FOR THE ATTENTION OF: JANELLE PARSONS
My hand has been hovering over the mouse pad for forever. There’s a slight shake in my fingers that I can feel even when they’re resting. Nerves are zipping through me, around my stomach, inside my head, up and down my back. I check the email for the fiftieth time. Everything I need to include is there, and I’ve tried to make sure it’s as catchy as possible. I need to make sure that it stands out from the others. At the moment, dragon-themed romantasies are all the rage, and that’s part of the reason I feel so anxious. Imposter syndrome curls itself around my mind at least once a day. How am I supposed to stand out in a world where authors like Rebecca Yarros exist?
I’m not sure if mine is written well; all I know is that it’s written to the best of my ability and that’s all I can do. I’ve spent countless late nights and early mornings working on this novel, and even though it’s not yet done, I feel like if I don’t send it now, then I never will. It will remain sitting idle, covered in dust on my desktop until my laptop kicks the bucket and then I’ll lose it forever. I can’t let that happen when I’ve put so much into making it.
I’ve wanted to write ever since I was a gawky teenager, hoping above hoping that some guy would come along and give me my own10 Things I Hate About Youmoment. I wanted someone to look at me like I’d hung the stars in the sky for them, but that never happened. Back then, the braces had bright green caps, the hair was a frizzy mess that couldn’t be tamed and the spots that decorated my face were a permanent fixture. Any boy in high school back then would only look for a skinny girl with clear skin and a spot on the cheerleading team.
So, I wrote. Short stories, mostly, at first—girls who looked like me at the time who always got the guy no matter what, because they saw beauty as something more than naturally straight teeth and clear skin. They saw it as a personality that attracts them, a heart that holds them.
God, I’m stalling.
I make sure that the mouse is hovering above the send button before closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
You can do this, Michaels. This is your time to shine. Time to get yourself and your life on track for something better.
Before I can chicken out, I click the mouse and I hear the whoosh that tells me that the email has sent. Dread pricks at my skin and I feel a tingle at the back of my neck as sweat starts to appear.
My heart sinks when I grab my phone to message Finn about what I’ve done, only to remember my current predicament. The thought of telling him the news sends a rush of energy through me, adrenaline pumping through my veins. My skin tingles and I itch at it, eager to move, to feel, to dosomething. I know in my heart that this feeling isn’t going to go away until I talk to him; not until I fix things between us and admit to myself that his company over the past few weeks has felt like something more than friendly. Something comforting and exciting at the same time.
Oh, fuck it. I’ve already done one thing I’ll probably regret today. May as well make it two for two.
I make sure there’s food for Ollie in his bowl, then shove on some sandals and grab my car keys and rush out the door before I can talk myself out of it.
ChapterNineteen
FINN
Whoever is ringing my doorbell like a fucking asshole at seven in the goddamn morning better be in desperate need of assistance or they’re gonna be in for a rude greeting.
“Ring that bell one more time and see what happ?—”
Oakleigh stands on the other side of my now open door, wide-eyed. Her hair is up in a ponytail, a red bow hiding the hair tie holding it all together. She’s wearing one of those dresses that makes me want to cry—a milkmaid dress, I think it’s called—and red heels. And the most painful part? The stark red lipstick that is beckoning me like a vampire craves blood.
She doesn’t even wait for me to move to the side and let her in, she simply pushes past me and storms inside like a woman on a mission.
“Come on in?” I say to the vacant doorway.
I close the front door and follow her into the kitchen where she sifts through the fridge like she owns the place.
“I would say make yourself at home, but…”
She still says nothing, choosing to instead take out a bottle of water and down it in ten seconds flat.
She seems…flustered. Like she doesn’t know what to do. As if she only thought as far as getting here and didn’t think past it. Maybe that’s why she was ringing the doorbell so many times so I’d answer before she could back out?
“Cherry?”
She busies herself with crushing up the bottle and even going as far as pretending she doesn’t know where the bin is, pulling open random cupboards until she finds it.
“Cherry.”
She doesn’t even notice me moving closer to her.
“Cherry.”
Nothing.
I grab her by the shoulders, but she keeps trying to move. “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry, hey, hey, hey. Settle down for a second, will you?”
