Monsters Read Free

they’re asking me to do.
We love it as a skeleton,
he’d said,
but of course we need some of the scenes you left out. The things you implied, well, now we need you to write them.
They’re bringing in a screenwriter too.
    The landing is less than pleasant. The plane tips heavily to one side, and I throw my hand out to brace myself. “Fuck!” I look around to see if anyone else looks nervous, but no one seems to have noticed me or the plane’s sketchy maneuvering. Just then the wheels hit and the seat I’m clutching shudders hard and begins to vibrate as the plane struggles to slow itself. I close my eyes and clench every muscle until theshaking stops. When it finally does, I pull out my phone and switch it off airplane mode. I text Jenny,
Landed. How are boys?
and then slip it back into my pocket.
    On the tarmac, there’s a man waiting for me with my name on a sign. He takes my bag, and then we’re in this Mercedes, and we’re driving through hills and past beaches, and we finally pull up to this huge gate. He types in the code, and the gates open, and we drive up to this massive stucco house with a Spanish roof. The double front doors are wooden and open, and when we walk in, the whole place is full of light. The back of the house is all glass, doors and windows, and they’re all open to this enormous terrace overlooking the ocean. It reminds me of a hotel Michael and I stayed at in Kauai.
I love it here,
I said the first night. I wanted to stay out late and drink too much and walk barefoot in the sand and kiss in the moonlight. Michael was tired though.
I’m still on Central time,
he said.
    â€œYou must be Stacey.” The voice comes from the left, and I turn to see a man walking toward me, hand extended. He looks about fifty. His head is shaved and the top is pink from the sun. He’s got a full, round face, thin lips. His graying eyebrows are obscured by the black frames of his glasses. His hand, when he grabs mine, is soft and firm.
    â€œI’m Alan. Welcome. Welcome,” he says. “Can I get you a drink?” He turns to the driver behind me and says, “Put those bags in her room.” He looks back at me. “Ready to get started?”
    â€œSure,” I say. “Yeah.” I’m not ready at all. I need to catch my breath, to look around.
    â€œI’m just kidding. We’ll let you settle in first. We’ll start tomorrow. Joe got here this morning. He’s the screenwriter. Great guy. I’ve worked with him a ton. He’s got a working draft. Just a sketch really.Needs a lot of work.” I realize he’s leading me slowly into the room as he talks. “So you want that drink?”
    I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
    â€œAnd you call yourself a writer?” He pours himself a smallish splash of something—bourbon, maybe—and puts the bottle back. He pats the bar. “Tommy’s got a hell of a bar here, so help yourself. This is his house, by the way, but you probably knew that. He gets in tomorrow.”
    I have no idea who Tommy is, so I just nod.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I wake up to the sound of the ocean. I barely slept all night. I just lay there staring at the ceiling, the walls, but then sometime around five, I closed my eyes. Now it’s light out, and I’m not sure where I am for a second.
    My hair is curling from the humidity, but it doesn’t look bad. It’s always curly, though not quite this full. I pull my fingers through, half untangling it, half checking for grays. I don’t feel like I’m old enough, but stress can do that. I found one last week, a little wisp of silver against the brown.
    I pull on a clingy white tank and a pair of shorts. They’re looser than they were last year, kind of hanging off my hips. I don’t mind this part at all. Grief is terrible, but it looks amazing on me. If Michael were here,