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Something was missing.
Lori had confirmed it, saying, “The romance needs to feel more organic. What is it about this man that will convince Riley to settle down? Draw upon your own experience here.”
Which left Indy shit out of luck. Because while it was possible to use research to help her envision the adventures of a modern-day archaeologist-come-action-hero, creating a believable happily ever after was beyond her abilities.
Because she’d never been in love.
Oh, she’d dated. Met a lot of villains in disguise. That particular boss battle was one she was familiar with, and it was one she could do without repeating, thanks.
Four years of deadlines and revisions and publicity, and here it was. The final installment. One she couldn’t deliver.
What had once been a tiny seed of worry had now grown into vines of impostor syndrome, strangling her from the inside out.
What did she know about love that wasn’t pure imagination?
Nothing,that’s what.
Her publisher was going to drop her. Then her agent. Then probably her friends, because who would benefit from associating with a romance author who couldn’t write about love? And her readers? Well, she should start writing her goodbye speeches now.
With a long sigh, Indy closed the laptop.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was a pale blue, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. It was the kind of day that lifted spirits and beckoned young lovers.
It was not the day for an internal crisis.
The final edit was due back with her editor in six weeks. Not nearly enough time to fall in loveandrewrite the book.
* * *
Indy placed a novelty shot glass in theNopile, making the count a solid dozen. They joined five dead batteries, two copies ofKung Fu Pandaon DVD, and a pair of beautiful but unwearable velvet ankle boots that Indy had found at the thrift store on 3rd street.
Two other piles sat to her left—MaybeandKeep. TheMaybepile consisted of a tangled web of cords she was almost certain were for phones neither she nor Sasha owned anymore. TheKeeppile was woefully small.
A depressing time capsule if she’d ever seen one.
In a flurry, Sasha stepped into the apartment and left her shoes by the door. Her keys jingled as she threw them on the kitchen counter. “Taking spring cleaning literally, I see,” she said, taking in the utter disarray surrounding Indy on the floor.
She may have gone overboard.
On Indy’s good days, restlessness fueled her, spurring her to cross off tasks left, right, and center. She was powerful on those days.
On bad days, she stayed off social media and tried to keep her mind clear. Books, games, lullabies— whatever it took. Though therapy had given her techniques, those days were never easy. But the blankets helped.
Mostly, her anxiety manifested in opposing ways. An overnight bag she hadn’t unpacked for six weeks, bills paid and stacked on a corner of her desk to be filed at some point, an Allen key on her side table beside an empty water bottle. Laundry, both clean and dirty, sprinkled across the surfaces of her room like eggs in an Easter hunt. Her mind worked tirelessly, around and over itself. Sometimes that meant clutter, and other times, cleaning.
Sasha sat beside her, pushing aside a box of electric curlers. “I always wondered where these went.” Even after a full day at the theater, she looked stunning. Not a smudge to her makeup, not a strand of her blond hair out of place.
Next to her, bare faced and still in her pajamas, Indy smiled. “From our ill-conceived perm phase.”
Sasha smiled. “Thankfully temporary.”
As she pulled the next box toward her, Sasha followed suit. “How can I help?”
“Do you remember that Halloween where we piled all our boy troubles into a box so we could ward off bad dating karma?”
“Right before you met Quinton.”
Indy grimaced. One month in, and he’d remembered he was in love with his ex. Clearly the box hadn’t worked.
