Mr.Williamswasn’texactlythrilled when I presented the idea of me working from the road while I went on Evan Michaels’ book tour. He told me that I’ve put the newspaper in a difficult position, which I know really means he doesn’t like not being able to keep an eye on me.
But he eventually agreed. With a dock in my pay, of course, showcasing his Scrooge-worthy characteristics.
“When do you leave?” Mal asks, peeking over a book she’s reading titledHow to Get What You Deserve.
“In two weeks,” I reply.
I’m curled up on our faded, thrifted burgundy chair in the corner of our small living room with a patchwork quilt I brought from home that my grandma had stitched together tucked around me. My laptop is open, the cursor blinking, inviting me to get lost in the words of the next romantic adventure for Barrett.
“And you’ll be gone the entire six weeks?” Mal asks.She shuts her book and tosses it on the scratched-up coffee table, picking up her mug of peppermint tea. Wonton is curled up in her lap, purring.
I nod my head. “Time will pass by quickly. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”
But I’ve never really been gone in the last six years. I only leave the city at Christmas to go back home for a few days. It’s a little hard to want to go back home when your mother and sister treat your ex-boyfriend more like family than they treat you. Andrew isalwaysthere. In pictures. In stories. In physical form.
And every single time I go back I’m asked,“When are you going to give up this whole writing thing and come back to real life?”As if chasing my dreams in New York City doesn’t count. As if staying in a small town and marrying Andrew was the only version of success they ever imagined for me.
Going back home only confirms everyone’s growing disappointment that I’m still the same Rachel that I was when I left. I have no published books with my name printed on the front cover and down the spine to prove leaving was worth it. There’s no photo of me with a description detailing my picturesque life.
In fact, my current description would read…
Rachel Perry lives in New York City. Well, Yonkers. She can’t afford New York City, and she can’t even afford her own apartment. She lives with her roommate and their not-so-friendly cat that they aren’t even supposed to have due to a “no pets allowed” rule that they clearly do not follow. When she’s not writing, she’s writing more. She’ll most likely have arthritis early due to her frantic hope to write something amazing that will change the world, but most likely, it will just remain in a folder on her computer, unseen and unknown. Oh, but she has dreams. Big ones. She just hopes they come true before she’s six feet under.
I shake my head. That's the kind of thinking that will crush a person's soul, and dreamers don't have time for doubts. Not if they want dreams to come true.
I look back at my computer screen and type up a quick meet cute with a flirty brunette for Barrett.No…a redhead. And she’s perfectly witty, balancing out Barrett’s broody behavior. I smile to myself, hoping Evan does actually read what I write so he cansee that I’ve just inserted myself into his life in yet another way. As Barrett’s newest fling.Wait.Not a fling. Maybe this new character with wild curls and wild dreams will become the woman Barrett creates forever with.
I let out a quiet laugh as I write about Barrett’s insides twisting—painful, involuntary, and unmistakably the kind of damage only a woman can do.
“Is Evan Michaels really that frustrating of a man?” Mal asks, interrupting the scene I’m creating.
I look up at her. Mal’s long black hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she looks like a model in her loungewear. Perfectly sculpted abs peek between the pink crop top and high-waisted yoga pants. She’s angling her phone perfectly to take a selfie with the book she’s reading so she can post it to her social media. She hasn’t yet created anything viral, but she’s doing her due diligence to make it happen. Posting twice a day, every day. I hope it happens for her.
I partly fold down the screen on my laptop, my lips pursed together, thinking of the best way to describe Evan.
“He’s guarded, I guess. He feels rigid. Honestly, he reads just like Barrett in the last five or six books. So hyper-focused on his career in a way that doesn’t leave time for normal human things…like feelings.”
Suddenly, there’s a loud knock shaking our flimsy apartment door that has eleven different locks attached, on both sides, because we trust the hinges less than the knob.
“Are you expecting someone?” Mal asks.
Frankly, I don’t have a lot of friends. At least, not the kind that stop by at my apartment in Yonkers. I shake my head before shutting my laptop and gently placing it on the coffee table, pulling the quilt off my legs.
“Are you?” I question.
“Obviously not since I asked you,” Mal replies.
I roll my eyes before tentatively tiptoeing to the door.
Whoever it is, knocks again. More loudly.
I peek through the peephole and my mind scrambles.
How in the world doesheknow where I live? And why is he here?
It’s him!I mouth to Mal silently.
Mal throws her hands up, shaking her head, not understanding what I’m trying to say.
