the praise you received you considered becoming a novelist.” Holden was nearly levitating with excitement.
    “Yeah, so? I’m still not fully understanding what this has to do with anything.”
    “I think you should give it a go.”
    “What are you talking about?” I ask, not meaning to sound as frustrated as I do.
    He reaches out and flips open the flaps to the box, pulling free a gleaming white case. On the cover I see the image of a sleek and slim laptop. "Maybe this will make it to easier to understand,” he says and hands me the case.
    I gasp. “I still don’t think I understand.”
    “I thought it was kind of self-explanatory,” he says, the excitement oozing from him.
    I read the box, “Macbook Air.”
    “I’ve seen you scrawling by hand in your journal, so I assumed you didn’t have a laptop,” he explains.
    “No …” I hesitate. My heart is racing, and I don’t know what to say. “I don’t, but this is too much. I can’t accept it.”
    “Don’t be silly. I got it for you because I wanted you to have it,” he insists.
    My hands begin to shake, and I shove the box toward him. “No, really. I can’t accept this.”
    Holden looks down at the box. He’s silent. I hope I haven’t angered him. I want him to say something, anything.
    At last he speaks, “When you recommend a book to be looked at for publishing, why is that?"
    I furrow my brow. “Because I see something in it.”
    He stares at me, runs his tongue across his lips, and says, “Just like I see something in you.”
    “It’s not the same thing,” I insist.
    “Isn’t it?”
    “No!" I exclaim, "It’s too much money.”
    “Isn’t that for me to decide?”
    “Not something like this. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone.”
    “And you think that’s the type of man I am?” His question sends a chill through me.
    I swallow hard and wish I’d phrased my words differently. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
    “Since we met you’ve talked mostly about writing. I consider this an investment. I expect to see you create the next best seller on it. Last night, when you were talking about the encouragement your professors had given you, it took everything in me not to tell you about it.” He looks at me, waiting for me to say something, but what can I possibly say? I’m not even sure how to process the