Chapter 11: The Meet Cute
The book Joe had given Beck was The Beautiful and Damned.
I found the details on her Instagram story—a carefully staged photo of the cover against a coffee shop table, caption praising "that bookstore guy" and his recommendations.
Fitzgerald. Of course. Joe would start with Fitzgerald.
The Count of Monte Cristo sat on my nightstand, half-finished. Another gift from the same monster, another reminder that understanding predators meant swimming in their waters.
I needed a new approach.
Watching wasn't enough. Joe was already inside Beck's world, building trust I couldn't erode from the outside. Every day he texted her, every recommendation he made, every "coincidental" appearance at her coffee shop—each one cemented him deeper.
I needed to be inside too.
NYU's community writing workshops were open to non-students. The original Fin Coulson had wanted to enroll—I found the half-completed application on his laptop, dated a month before he died.
I finished it for him. Used his writing samples, his bio, his aspirations. The deadline was Friday. The workshop started Monday.
Beck was in the Thursday evening section. Professor Gabriel Kramer, Contemporary Fiction. Intermediate level, critique-focused.
I applied for the same section.
The acceptance email came Saturday morning. Welcome to the workshop. Please bring copies of your work for peer review.
I spent the weekend reading everything the original Fin Coulson had written. Short stories mostly, literary fiction about displacement and identity. Surprisingly good—raw but honest, the kind of writing that showed talent waiting to be shaped.
Using a dead man's words felt wrong. But the dead man would have wanted into this workshop. Maybe I was honoring that somehow.
Or maybe I was just a thief wearing his face. Hard to tell anymore.
Thursday evening. NYU campus, third floor of a building that smelled like old paper and floor wax.
The workshop room held about twenty seats arranged in a loose circle. I arrived ten minutes early, took a position near the back, and waited.
Beck came in at 6:58, two minutes before start time. She sat near the front with two classmates—women I recognized from the lunch observation weeks ago. Not Peach, but satellites. Friendly, unthreatening.
She looked tired. The breakup was still showing in her posture, the slight downturn of her mouth. But she also looked present—engaged in a way she hadn't seemed at the bar with Benji.
Professor Kramer was older, bearded, the kind of academic who wore scarves indoors and quoted Carver with the reverence others reserved for scripture.
"Voice," he announced to the room. "Tonight we're talking about voice. What makes a writer's perspective unique? What are you willing to reveal about yourself through the work?"
The lecture was good. Dense but accessible, with examples from published authors and generous space for questions. I participated twice—careful comments, nothing memorable. Enough to seem engaged without drawing attention.
Beck raised her hand three times. Her questions were intelligent, self-deprecating, hungry for validation she didn't know she needed.
Joe sees that hunger, I thought. He's already planning how to feed it.
Halfway through the session, Professor Kramer assigned a reading exercise. Each student would share a piece—published or work-in-progress—and receive brief feedback.
I'd prepared for this. The original Fin's strongest story was about a man who wakes up in an unfamiliar city, trying to reconstruct who he is from the objects in his pockets.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
When my turn came, I read the piece without inflection. Let the words carry themselves. The room was quiet when I finished—the attentive silence of people genuinely listening.
Professor Kramer nodded slowly. "Strong imagery. The sense of displacement is visceral. I want to know what happens next."
A few students murmured agreement.
Beck had turned in her seat to see who'd read. Her eyes found me—brief assessment, neutral expression, no recognition. Just another face in the workshop.
I nodded slightly and looked away.
First impression: competent writer. No threat.
After class, students clustered in the hallway, making plans. The workshop had a tradition—drinks at a bar called The Printer's Devil, Thursday nights after session.
"You coming?" The question came from a woman named Lisa—early thirties, short hair, the kind of enthusiastic energy that pulled people into orbits.
"Sure," I said. "Just got into the workshop. Might as well meet people."
Beck's group was among those heading to the bar. She glanced at me as Lisa made introductions, offered a polite smile, returned to her conversation.
Background. Exactly where I needed to be.
The guilt hit me on the walk to the bar.
Using Fin Coulson's words. Wearing his face. Building a life on foundations I'd stolen from a dead man.
He'd wanted this workshop. Wanted to be a better writer, to find his people, to belong somewhere creative. And here I was, using his application to manipulate my way into a stranger's social circle.
For a good cause, I told myself. To save a life.
But the justification felt thin. The original Fin deserved more than being a disguise.
I made a silent promise: next workshop, I'd write something new. Something mine. Whatever that meant for someone inhabiting a borrowed body.
The dead deserved acknowledgment. Even if I was the only one who knew they were gone.
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