My mother’s voice is on autopilot in my mind.
Maybe I just won’t tell my mom about this. Or my brother. Or my dad. In fact, I’ll just keep it to myself until I have another job lined up.
I give a pathetic wave and head out the door.
Yep, this is me. Calla Stone. Twenty-nine-year-old female with no degree and no job, can’t make the right choice to save my life and living with my older brother and nephew in their basement.
Thriving, huh?
I like to pretend that not having my shit together doesn’t faze me, but it does. Oh, it does. But my family has spent too many years coddling me. At some point, I decided to just pretend that everything is okay all the time. This is no different.
But crap, what happens if I never figure things out? Is that the thing missing from my life?
Oh God. Does this mean I’ll be one of those people who works till the day she dies because she wasn’t able to hold a job long enough to build a retirement?
I let out a few quick breaths.
Okay, that’s not going to happen. I’m ambitious. I will find a new job.
I’m going to find myself the best job, and I’m going to make it last.
For once, I will make something last.
CHAPTER FOUR
BECK
Texts from my agent started at sunrise today, and I’ve been dwelling on one message in particular:
Is there anything in your real life that could spark a good book?
Getting married in Vegas to a woman who despises you could make a pretty good story. And yet, since I’m actually living it, I can’t seem to think of how that story would play out. I have a good suspicion that it’s because I have no idea what I’m doing. Hence, what would I make a character do in this situation?
The hero could trick her into staying married to help him achieve something. Or the heroine could ask him to keep up the illusion of a happy couple to make an ex jealous.
Those ideas have been done before, but they work. Over and over.
Still, the fact that my intention to stay married is nothing close to either option makes it weird for me to write about it.
Then again, my best ideas come from just getting words on paper, and hell, maybe if I started writing this book, I’d be able to figure out what to do about Calla.
I can’t just explain to her why I think we should stay married. She’ll tell me tough luck and shove divorce papers in my face. I need another idea. I have to show her why being married to me is the right choice.
I jog down the stairs to my basement and head for my office, where I open the document for the last book I’d submitted to Doug and delete the words that I won’t be needing for a book I won’t be writing. I used to cringe at the idea of deleting unused words, but over time, the clean slate of just starting over has mentally worked the best for me.
I get in about three pages before my phone starts to ring.
It’s Simon.
Our weekly writers’ meeting is at his house this week, so I bet he’s calling to change plans.
“Hey, Simon, what’s up?”
“Can you come over?” His words are rushed.
“Right now?”
“Yes. Now.”
