Two close calls in one day. It’s time to step up your game, Grayson.
maisie
. . .
FIFTEEN
“Dumb fucking idea!”I rip the sheet from my journal, crumpling it into a ball to toss on the floor with the other fifty sheets sitting there. Writing slump is a real thing, just like a reading slump. Ever since I got rejected, it feels like I have no confidence behind my ideas. As soon as one sparks, by the time I get it down on paper, I end up hating it—so clearly, my publisher will too.
Do I know for certain they would hate it…no. But being told your work isnot up to parwill do a number on you. Add on a strict timeline and call me fucked, because all the sudden, my brain forgets how to work.
I’m blaming Grayson. He’s the only thing my brain has been able to think about since leaving the dock. He consumes my every thought. The man was literally covered in horse shit, for God’s sake, and still had me wetter than Niagara Falls.
Make that make sense.
My phone flashes with a notification. It’s already 7pm,great. Contrary to my words, I indeed did not have a pie baking in the oven. I actually haven’t eaten a single thing today.
I’ve been writing—or attempting to. I’ve been so lost in my thoughts, or lack thereof, that I didn’t realize how much timehad passed. I close my journal with the promise to come back to it with a fresh mind tomorrow.
Following the sound of Evie’s purrs, I find her munching on a bowl of cat food. She lets out a howl when she spots me and comes over to figure eight between my legs as I walk. I don’t know why she started doing this, but I’ve learned my lesson to watch for her.
The pantry is small, but it’s stocked with a few snacks. I rifle through the cupboard, and Evie jumps on the counter to rub her head on me. She bumps my hand all over the place, and it's so cute, I can’t be mad.
The pantry is pretty much a desolate ghost town. Apparently, I snacked harder than I remember. There’s one full bag inside, though. Now I know why Evie jumped up here. She’s just buttering me up.
I shake a couple catnip treats into my palm, dropping them on the counter for her. She snatches them up like a shark, purring the entire time. This cat is the definition of treat motivated. I’ve taught her how to sit, shake, spin, and jump to earn them. She’s basically the shit.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a car to grab food, and I’m pretty sure they don’t even know what Uber Eats is out here. I shoot a text off to Chesney asking to borrow his truck—not that I want to drive, but I also need food.
Yo, loser, can I borrow your truck? Turns out, you have to feed yourself as an adult.
Cheshire Cat
Sup, loser. Good news and bad news.
Oh God, what now? Lay it on me, I guess.
Cheshire Cat
Bad news….I’m not home, so no truck for you.
And the good?
Cheshire Cat
Grayson has one you can borrow.
Really? That’s the good news? I see nothing positive in anything you just said.
Cheshire Cat
Hey, you had a problem, and I gave you a solution. You should be thanking me, really.
What if he’s busy?
Cheshire Cat
Text him and ask, loser.
