The Heartbroken - S01 E117

Story 2 years ago

The Heartbroken - S01 E117

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 117

“I do hope you’re not a

vegetarian?” she asked

me, which made Seth

snort.

Isabelle eyed her son

and I shook my head.

“I’m not,” I replied to

her with a smile before

glaring at Seth.

“Trust me,” he said,

“she’s not.”

I kicked his shin under

the table and he let out

a slight and still very

girly yelp. I smiled at

him sweetly. “What’s

wrong?”

He narrowed his eyes

at me.

I turned back to

Isabelle, who looked

vaguely amused as she

watched us.

“Not a vegetarian,” she

said with a smile, “I like

you already.”

Seth was a bit quiet

during the whole time,

but he would say a

word or two here and

there. I tried to answer

her questions without

seeming like a bumbling

idiot and tried asking

her some stuff too.

As we reached the

main course, she was

telling us about the first

story she had to cover

as a journalist for her

job, when she still had

to work for the local

town newspaper.

“So there I was, a fresh

grad, among this crowd

and surrounded by

other journalists from

other papers, and at

that moment, I didn’t

know what to do. You

study all of it and

you’ve covered stories

in the past, but right

there, you suddenly

have no idea what to

do.” She smiled, bringing

her goblet to her lips

and sipping a bit of her

red wine. “It’s the real

world, I thought to

myself. It’s all real

now.”

It was impossible not

to feel drawn to her,

making it hard to

remember her as a

woman having an affair.

She was so beautiful,

so elegant, so

charismatic, she could

have fooled me.

“Kyla writes,” Seth, who

might as well have gone

mute for the past few

minutes, chose this

moment to present this

piece of information.

Why couldn’t he have

mentioned food or

sports or something?

“She’s really good,” he

added, oblivious of the

fact that I was

mentally coming up of

ways to brutally murder

him.

“You’re a writer?”

Isabelle said, raising her

(perfect) eyebrows and

nodding appreciatively.

“I’m liking you even

more.”

Needless to say, I

blushed and looked

down at my food

(which I was pretty

sure I couldn’t even

pronounce). “I’m not

that good.”

Seth rolled his eyes.

“She is.”

“No. They’re mostly just

poems for my

Literature class. A few

essays, maybe.”

Isabelle directed a

rather dazzling smile at

me. “I originally wanted

to take up Creative

Writing,” she offered. “I

took a Creative Writing

elective back in college.”

“How was it?” I asked

her, feeling genuinely

interested as I started

to cut the meat with

the (hopefully right)

knife for a small bite.

“The first day, the

professor–sorry, I

forgot his name

already–walked in and

asked us, why do

people write?” Her eyes

seemes to twinkle in

the dim room. “Everyone

answered with the

usual stuff. To express,

to create something

out of nothing, to put

thoughts into paper,

and around fifty other

variations of ‘to

express.’

“And you know what he

said? ‘Anyone who

believes that people

write simply to

express, walk out of

this lecture hall now. I

don’t need you in this

class.'”

My mouth dropped

open. “Seriously? What

happened?”

“Nobody moved. We all

just stared at him. I

think some of the

students didn’t like him,

but I was actually

fascinated.” She took

another sip of her wine.

“He told us that writing

is more than just a

form of expression.

Writing is about more

than just that.”