My last DM to Jess goes unanswered, no matter how many times I check the thread I was idiotic enough to start. I reread our conversation more times than is probably healthy, fighting a grin the entire time. I should be disappointed by her antagonism, but I can’t help but smile as I read our conversation again later that evening.
I’ll take anger over indifference any day of the week.
And I forgot how fun it is to spar with her. When that verbal tension between us brought us to the bedroom after months of flirtatious banter, well, safe to say no one else has ever come close to satisfying me the way Jess did.
I scrub a hand over my face, noting the time and that I’ve come to the end of another unproductive writing session—minus the writing. Reaching for the top of my laptop screen, I start to close it. Surely nothing helpful is going to happen in my brain this late in the day. The only thing I’ve accomplished so far is pissing Jess off.
But then I freeze. My grip on the computer tightens,but I’m too wary to move a muscle farther. I can’t afford to let this sliver of an idea slide out of my head.
So I let it simmer, let it linger in the air like the phantom scent of Jess’s old perfume. And then, when I’m sure it isn’t going to flit away, I push the computer back open. And the words come pouring out of me.
I wrote almost four thousand words in the aftermath of my first contact with Jess in five years. Normally I’m a hardcore plotter—I plan out every single chapter with detailed summaries and descriptions before I even let myself open a new document and start drafting—but last night, I just went with it. I fell into bed well after midnight, exhausted but elated, my writer’s block fully conquered.
Or so I thought.
I’ve been back in front of the computer for two hours this morning, and nothing has come of it. I reread everything I wrote the night before—another break in my usual process—but it hasn’t done anything to jump-start my brain. That precious spark seems to have been smothered and extinguished.
Sitting back in my chair with a sigh, I curse my own stupidity. This is why I outline everything before I start writing, so when these moments of doubt strike, I already know where I should be going. Instead, I went off on some fantasy tangent and wasted whatever momentum might have come of it.
Usually when I sit down to write, I shut my phone away in a desk drawer. It’s something Jess always made me do—lock away the distractions, out of sight, out of mind.
But today, she is the damn distraction. I take out my phone and open Instagram, not allowing myself to hope she might have responded to my final message.
@nickmatthewsauthor: See you then. I’ll be the one receiving the award.
Okay, so it was an asshole thing to say, but she started it.
I’m about to chuck the phone back in the desk when I see the little typing bubbles pop up at the bottom of my screen. My grip on the phone tightens in anticipation.
@itsjesscarrington: The category is SVP’s Most Pompous Asshole Who Claims to Write Romance but Doesn’t Actually Know the Definition of the Word, right? An award that could clearly go to no one other than you!
I know she’s trying to insult me, but that doesn’t stop the laughter from rumbling through my chest.
@nickmatthewsauthor: Says the woman who was on the receiving end of my romantic attention for three years and never had any complaints.
@itsjesscarrington: Trust me, I had plenty of complaints.
@nickmatthewsauthor: Hmm. I seem to recall you telling me on more than one occasion that I was “the best boyfriend you ever had” and that was before the night of nine orgasms.
@itsjesscarrington: Don’t you dare bring up the night of nine orgasms.
There’s a pause, but I don’t respond since I can see she is typing.
@itsjesscarrington: Half of them were fake.
I snicker, because I know that’s not true.
@nickmatthewsauthor: You always were a terrible liar.
@itsjesscarrington: I’d rather be a terrible liar than a horrible person.
Okay, that one might actually hurt, probably because I know there’s a big part of her that thinks it’s true. And to be fair, the way that I ended things was horrible. I was horrible to her.
@nickmatthewsauthor: Don’t you have a book to be writing? See you at the ball.
I close out of the app before she can get the last word. I can practically see her scrunched-up angry face, hear the half grunt, half scream she would utter when frustration got the best of her. It brings the smile back to my face, despite my guilt.
I turn back to my rough draft and pound out another four thousand words.
