I nodded.
“I can’t hear you say anything but I’m taking an educated guess and saying that you’re nodding,” she said. “So, you’re sitting around, eating food that does nothing for your brain, drinking before noon and not washing your hair.”
“Right on all counts,” I replied.
She sighed. I knew I was getting close to losing her. “So, I’m going to go back to my earlier statement. Get over yourself. Go on a hike. Learn how to compost. Tend to the garden I’m guessing you’re letting wither and die right now.”
“I like things withered and dead,” I countered.
“Well, it’s either gonna be the flowers or your career. You pick.”
I pouted because she was right.
“I’m not going to delve into the reasons why you’re blocked right now because I repair brains with my scalpel, not by shrinking heads, but I think that distraction is only going to help. Both your writing and the possibility of you contracting diabetes or scurvy from not ingesting any real nutrients.”
I squinted at the back of the chocolate bar. “There’s nutrients in here,” I muttered.
“Yeah, well, I have to go and scrub in. Wash your hair, put down the chips, and for the third time, get over yourself.” She hung up after that because she wasn’t really one for proper goodbyes. Or many social niceties.
Again, why we were friends.
I stared out at the deceiving sky, the glittering lake, and wondered whether I might survive this, and wondered what in the fuck was wrong with me, since I was somehow jealous of Emily for getting brutally murdered and no longer having to deal with the realities of life.
Because, despite the sun, the lake, and the cozy cottage, my demons crept in. Hungry. Usually fed by my stories. Usually sated by them. But they were hungry.
And hungry demons were never loyal.
I did decide to take Katy’s advice.
Sort of.
I wasn’t about to go hiking.
I wasn’t that desperate.
Yet.
Instead, I totally and completely unpacked my car. Then directed the moving van through my driveway, swearing at them in every variation of curse word I knew when they threatened to dump all my shit at the end of the driveway because they weren’t sure they would be able to turn around at the other end.
Luckily, I was almost as terrifying as my books, so the two burly men scratched the ever-loving fuck out of their moving truck, but got to the cabin, unpacked my crap, managed to get out of the driveway with their tips and their lives, intact.
After only unpacking a quarter of what I considered essential before leaving New York, I realized all of it was wrong. It was all expensive. Trendy. It looked ludicrous in this cozy little cabin.
Here I was, using that stupid fucking word again.
But I couldn’t think of another one.
Me.
International bestselling author.
I called one of the numbers the realtor had left for a pick up to a local charity. I was surprised a town this small had something like that. But I was also happy. I needed all this New York shit out of here. It was darkening and polluting the space I so thought I’d hate.
I wasn’t an earth tone and bohemian pillow kind of girl.
I was a black paint, harsh angles, and expensive throws kind of woman.
But it turned out this version of myself, the cracked and really close to falling apart version of myself, it needed the cozy sofa, the small space, the vintage touches.
I did keep all of my books though, and stuffed them amongst Emily’s things. The only thing I think that would’ve matched between our two lives. We both beat up our books, devoured them. Loved them enough to ruin them.
Yeah, that was the only similarity we had.
I couldn’t stay in the house with my poisoned New York things. So, I decided to head back into town now I’d downloaded myself a recipe book and had a list of things I should be able to find in the grocery store that didn’t contain high fructose corn syrup.
There were more people on the streets today; maybe because the sun was shining and a rare thing in this state. People were basking in it, apparently. I wore head-to-toe black, the biggest sunglasses I could find, and a faux leather baseball cap with my hair billowing out from underneath.
I did not like the sunshine.
Not just because I was pale and burned in mere minutes. Not even because it aged you quicker than almost anything. Drinking as much booze as I did already aged me enough. And if I had to choose between quitting drinking and going outside when the sun was shining, it was bye-bye UV rays.
Maybe that’s why everyone tried to sneak completely obvious glances at me. I was a black hole wandering around their little town. I would admit it looked infinitely more picturesque with the ocean glittering in the light, rays showing the town was unique and well-loved and not yet fallen victim to having to bastardize itself after tourists discovered it.
I liked it more when it was moody, almost abandoned-looking and depressing.
But whatever.
After I’d subjected myself to more talk with the lovely checkout woman—older, chubby, too much makeup, smiled too often—who couldn’t hold me hostage since there were actually other people in the store, I left. She tried to pack in as many questions as she could in the five-minute interaction, and I managed to not answer a single one.
I did not make a friend.
But I did make it through the trip without murdering anyone.
The bar beckoned me, with the promise on whisky the grocery store didn’t carry and a certain intriguing bartender that almost certainly wanted to have sex with me.
Tempting.
But I went to the bookstore instead.
Because I sure played the bad girl in a lot of ways, but I somehow let a little goodness—or maybe it was cowardice—survive along the way.
I knew the second the bell trilled over my head inside the bookstore I’d made a mistake.
A man wearing a fucking sweater vest glanced at me over the top of his glasses, smile at the ready. “Welcome!” he all but yelled in my face.
Fuck.
Another Chatty Cathy.
I nodded at him with a tight smile, hopefully communicating I wanted to be left the fuck alone.
“Can I help you find anything?” he asked as I went against all my better instincts and continued into the store. It wasn’t even voluntary. The smell of dust, books, it drew me in like a hand emerging from the darkness and clutching my neck.
“No, thank you, I’m just browsing,” I said without making eye contact.
The store was much larger than it portrayed on the street. I expected it to be poky, stifling, claustrophobic. Or maybe I hoped it would be, because then I would have a totally valid excuse to Prime all my paperbacks without the guilt that came with not supporting a local bookstore.
But instead of a closet-sized hovel, shelves stretched back into shadows, promising to swallow up anyone who dared ventured further in.
I loved it immediately.
“You’re new in town.”
I loved almost all of it.
I picked up a random book. Shitty cover. Nice title. Unknown author. “Yeah.”
The shuffling of cheap shoes on the faded carpet told me this guy was not getting the picture.
“New York, right? Bought Emily’s place?”
I nodded, keeping my chin all the way down, and yet I still saw him enter my peripheral. I really wanted to read this book. Unknown authors were my favorite. I didn’t know what to expect. A steaming pile of shit, or a gem. Either one was inspiring.