Book Title: Late Night Poetry
Author: Nell Iris
Publisher: JMS Books
Cover Artist: Written Ink Designs
Release Date: March 28, 2020
Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romance
Trope/s: Second chances Themes: reunion
Length: 10 000 words
It is a standalone story.
Buy Links
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A love story told in answering machine messages.
Blurb
Saying “I love you” to someone who says it first, isn’t supposed to lead to a break-up, but that’s what happens to Sully and Lou. Sully is out and proud while Lou is in the closet, so when their relationship deepens, Lou runs.
But then Lou starts leaving emotional messages of remorse on Sully’s answering machine. Sully is torn between his love for Lou and his attempts to get over him. With each message, Lou’s regrets deepen. With each message, it becomes more difficult for Sully to forget him. With each message, Sully finds it harder to want to move on.
Can old love poems and heartbreaking honesty help Sully and Lou find their way back to each other?
Saturday, October 27, 1990. 03:30 AM
“’How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’” —drawn-out silence only disturbed by the muted sounds of a barking dog—“But I don’t love thee freely, do I?”—harsh, barking laughter—“Fuck homophobic fathers all the way to hell.”—three wet hiccups in rapid succession followed by slurred words— “Shit. Sorry. I’m drunk. Druuu-uuu-uuunk. Bill dragged me to the King’s Arms tonight and I saw someone that reminded me of you, so I drank too much. But he was too tall, taller’n me and his hair was a stripey, dishwater blond and not golden. And not curly enough. But he moved like you. Like…he flailed his arms and kicked his legs instead of actual dancing. Only you would call that dancing.
“But when I saw him properly, his eyes were some weird-ass brown-ish color and they looked all wrong. If I had talent for writing poetry, I would write one of them…whatchamacallit…odes?…to your gray eyes. You’d think gray eyes would be cold and harsh like steel, but yours are always warm and soft. Fuck, Sully. I don’t even know what color my own eyes are, but I know yours. What color are my eyes?— shuffling booted footsteps on what sounds like a wooden floor, followed by the opening of a squeaking door—“Blue. Huh. I knew that. I really did drink waaaaaaay too much”—pained groan—“I miss you, Sully. Oh. And it’s Lou, by the way.”
Saturday, October 27, 1990. 12:47 PM
“Um hi. It’s me again. Lou. I…uh…just wanted to apologize for calling you drunk in the middle of the night. I shouldn’t have. I don’t blame you if you hate me. What am I saying, of course, you hate me. I broke up with you after telling you I love you. What kind of asshole does that? Anyway. Sorry. I won’t call again. Sorry.”
I listen to both messages when I come home that afternoon. After yesterday’s late shift was over, it was too cold to bike home in the middle of the night, so Shirley, my co-waitress at the bar where I work weekends, offered to let me sleep on her couch, which in hindsight was good, or I would have answered the phone in the middle of the night and ended up with a drunk-as-a-skunk Lou on the other end of the line.
I don’t know which would have been worse: the late-night drunken call or the remorseful, hung-over one.
I delete the messages without listening to them a second time, but instead of fixing lunch as I’d originally planned, I crawl into the bed and pull the covers over my head, focusing on breathing, pulling the air deep into my lungs and holding it there until I absolutely have to let it out.
When my heart has stopped fluttering after hearing Lou’s voice on my answering machine, I pull out his ratty old Mötley Crüe T-shirt from under the pillow and bury my nose in it. His scent is long gone—it smells of me and laundry detergent now—and it breaks me more than hearing his voice again.
I always loved snuggling my nose in the crook of his neck after he’d had a shower; the pine-y shower gel mingling with his natural scent, making him smell more appealing than anything I can think of, even warm bread fresh from the oven. His scent always reminded me of the forest behind my grandmother’s house where I spent lots of time when I was a kid. Earthy and comforting. Homey. And it suited his wild-man-from-the-forest look, with the long wavy rocker hair, mischievous grin, and the unbuttoned plaid shirts. I’ve never slept as well as I did when surrounded by his smell.
I burrow my face in the pillow, still clutching the T-shirt to my chest. How am I supposed to forget him and move on if he keeps calling? If he keeps sounding like his heart is as broken as mine if he keeps telling me he loves me?
Maybe I need to start screening my calls, let the machine take all of them instead of answering. Or delete any messages he leaves as soon as I hear his first words instead of tormenting myself by listening to his voice.
Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies room), loves music (and singing along at the top of her voice but she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, bullet journals, poetry, wine, coffee-flavored kisses, and fika (a Swedish cultural thing involving coffee and pastry!)
Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.
Nell is a bisexual Swedish woman married to the love of her life, a proud mama of a grown daughter, and is approaching 50 faster than she’d like. She lives in the south of Sweden where she spends her days thinking up stories about people falling in love. After dreaming about being a writer for most of her life, she finally was in a place where she could pursue her dream and released her first book in 2017.
Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males.
Author Links
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Twitter: @nellirisauthor | Instagram: @nell_iris | Goodreads
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