Okay. It’s fine. It’s done. She’s probably having dinner or she’s got—
Ping!
Holy shit. That can’t be her already.
I pick up the phone and slowly turn it over.
It is. It’s her.
Fantastic!her text reads.How about we start with lunch or dinner so I can learn what you’d like to see?
This seems reasonable. I mean, how will she know what to show me if she doesn’t know what I’m interested in, right? I text back.
Sounds perfect. When?
The gray dots bounce and her text comes quickly.Tomorrow? Lunch?
It’s not like I need to check my super busy schedule. I know what it’ll say. Work. That’s it. Or maybe some variation of it. Write, maybe. Or Try to Make a Living, that’s a good one. Pretend You Know How to Write is a favorite, one that’s being used more and more often lately.
Great, I type back.
How about I pick you up? Meet you in the lobby at half past eleven?
Gotta say, I like a woman who doesn’t wait for me to make all the decisions. Been there, done that, it’s fucking exhausting. I type back,Looking forward to it, send it, and set the phone down, feeling like I’ve just run a race.
I reach for the wine bottle and refill my glass. It’s a lovely white with a name I can’t pronounce that Marco left in my room when I arrived. I sit back on the couch cushions, sip my wine, and go back to admiring the view. Reggie is snoring now, so he’s clearlyoverthe view, but I’m not sure I ever will be. It’s too magnificent.
Something many people don’t understand about being a writer is that there is a large portion of the job that doesn’t involve the physical act of writing at all. There’s the thinking and the working out of plot lines and the development of characters and a lot of that stuff happens—at least for me—when I stare off into space. It also happens when I do other things. Tending to my houseplants is a good way for me to work out a kink ina storyline. Many of my ideas have come to me in the shower. Running the vacuum often helps me create just the right Dark Moment for whatever I’m working on. I can remember being accused more than once of being lazy, of lying around, and now I shut that memory down before it can surface all the way.
No, thank you. I’m going to sit here on this lovely rooftop, drink my fabulous Italian wine, and try hard not to look forward to the idea of seeing Marina again.
Two out of three ain’t bad. Right?
Chapter Five
“Maybe this will get the juices flowing,” Jessie says over the phone. She will text with me, but she prefers to “speak to a live person,” as she always tells me, so I call her whenever I can.
I snort a laugh, and she playfully scolds me.
“Mind out of the gutter, Chambers. Jesus. Thecreative juicesis what I meant. Though the other juices would be fine to flow as well…” She lets the thought trail off, but I put the kibosh on that instantly.
“No. Please. No way. I don’t need that kind of complication. I’m not in a good place creatively, and you know how cloudy things get for me if I mix business and pleasure.”
“Oh, I remember that crazy bitch. Let’s not have that happen again.” We both laugh, but there’s a tinge of ick in both our tones because that was a nightmare that I don’t want to relive. “You know,” Jessie goes on, “it’s too bad you write romance when you’re feeling shitty like this. If you wrote horror like me, you could just create some horrific monster and have it mutilate all the problem people in your life.”
I let go of a dreamy sigh. “That sounds lovely.”
“It really is cathartic, not gonna lie. A few beheadings here and a few disembowelings there, and I feel better.”
“I’m jealous. The worst I can do is kill off a character’s nemesis. Or ex. Or mother-in-law.”
“I mean, none of those things sound awful.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m worried, Jess.” My voice is quiet, just above a whisper, because it’s the firsttime I’ve actually said it out loud. Yes, I’ve admitted I’m behind. Yes, I’ve even admitted I’m blocked—something I don’t let a lot of people in on. But putting voice to the concern? Yeah, that’s a big deal for me. “I have this stress hanging out in my stomach. I don’t like it.”
Jessie’s voice softens, the light playfulness gone. “What do you think it is?”
“I think it’s passion. Or a lack thereof.” To my horror, I feel my eyes well up. “I haven’t enjoyed my job in a long time. I used to love it. It used to be something I lived for.”
