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Drying off, I realized my thoughts of her meant I was making progress. Letting either Amelia or Shelby know wasn’t appropriate, though. I’d have to keep this achievement to myself. With the towel wrapped about my waist, I settled on the bed, lying back and closing my eyes. Before the shower, I’d assumed I was headed to bed early. Now, I was wide awake.
I considered looking her up on the internet but stopped. I wouldn’t want her doing the same to me. Rarely does the internet tell the real story. No one knew that more than me. Instead, I grabbed a notebook and jotted down some ideas. They were scattered at first, but it was more than I’d done in a long time. Not wanting to stop the rhythm, I stuck to pen and paper rather than powering up my laptop. Old-school was how I’d created my first few novels. I had bookcases full of notebooks, and I was never without one.
The brainstorming session felt good, like sweeping out the cobwebs. I wasn’t sure which of today’s events spurned the outpouring of ideas, but I didn’t stop to question it. In my mind, my thoughts of Tara were in the lead for the culprit. There was just something about her.
Hours later, I’d filled several pages of thoughts. Some I might never use, but it was a start. And it felt good. The few times I’d talked with my therapist, she encouraged baby steps. I’d been so focused on getting through everything quickly that I’d washed right over her baby steps, not understanding their significance. I got it now, though. Tonight was an inch in the right direction, and it was anything but insignificant.
Rolling off the bed, I grabbed pajama pants and stepped into the living space to cook dinner. I still had leftovers from the diner. I added them to a salad and settled in the living room, opening my Spotify app and letting the music and food fill my soul. If I’d told myself today would be a day of huge advancements when I’d woken, I would have laughed. There were so many days I’d told myself that in the beginning, only to go to bed disappointed. After a while, I’d stopped waking with that thought and basically just hoped to get through the day. I was tired of living like that. I needed more. Hell, I might even deserve more.
7
TARA
I rolled my eyes, staring at my phone as it rang. I didn’t even look to see who the caller was. I already knew. My ex-boss had called twice now, leaving messages both times. If he had my private email, I was sure his attempts to contact me would have been in double digits by now. It didn’t take long for him to miss me. I chuckled at the thought, reveling in it a bit. His consistency worried me a bit, though. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be swayed back into the fold. And I didn’t know if he would give me the time I needed to figure it out.
I hadn’t decided if I could make it on my own yet, but I knew I couldn’t give up before I tried. It wasn’t the way I was built. I listened to the latest voicemail. He sounded like a broken record, just more desperate than the last time. They wanted me back. They even offered me a raise and a promotion. I listened as he listed off the benefits of me coming back. It was tempting, I couldn’t deny that.
To start, I would be the lead reporter at the next G7 convention. That was better than the supporting role I’d been playing the last few years. And to prove he’d been listening to me, he offered to let me do a few editorials a year. It was a better offer than I ever thought I would get from them. But was it worth it? And would he follow through on all the points?
I dropped the phone on my bed, shoving my feet into my house slippers, then headed to the kitchen.
“Someone is trying very hard to get a hold of you. A man, maybe?”
My mother winked over her coffee mug as I rounded the corner. The memories of the space hit me in waves. I’d loved growing up here, and even though we didn’t always get along, my parents were true heroes. They’d never stopped supporting me.
“A man, yes. A romantic possibility? No.”
I smirked, shaking my head. I both loved and hated her one-track mind. Pouring a hot cup, I lifted the carafe to her, questioning if she needed a top-up. She waved her hand, letting me know she was good. The kitchen smelled like her famous homemade cinnamon rolls. My eyes moved to the center of the kitchen table, where a plate of them waited for me. She scooped one out for me and placed it on my plate before sitting down. We slid into our normal seats, like I’d never left home, sipping our morning dose of caffeine.
