Hours ticked by. The lack of caffeine had me yawning nonstop.
At one point, I leaned toward the espresso machine just as Elaine joined me in the kitchen.
“You sure?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You still look pretty awful.”
Thanks a lot, Elaine.
A few well-timed coughs on my part had her packing up and leaving the room quickly. Jeremy and May headed off for another walk. I had no idea what John was up to, but the promise of an empty living room, writing by the fire, and an endless supply of coffee made me not care.
I sank into a deep leather chair, ready to dig into chapter seven. The room smelled of burning embers, old leather, and pine. Beneath it all was another scent—dark, musky—something that made my head spin in the best possible way.
My apartment usually smelled like ink and stale Chinese food.
I closed my eyes and counted down from twenty, letting the numbers drop, one by one. Then I opened them and started to write. With each click of the keyboard, my shoulders eased.
I made it halfway through the first act before my phone buzzed. But it wasn’t Mom asking for a couple’s photo, thank Bowie.
Hey Loca, where have you been?
I grinned at the Twilight reference.
I made a total fool of myself this morning.
Excellent. So it’s going as expected.
I thought about asking Otis to check in on Mom. I also thought about telling him about the weird hallway moment, but some odd mix of embarrassment and... not guilt exactly, but something, held me back.
As if reading my mind:
Any man-candy around? How’s John?
My eyes are firmly on my work.
Well, technically, they’re on my phone.
No man-candy. I’m by far the prettiest.
Boring.
Actually, Jeremy’s cute. But not your type.
Do tell.
Nothing to tell. We don’t date the competition.
Fine. See you Friday.
The editors’ notes still grated on me. They wantedmorefrom my main character—something was missing. I just couldn’t figure out what.
The sun was starting to set. The later it got, the more anxious I became about Mom. Of course, I’d completely failed to send her a couple-y photo of John and me.
I could picture her now: elbow-deep in flour, Helene Fischer blasting from her kitchen CD player, an open bottle of orange schnapps on the counter, waiting for a reply from her daughter. Her terrible daughter who had forgotten one of the most painful days of the year.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was alone. Then I did something I really, really didn’t want to do:
I googled John.
There were so many photos.
