Before thinking too hard about it, she typed in The Revenge of Andrea Lockley.
Time to write a story no one else would see, a new story for herself.
***
Eliza flipped through the mostly blank pages Andi had plopped in front of her at their favorite Mexican place a few hours later. Andi was bouncing her knee beneath the table, hyped up on lack of sleep and too much caffeine. She put another tortilla chip in her mouth, trying to absorb some of the coffee she’d had.
“Well,” Eliza said, finally looking up, “I always knew you were smart, chica, but you just inadvertently outlined a type of therapy that already exists—with what I’m guessing is no prior knowledge of it.”
Andi swallowed her mouthful of tortilla chip. “What do you mean?”
“You wanting to rewrite your own story—making yourself an external character and writing her book—it’s a version of something called narrative therapy. I’m not trained in it, but I know the general overview.”
“You’re shitting me,” Andi said, leaning forward on her forearms. “This is a thing?”
“I shit you not,” Eliza said with a little smile. “I should’ve thought of it before. You’re a writer. Telling stories is what you do. Recasting yourself as the heroine in the story, modeling yourself after those heroines in the books and movies you like so much, might be really powerful for you.”
A little spark of hope went through Andi. “I was lying in bed last night after everything and I was so mad, Eliza. So freaking mad.”
“Mad is good,” she said, dragging a chip through the salsa.
“And I realized that if I were reading the book of my life, I’d be really frustrated with the heroine. She’s overcome a lot, but she’s letting what happened to her as a teenager define her life. If I turned in that kind of story to my editor, she’d send it back with red marks about a weak lead who doesn’t transform. She’s not on the hero’s journey.”
Eliza gave her an empathetic look. “She’s not weak, Andi. Maybe she’s just in the early part of her story. Maybe this is only Act One.”
The thought buoyed Andi, and she appreciated Eliza talking about her in the third person like she was a separate person, a character. That was the flash of insight she’d had last night. If she could step outside herself and see herself as a character in one of her books, it would be easier to map out a plan. Easier not to get caught up in the anxiety of imagining those moves for herself. “So, do you think this could work?”
Eliza considered her, a little wrinkle in her brow. “I think…that you’re capable of anything. Let’s get that out of the way first. But”—she flattened a hand against the table as if bracing herself—“I really worry about you doing this without a therapist to guide you. Part of the narrative-therapy thing is that sometimes we tell negative stories about ourselves that aren’t necessarily true. A therapist can offer another perspective.”
Andi frowned and sagged back in her chair. “I see what you’re saying, but therapy is out of the question right now. What little insurance I have doesn’t cover it, and this is the first time in a long time I’ve felt motivated to tackle this, so I don’t want to wait until I can afford therapy.”
Eliza rolled her lips together and nodded, then a little smirk peeked out. “Well, therapist me will tell you to be careful and that you know you can always talk to me. But friend me is really proud of you and pulling for you. I think you already are a badass movie heroine.”
Andi reached out and gave her friend’s hand a squeeze. “Thanks, girl. But I was definitely not a badass last night. I had a hot, sweet man who knows how to cook in my kitchen, and I sent him off with a kiss on the cheek and a don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out goodbye.” She took a long sip from her margarita—one that wasn’t nearly as good as Hill’s had been last night. “I wish I could rewrite that chapter for sure.”
Eliza lifted a brow. “So do it.”
“What?”
Eliza slid the pages Andi had given her across the table. “You’re the author. Delete last night’s chapter and start over. What would Book Andi do?”
“Is that like WWJD—what would Jesus do?” she asked. “WWBAD? Ha, it spells ‘bad’.”
“I definitely don’t think Book Andi would do what Jesus would do in this situation,” Eliza said with a knowing look.
Andi inhaled a deep, fortifying breath and grinned. WWBAD? She pulled a pen from her purse and scrawled something on the page.
When she held it up for Eliza to read, Eliza picked up her mojito and clinked it with Andi’s margarita glass. “I can’t wait to read this book.”
“Me too. Hope it doesn’t totally suck.”
“I hope there are dirty parts.”
Andi laughed. “Same, girl. Same.”
***
Hill pulled into his driveway after a grocery run and was surprised to see Andi sitting on their shared porch, reading a book in the weather-beaten rocking chair that had come with the house. When she noticed him pull up, she stood and lifted her hand in a wave.
He returned the greeting and took in the view. She had her Doc Martens on again, but today she was wearing aviator sunglasses and a blue flowery sundress that was fluttering in the breeze. Damn it all. He groaned, his mind going to places it shouldn’t—like what her skin would feel like beneath his fingertips, like what flavor her lip gloss was, like how easy it would be to unbutton that dress and find every spot that made her sigh. She was temptation personified.
And she’d kissed him on the cheek. Fucking hell.
He schooled his expression into one of neighborly appropriateness and climbed out of the car. After grabbing his grocery bags, he headed up the walk.
Andi slid her sunglasses to the top of her head and smiled. “Hey there, neighbor. Need some help?”
His knee-jerk instinct was to say no, that he needed no help, but he stopped himself. Help meant more time with Andi. “Yeah, sure.”
She set her book down on the rocking chair and then met him at the top of the stairs. He off-loaded two bags to her and then unlocked the door. She followed him inside, trailing him to the kitchen.
He set his bags down and took the others from her. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She leaned over and peeked into one of the bags. “Cooking anything interesting, Chef?”
“Just got the basics today. I keep it pretty straightforward. It’s not as fun cooking for one.” He started pulling out the things that needed to be refrigerated.
“You know, I’m happy to be your test subject,” she said, leaning against the counter and smiling. “I mean, I can probably find time in between my gourmet dinners of grilled cheese and frozen burritos to fit in a meal or two.”