We Three Meet

By D. Spangler

Sebastian and Brooke find their lives upended when they become aware that they're characters in a novel. With the writer watching over them, manipulating forces to drive them together, each responds differently to the narrative intrusion. Will the path they take be one forged together or will the writer drive a wedge between them? This metafiction romance is D. Spangler's debut novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Clopper
• Release date: Mar 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507050439

Book preview

Chapter 1

He’s Self-aware

As I’m buttering my morning toast, a keen awareness besieges me, almost an expansion of my mental borders. That makes it sound cosmic, but I’m not suddenly one with the universe nor do I transcend beyond my need for mortal comforts and desires.

It’s smaller in scale and yet no less earth-shattering.

I’m suddenly aware that I’m a character in a novel.

My first thought is, Why me?

The writer, my writer I guess, is looking in on my life. As for what purpose, I have no clue. My life is all too tidy and small. Not exactly a protagonist with much chutzpah.

Wait, who’s to say I’m even the good guy? I don’t feel suitably motivated to do bad things, though. Does that mean a horrible tragedy is about to befall me, turning my outlook on life sour and keen on massive destruction?

I don’t know how I can discern that my life is now suddenly open to inspection.

It’s not like the author has announced his presence in my mind with a booming voiceover worthy of a movie trailer. When Sebastian Handler finds out he’s a character in a story, his world gets turned upside down. Will he play his part while reality as he knows it comes crashing down all around him?

I just know my life is on the written page, exposed for all to see. Making it even odder, I’m aware of the chapter title. I wonder if the author does that to help steer my actions. Am I a piece of clay to him? Will he mold my character to suit his needs, or will he work with what he’s got? Maybe he sculpted my character with a nod toward appreciating science fiction? Or was my interest in all things futuristic and fanciful already in place before he got his writing hooks into me?

Has he determined everything about me in advance? Would that mean he’s picked out my hair and eye color? Did he make my hair brown and medium length and my peepers green? If so, I certainly would like to file a complaint. My nose is a bit long, and I wish my childhood dimples had made it to my taller years.

I have a million questions about this experiment. I’m calling it that because it feels like what’s happening is uncharted territory as far as narrative approaches go.

That’s me, breaking new ground.

Is my author feeding me my thoughts and lines? Is he manipulating my actions? Do I have any say in the matter? I’d like to think I do, that my thoughts and deeds are my own. Not that I’m going to jump out a window to test my free will. But I might if I knew the intent of the story. Am I in a mystery? Do I have superpowers? Will there be an alien invasion? Or am I trapped in a drama?

We’ll see.

Not really sure if the story will follow my every move or just shed light on key moments. My guess is it will be selective, because I can’t imagine readers want to hear about my eating toast and then going to the bathroom to do what I need to do.

The very idea of readers blows my mind.

This gives me pause for thought. What exactly have readers seen so far? A man buttering his toast and fretting about his place in the cosmos?

Not much of an opener.

Chapter 2

She’s Self-aware

I’m not liking this morning. I’m trying to push what happened out of my head, but I can’t. I should be focusing on getting to work on time, but I can’t. Something happened shortly after 9:30 as I was bolting out of my apartment.

I check my watch and peer past Mrs. Stevens’ ambitious hat. Lots of feathers today. Where’s the bus? It’s late.

Mrs. Stevens looks at me and says, Brooke, dear, what’s eating at you this morning?

I flash what I hope is a convincing smile. Just a lot on my mind right now. I’m fine.

That’s right. Keep telling yourself that.

Mrs. Stevens gives me a side hug. Keep an eye out for yourself. Don’t get so caught up in things that you forget who you are. It’s your story.

My jaw drops. I squint at my neighbor of four years and see her in a new light. Why those exact words on this very day? Excuse me?

I hear the distinct sound of the bus brakes before I see it out of the corner of my eye.

Mrs. Stevens adjusts her hat and pulls her large handbag filled with time-whiling crafts closer to her. I know why she has it. Going to the hospital today?

He needs to feel me at his side.

The bus pulls up, and the doors open. Two young men in pressed suits step on. A third moves to the side and politely motions for Mrs. Stevens and me to enter. She thanks him, and I grant him a sincere smile. Not too gracious. He’s a little younger than me, but he has the eyes of a bachelor on the prowl. Surprisingly, he is silent. No pithy pick-up line. I board and take a seat behind Mrs. Stevens.

She has already pulled out her embroidery and is diligently occupying her time.

I don’t know what to say. Is it possible she knows what’s going on? Why would she say story of all words if she wasn’t aware of what has happened to me? I close my eyes and almost imperceptibly shake my head. It’s crazy. Why am I giving the notion any face time? I’m just tired. I get a little loopy without my morning coffee. The second I lay out the excuse I know it’s wrong. Janet, my roommate, has slurped down all the coffee before, and the biggest bobble I made without my morning pick-me-up was forgetting my keys to the store. Forgoing coffee for one morning shouldn’t have me questioning reality.

I’m acutely aware that Mrs. Stevens has stopped her needlework and has turned to look at me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s with you? Boy trouble?

No. Just having a hard time waking up is all.

The answer satisfies her, and she resumes her crafting. Keep your wits about you. A young lady on the go like you shouldn’t fret herself to death.

I don’t respond.

Coping with what I know or think I know is overwhelming. I need to talk to someone about it before I go crazy.

Five minutes into the bus ride, I am determined to change my plans. Kelsey will have to open the store on her own. I send her a text saying just that and indicating I’ll be a little late.

I don’t get off at my stop. Mrs. Stevens notices this and says, Taking the day off?

No, just have to run something by a friend. From anyone else, all the attention and questions would come across as prying, but not Mrs. Stevens. Her circumstances, the reason she goes to the hospital almost every day she is able, halt me from being snarky. There’s always an air of comfort about her, but I can’t tell her what I suspect.

She smiles and leaves me to my thoughts.

Only thing is, I’m not sure they’re mine.

Chapter 3

His Confession

Mason looks at me like I have two heads. We sit across from each other in our favorite booth. With both of us working evening shifts, it’s easy to meet up during the day.

Turns out something eventful was put into play before the afternoon. So much for evenly spreading out the weird throughout the day. When the chapter title and number flashed into my head as I was watching The Price Is Right, I knew my scene had to be about more than just witnessing a double over in the showcase round. I flicked off the TV and called up my best friend, Mason Henry.

And quick as can be, we’re at the corner diner sucking down an early lunch. My burger sits on my plate, two bites subtracted from its ambitious magnitude. It taunts me to finish it, but I know Mason and I will be here a long time. We’ve got some basic questions of reality to shake out.

Mason has been my friend since our first season of coach pitch where we crashed into each other going for a pop-up. To this day, we both have problems calling for it—plummeting balls, choice of girls, what to do with our lives.

He waves his hands about. There’s always a lot of movement in a conversation with Mason. Run this by me again.

I fumble with the dial on the booth’s jukebox, scanning the selections as they flip by. For a ’50s-style diner, they certainly spin a lot of modern day pop. I’m a character in a book.

And that would make me . . . ?

I think I’m the lead. You must be part of my supporting cast.

Mason hooks an oversized onion ring onto his pinkie and chews on it with far too much contemplative expression for one indulging in a batter-fried side order. And this notion just popped into your head this morning?

As I was eating toast.

Mason snorts. What’d you spread on that bread, man?

I know he’s joking, but I respond. I don’t think the toast played a part.

Mason’s eyebrows briefly dance, conveying a constipated chagrin. So shouldn’t I be experiencing this self-awareness, too? I don’t feel any different. I don’t suddenly feel tied to some puppet master.

Look, I know there’s somebody writing my story. What we’re talking about right now is showing up in the book.

Is it a man or a woman?

The author?

Yeah.

A man. I snag a few fries and woof them down.

How can you know that? Does his big author head appear in your mind telling you what to say and choreographing your every move? Mason dances his fingers above the table as if he’s controlling a string puppet.

No, nothing like that. His thoughts seep into my head. I shrug. I don’t know. It feels like a masculine presence.

So did he tell you to call me up and suggest the diner?

No, I thought of that. My words don’t sound convincing. All he shares are the chapter titles.

And what chapters have played out so far?

Chapter One was ‘He’s Self-aware,’ and Chapter Three, the one we’re in now, is called ‘His Confession.’

What about Chapter Two? Where’d it go?

I don’t know, I say.

We both fuss with our food, neither taking a bite.

And I’m supposed to just accept this? Mason’s voice is a hiss, a gas under intense pressure escaping. He leans in. What if I tell you you’ve lost your mind? Should I call the loony bin and have you hauled away?

Nobody calls it a loony bin. And if you think I should be fitted for wardrobe with an abundance of straps, then be my guest.

He flops back in his booth. Nope. Not my style to report you to the thought police. Besides, you’re the calm, reasonable one . . . most of the time. That earns you some leeway.

You believe me?

Not sure yet, but I’ll play along. He takes a long pull from his shake. But the missing chapter bugs me. You thought about that?

I nod. I have.

And?

I’m not the only main character.

You think it might be a bad guy? Like you’re the hero, and your chapters tell the story from your point of view, and the missing ones detail his evil plot to take over the world?

I have no idea what kind of story I’m in.

Mason grins. I hope it’s something extraordinary, maybe with monsters or aliens.

Not really feeling like it’s that.

He sends me a dismissive wave. Ah, what do you know? It’s too early to tell. We could be looking at an end-of-the-world scenario or maybe even a comic book motif. The toast you ate wasn’t exposed to radioactive waste, was it?

The waitress drops off the bill and transmits a suitable, tip-elevating smile at both of us.

My apartment isn’t the cleanest, but I don’t have that lying around, Mason.

Simply checking. We can’t rule anything out just yet.

I know one thing I might rule out. I slip my money under the bill, leaving a decent tip to cover both meals. Mason is a notoriously bad tipper.

He tosses his share of the bill on the table. What’s that?

The number of scenes with you in it won’t amount to much if you go off on many more tangents, I’ll say that.

Chapter 4

Her Confession

Carly lets me in. Her head is buried in her phone. She flops onto her couch and kicks off two pillows and a heavy throw to make room for me. I can tell she’s slept in the living room again. I decide not to ask about Harris.

I’ve got to field a business call around twelve. Until then you have my undivided attention, kid. She places her phone on the coffee table and swivels her legs up onto the couch. She rests them in my lap.

I take in two quick breaths.

She notices. What? You zoom up all five flights without taking a breather?

I don’t answer.

Brooke, what is it? Her voice drops an octave, as serious as Carly can get. You’re white as a sheet.

The chapter title makes it clear I’m supposed to tell someone about it, but I feel resentment brewing inside. I don’t like someone else calling the shots.

If I say it out loud, it’s going to sound ridiculous. Something happened this morning.

Carly waits for me to continue.

You ever feel like someone else is running your life? I regret my wording immediately.

She tucks her feet under her bottom, withdrawing. That’s not fair.

I glance at the bedroom and know she’s misunderstood. I whisper, No, I don’t mean you and Harris.

She looks off to the side at a point on the wall. He’s not here. Say your piece in peace. Just don’t expect me to sit through another attack on our relationship. She mutters, If anyone’s even still calling it that.

I don’t take the bait. With Carly, as much as she says she doesn’t want to drag out her problems with her boyfriend, it’s amazing how many conversations wind up dancing through that particular minefield.

I feel myself losing my nerve.

She reaches around the back of the couch and opens a cardboard box. She retrieves a tan shirt and holds it up for display. Look at this one. I think it’s going to be one of my best sellers.

I’m staring at a silkscreen design of bright orange tacos falling from a thundercloud with random bits of lettuce and cheese flying loose from the various freefalling Mexican food. In wavy letters designed to look like water, the tagline along the bottom says: Torrential Tacos!

That’s cool. It would be easy to let Carly make my visit about her. She does it with zeal. She’s a one-upper but not obnoxiously so. At least not most of the time.

She swats out a beat on the couch