His truck skids out of my driveway as if he’s running away from me as much as I wish I could run away from him, and I scurry back inside, hit with something I haven’t felt in months.
I pull my untouched notebook from my suitcase and start scribbling words down.
Then I hear a meow outside my window, and for the first time, I don’t care.
I think I just found my eureka.
Chapter Five
Sipping my third cup of coffee as it nears noon, I listen to my agent, Janet Martinez, on the phone worrying about my focus. Little does she know I wrote nearly six pages in my notebook last night.
“Listen, Janet, I take back what I said before. I think this might be a good thing.”
“Are you sure? How’s everything going with your mom’s… estate?”
Janet does not do well with feelings or emotions, even though she’s an incredible friend, and a devourer (and cheerleader) for all things romance novel. I like to call her The Queen of Introverted Love. She’s got a lot of heart, but she has a hard time verbalizing her emotions. When she tries, it’s a big deal.
“Um. Mom stuff is as good as it’s going to get. My mom wrote in her will that she didn’t want a typical funeral, which is so like her. She hated anything sad—sad movies, sad songs, everything. She wanted a party, nothing more. Her ashes are supposed to be delivered this week, and I guess the memorial is happening at the county fair to celebrate her life. I don’t even know what to prepare for.”
“The fair? Dang, when you said small town, I didn’t think you meant Little House on the Prairie small.”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Overall, there’s so much love for her that it’s making it easier to handle, except this house. I can’t seem to face this house at all.”
“What about the diner?” she hums, and I know there’s tenseness to her voice that she’s trying to hide. Her biggest fear is that I’d come here and never want to leave, or write again, and instead work at the diner.
“It’s great and in good hands.” I smile, thinking of my red-haired, freckle-faced friend with a penchant for charming exes with mustaches. “And don’t worry. I never wanted to run the diner when I was a kid, and that hasn’t changed, but I’m not getting rid of it. I still need to work that part out. I don’t know what to do with any of it. The house. The diner. All I know is that I’m not ready to let go.”
I pull a pot out from a cabinet and set it on the stove, then grab for a can opener.
“Are you cooking?” I can hear the squeak of Janet’s office chair and picture her leaning forward in disbelief, her dark brown hair falling from behind her ears and hazel eyes going wide.
“Don’t sound so surprised. Plus, there aren’t many options—no delivery here. I grabbed the essentials.”
“What does the essentials mean to someone who survives on coffee and rice bowls from Panda Express?”
I sigh mournfully. “The essentials consist of coffee, soup, grilled cheese ingredients, and wine. But damn, now I want a rice bowl.” We laugh together, and it reminds me that life isn’t terrible in LA My life is just different there, and void of erratic heart palpitation problems that come with years of baggage.
“So coffee, a few cans of Campbell’s, cheese, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of rosé?”
“Uh, yeah. The essentials. Your point is?” I chide, prying open the tomato soup.
“I’m just saying, I didn’t get you a six-figure movie deal for you to be slumming it.”
I roll my eyes. “Unfortunately, my slumming it is me working with what I know. I’d love to eat ratatouille, but I wouldn’t know the first goddamn thing about how to make it. We all can’t be professional Pinterest savvy cooks like you, all right?”
“Fine, but if and when I decide to come and visit, let me cook.”
“Sold!” I crank the stove to high.
Our laughter dwindles, and she sighs. I already know what’s coming when she lets the silence hang a few more seconds. “How’s, ya know, the other thing?”
Oh, the other thing, that’s what we’re calling it now.
I pour the can of soup into the pot, letting out a grunt of frustration. “Are we talking about me writing the sequel or my ex-boyfriend?”
“Aren’t those the same thing?”
I slam down the empty can in the trash like I’m Michael Jordan in the playoffs.
“Well, the good thing is, I’m writing.”
“Oh—oh, that is good to hear.”
“Yeah,” I groan, walking into my living room, glancing at my suitcase. I really need a better place for it than the middle of the floor. “Except I’m going to be building this book more from a fictional sense, not that I need to live it for it to be true—Gah!” I slap my palm against my forehead. “What am I saying? My first novel is fiction, too, but written from real experiences with some finesse. This time, I’m winging it.”
A tiny condescending squeak comes from the other end of the line. “I’m guessing you saw your ex.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Did you buy ice cream, too, to accompany that tone of yours?”
“No!” I lie. “It’s whatever. He’s moved on. He’s got a girlfriend, and I wish him well.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m just going to ignore you said that.” I walk to the front door, swinging it open to get a glimpse of the midday sun over the sea of pines. I suck in a breath, and the scent is immediately calming. “It was weird seeing him, okay? Sort of awful and awesome. I don’t know. Janet, the chemistry is so volatile that if someone were to ignite a match when we’re in the same room, we’d explode.”
“Ooo, write that down, would ya?”
I roll my eyes, realizing I already have. “More than anything, it was nice reconnecting, and we’re working on it.” I wrinkle my nose as I say it. I have no idea what there is to work on, and what the hell I mean. “Anyway, seeing my friends has also helped, and this town is filled with the kookiest people, too. I’ve got a lot of material to work with.”
“I’m hearing a lot of really good news. Please tell me you have a plot sort of set up in your head?”
I nod, even if she can’t see it or my puffy pout. “Actually, I kinda do.”
“Fantastic. Well, when you’ve written a few chapters, send it over, and we can talk over the kinks.”
It’s a brilliant idea, and I’m glad it buys me some time to, you know, actually come up with a plot. I wasn’t admitting that there’s a mixture of fictional details and the nonfictional elements that I’d also like to get straightened out.
“Sounds perfe—”
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
“WHAT’S THAT SOUND?” Janet yells into the phone.
“I DON’T KNOW!” I spin on my heels, my eyes going wide as I see a large cloud of billowing smoke coming from my kitchen. “OH SHIT, CALL YOU BACK!”
I hang up my phone, throwing it onto the couch. I run into the kitchen while covering my ears.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!