Charisse and Melody have the kind of home people aspire to create. Located in the western suburbs of Chicago, their house is a Tudor style with wood-beamed ceilings and large black-paned windows. One look around reveals wall upon wall of family photos, many of them black-and-whites of their parents, grandparents, and themselves growing up.
If there ever were a home that told a tale, it is this one. And this home is about love, especially when you see the picture frames on table after table of their baby, who entered their world three years ago.
I put Aubrey down on the floor in her toy corner, and she immediately starts playing with her doll, putting her in a cradle and rocking her to sleep. I pat her silky black hair and give her a kiss.
On the coffee table is a photo of Charisse and me, taken about six years ago. She was the first friend I made when I moved to the city. We were working at a production company when we hit it off as great friends. Fast-forward a few years later, she told me she was sick of waiting for the perfect woman to come around and wanted to have a baby on her own. Being a mother was the only thing Charisse had ever dreamed of, and she didn’t want to put it off for another moment. I gave her my support and my time, even meeting her during her lunch breaks to give her hormone shots for her fertility treatments.
Two months into the pregnancy, she met Melody. Not only did Melody not care that this fabulous woman she was falling in love with was pregnant, but she also wanted to be part of the journey. They married a year later, and the rest is history.
“Wine or water?” Melody asks as I take a seat on one of the barstools around the oversize island that separates the kitchen from the living room.
“It’s always one or the other, huh?”
“The drink tells us what’s really going on in that head of yours.” She winks, and Charisse gives an agreeable shrug.
“Vino it is.” I give in with a mock motion for her to make it a heavy pour, and the two women laugh.
While Melody pours, Charisse sets out a tray of meat and cheese. “What are your troubles, Miss Rivers?”
“The words aren’t coming, and the ones that do all suck.”
Melody tops off a glass for me and then pours a second tall one for herself.
Charisse leans over and looks at the pour with exaggerated eyes. “You having writer’s block, too, Mel?” she teases.
“I”—Melody places her hand on her chest—“am being a good friend who doesn’t leave another friend to drown in her sorrows alone.”
“Oh, okay. So, I take it, I’ll be making dinner while you two sorrow it up?” Charisse shakes her head.
“Sounds good,” Melody responds as we clink glasses.
“For the record, she’s my friend. No stealing.” Charisse smiles as she opens the fridge and takes out a brick of Pecorino Romano.
“No fighting, ladies. There’s plenty of my crazy to go around. Here, give me the cheese, and I’ll grate it for you.” I reach over the counter in offer to help.
Charisse hands me the brick, grater and a glass bowl. “I’ve been with you since you published your first book, and I’ve never known you to have a problem with telling a story.”
Melody agrees, “That’s right. The two of us are always amazed at how you create these worlds and story lines. It’s like we want to crawl into your head and be a part of the brilliance.”
I give her a kind smile. “Says the woman who is a brilliant attorney. I want to be in your head for a day.”
Melody cheers glasses with me again, which has us both taking another sip.
With the brick of cheese in my hand, I start to run it over the sharp edges of the grater. “I think I’m just inside my head too much with this series. The first book was a huge success, and then the second book became an instant best seller. I have readers emailing me nonstop, saying how much they love these novels and that they can’t wait for the conclusion. This morning, a woman messaged me to say she is taking the day off of work on release day because she’s that excited to read the final installment. There’s so much pressure for this story to top the first two that I feel like my head is going to explode.”
Charisse leans on the counter. “You got this, Lacey. You’re an award-winning writer. The first two books came so easily to you. What makes this one different?”
I sigh before looking up at them. “I think I’m running out of ideas.”
Melody laughs. “No way. With that imagination of yours? You could write for a hundred years and still surprise the hell out of us.”
“It’s like I can’t picture the guy in my head. I don’t know who he is yet. What his quirks or mannerisms are. I don’t even know if he likes wine or whiskey.” I go back to grating, frustrated and taking it out on the cheese.
Charisse takes the brick and grater from me. “Okay, we only need enough to put on our salads. We’re not making a lasagna here.”
I chuckle under my breath as I drop my chin to my chest. “Why is my brain on lockdown?”
“Maybe it’s because you haven’t actually been on a date in eons. Have you thought about that?” Charisse asks as she puts the cheese away, taking out the romaine. “When was the last time you went on a date?”
I blow her off. “I’ve been on plenty. To a gala at an art museum, dinner on a rooftop in San Francisco—”
“Those were fictional dates in your books. When was the last time you went out with a real man?”
I grab my glass, almost too embarrassed to answer. “Not since Michael.”
Melody’s jaw drops as she looks at her wife, who nods in a knowing way and turns to me sympathetically.
“Honey, the asshole left five years ago. No wonder you’re running out of ideas. You have nothing to spark your imagination,” she says.
I purse my lips. “I read books and watch movies. Plus, I watch my couple friends. I have plenty of inspiration,” I explain.
“Why don’t you let me set you up with Tommy? He’s a good-looking guy and a successful accountant,” Melody suggests.
“Oh, he’s cute. Lacey, he’s totally your type. Thick, dark hair and these amazing hazel-greens. The whole package,” Charisse says with a glimmer to her eye.
“You are not hooking me up with a finance guy,” I deadpan.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a businessman. Hell, you’re always writing them as these hot dominants in the bedroom. Shit, he might even be able to save you some money with those crazy-ass quarterly taxes you have to pay.” Melody nods while pointing at me with her glass in hand.
I shake my head and take a gulp. “You know, I’ve always considered you my favorite couple because you’ve never tried to set me up with someone. It’s as if the world can’t handle a twenty-eight-year-old woman without a love interest.”
Charisse pauses her chopping and tilts her head while resting the knife on the counter. Her expression has just morphed from best friend to concerned mother. “You can’t stay single forever. It’s been five years. I get it. I was there when Michael left and fucked up your world, but that was just one guy. I swear there are good ones out there. Don’t turn into your mother.”
The problem with having close friends is you let them into all aspects of your life. Even the parts you don’t want to talk about.