Nothing had to change,and nothing ever would.
I rolled over to stareat the never-ending expanse beside me and the pillow that had lost her scentlong ago.
“Love you, babe,” Iwhispered, laying a hand against the pillow’s cold surface. “Good night.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TESS
It allstarted with the burning need for a bit of inspiration, and the desperation fora change in scenery. That’s all I’d been looking for: inspiration and change.
***
The wind howledwith wicked intent. Ember braced herselfwith gritted teeth as another gust stabbed through her trench coat. Bitter, icydaggers broke through the thin material, scouring her to the—
“Tessa, doesn’t Richardlook handsome in aviators?”
Groaning, I turned fromthe laptop screen to shoot my own bitter, icy daggers from my eyes directly tomy grandmother. The bestselling author. The woman who used to fightrelentlessly with herlate-husbandbecause he didn’talways respect her need to create.
She wasn’t respectingme a whole lot right now though.
“He’s the cat’spajamas, Grandma,” I grumbled sardonically before turning back to the screen.
I made the rookiemistake of reading over my last sentence, and with narrowed eyes, I pickedevery word and comma apart before I finally held onto the backspace key untilthe document was blank once again. My heavy leaded elbows hit the table’ssurface and I thrust my head into my palms before releasing a huff offrustration.
Whatthe hell am I doing?
I’m not sure I knew theanswer to that anymore.
There was once a timein my life when writing a horror novel felt like a calling. Like my veryexistence would never feel complete until I’d written the next book to keepscary story fans up at night.Watch out,Stephen King. Here comes Tessa Lang. It was the dream, and I’d wanted it sobadly, I could taste it. And then, as luck would have it, I’d been handed therare opportunity to spend nearlyall ofmy timewriting, and I learned something very quickly.
It felt empty.
And it wasn’t thewriting itself. God, writing just about anything had always felt more naturalthan taking a breath. Ithrivedonthe art of stringing simple words together and turning them into something new.
No, I was fine with thewriting part.
The problem is, I’m notscary. My attempts at being spooky felt stiff, forced and painful for evenmeto read. How the hell was I going toconvince potential readers if I couldn’t convince myself?
“Not going well?” Grandmaasked, knowing all too well that I wasn’t getting a damn thing done. I closedthe laptop and headed into the living room from the adjacent kitchen, slumpingonto the couch.
“I suck.” I emphasizedmy qualms with a pout.
“You don’t suck,” sheinsisted halfheartedly, keeping her eyes and bottle-cap glasses aimed directlyat the TV screen.
“Yeah, I really do.” Isnorted, shaking my head. “I’ve been here for months and I haven’t written asingle thing.”
Releasing a sigh thattold me she was about to smack me with a lecture, Grandma lifted the remotefrom the arm of her chair and lowered the volume. She never turned the volumedown on an episode ofThe Family Feud,so I knew she meant business as she pulled her glasses from her nose, allowingthem to dangle from the chain around her neck.
Weathered, old eyesturned to face me, and the Richard Dawson fanatic was replaced by my sagelygrandmother. Independent woman. Author extraordinaire. My heroine. “Tessa,” shebegan, molding one palm around Harriett’s rounded hindquarters, “you know whatI’ve seen in the months you’ve been here?”
I was almost afraid toask, sensing that she would somehow reveal another inadequate part of me I wasunaware existed. But still, I replied, “What?”
One hand laid over theother and Harriett purred obnoxiously loud. It still struck me as funny, thatfor the first two years of that cat’s life, I was convinced she didn’t knowhow.
She looked me square inthe eye, cementing me to my seat on the couch. “I have watched you sit at thatcomputer for hours on end, and you stare at that screen like you’re going towar with it.” Her lips set firmly into a terse line as the already seriousglare in her eyes hardened. I was afraid to move. Hell, I was afraid tobreathe. “Writing, Tessa, is not abattle, or at least it shouldn’t be.That computer should be nothing more than an extension of your imagination, ameans to tell your stories. It’s not theenemy.”
I responded with a slownod and said, “I know that, but—”
