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I took a deep breath. What did I say? Once I sent it, my plan was to drive out there, no matter how he responded. The text bubbles teased me as I started the message more than a few times before landing on the simplest message I could create.

Be there in ten minutes.

Pulling out, I threw the phone in my purse so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at it while I drove. I’d given myself exactly the amount of time it would take me to get out there so I couldn’t stall driving through town the long way. My hands gripped the steering wheel so they would stop shaking. I was sure I’d never been this nervous before. So much for reapplying that deodorant.

20

LANDON

When I returned from Sergio’s, I logged in again, continuing to write. I added the new outline notes from the videos I’d watched and the conversations I’d had with Malia earlier. I also worked through some personal examples I could add to the overall story. I was on a roll until I wasn’t. About an hour in, I hit an impasse. I knew what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t figure out how to say it. Panicked, was that it? Was I destined for another multi-year drought?

I stopped before I completely lost it. I knew I was toast if my fatalistic thinking took over. I reminded myself that I’d had writer’s block before the accident that didn’t incapacitate me the way the accident had. My break from writing for the past ten years wasn’t about not knowing what to say. It was about punishing myself, not thinking I was worthy. I hadn’t seen that before, but it was painfully obvious now.

Tara had changed all that. Without even knowing. Well, that wasn’t true. She knew plenty about me. She’d admitted that. But was that horrible? She’d not lied to me. She told me she was a reporter on our way to the bonfire, and Malia had mentioned it again. I hadn’t stopped to think she might want an interview. Why wouldn’t she? She’d even said she wanted to create more personal pieces. But even though it’d been years, I knew she hadn’t faked her body’s reaction to mine. Her complete willingness to give herself over to me. There was no way that wasn’t real. I couldn’t be angry with her for anything she’d done.

It hit me that everyone, including Tara, was always googling me. Maybe I should turn the tables and look her up. The thought felt wrong. I hated it when I was judged by what people read online. It wouldn’t be fair to do the same thing to her. But Malia had mentioned reading some of her articles. If I was considering giving her an exclusive, shouldn’t I check out her skills? I knew it was a stretch, that I was just trying to find an excuse to look her up, but what harm could it possibly do?

I plugged in her name and was rewarded with a variety of articles, going all the way back to her days in the Peace Corps. After I’d read a few, I realized she was good. Reading the articles in bulk like I was, I started catching when she was excited about what she was writing and when she wasn’t. She was right. Politics didn’t float her boat. Her writing shone in articles where there was a human element, where she could really dig in and pull the emotions out of the story. They were also the stories I enjoyed reading the most. After I’d read several articles, it was clear to me she needed to follow that dream of hers. She had a unique writing style, and her words flowed easily.

Pulling my manuscript back up, I tried to get started again, but now that I’d gone down the Tara Foley rabbit hole, I couldn’t stop thinking of her. What did she plan on saying when she called me tonight? Would I get a second chance with her? I sighed. There was no way I was writing again until I reset.

Back in the day, I’d worked out in between writing sessions. The activity always helped when I was stuck. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t work all these years later. I grabbed the dumbbells and jump rope Shelby had packed. I remembered growling when I’d unpacked them after moving in. She wasn’t great at being subtle. I’d forgotten about them until I went hunting for sheets earlier. Changed into shorts and a tank, I went back to the living room to see if I remembered my old routine.

Half an hour in, I realized I wasn’t the same person as I’d been ten years ago, and long workout sessions were a thing of the past. I considered blaming it on the night before, but I knew it had more to do with being on the back half of thirty. Sweat was dripping off me, pooling on the floor, when my phone pinged. Perfect timing. I needed a reason to stop that didn’t start with “you’re too old for this.”

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