I don’t have plans to go looking for Gabriel, but it’d be a lie to say I haven’t thought about it. How good would it feel to look him in his eyes and demand answers? Or an explanation.
I find a grocery store and stock up on food. I’m treating this like a writers’ retreat, not a trip, which means I need non-perishables. I don’t want to run out for fresh produce every other day.
The cashier doesn’t say much. I don’t think Sugar Creek is so small everyone knows everyone else. If she recognizes me as new, she’s not giving it away. I pay her and she tells me to have a good night.
On my way back to the cabin, I drive through the middle of town. It’s adorable. Quaint. And crowded. People walking down the sidewalk, coming in and out of shops, eating dinner on restaurant patios.
I tell myself I’m not scanning the faces for Gabriel, but of course I am. How could I not?
A man on the sidewalk pretends to bite into an oversized muffin painted on a glass window, and a woman stands back to take his picture. I study the map app on my phone at a red light, and marvel at how much new construction surrounds the town.
It’s dark by the time I arrive at my cabin, and when I step outside my car and pause in the open door, I hear nothing. The birds have gone home for the night, it’s too early in the year for the steady thrum of cicadas, and there isn’t anything more than sweet silence.
Ruby’s keening whine pierces the peace. She must be going crazy inside a place that feels unfamiliar.
I unload the groceries, feed her, and search for a light to illuminate the back of the house so I can take her outside. When I find it, I flip it on and step outside with her.
Ruby sniffs around for the right spot. She goes from tree to tree, bush to bush, inspecting her surroundings. I’m turning around to go inside for a sweatshirt when I hear a sound.
At first, it’s a twang reaching me through the trees. Moments pass and the notes build and it becomes a song. I peer into thedarkness, looking for its source, but find nothing. That’s a good thing, I suppose, because if someone were close enough for me to see, it would mean they were pretty damn close. The best, and most likely, guess is that it’s coming from the nearest cabin.
The music gets louder, and I listen closely. I know this song.
Wish You Were Hereby Pink Floyd.
Music makes me think of Gabriel. I rarely listen anymore, but now I’m letting myself. I sink down on the bottom stair and close my eyes. I see Gabriel, sitting across from me on our first date. His eyes glimmer with excitement, and he doesn’t attempt to hide it. I loved that about him, how he didn’t play games when it came to how he felt about me.
The song ends and the musical notes back off, returning through the trees to their source. Gabriel’s image recedes with them. Ruby joins me at the bottom of the stairs, and she gets up when I do, scampering up the steps ahead of me.
I rearrange what Camryn unpacked, and set up the dining room table as my office. I lay out my laptop, my notebook containing my outline, and a blank poster board with sticky notes. Perhaps I need to see the story visually in order to breathe life into the second half.
The last item I lay out is the printed manuscript. Maybe having the words in physical form will be good for creativity.
I gaze down at the table, and a sense of readiness settles over me. Jill and I are scheduled to have a call tomorrow midday. Seeing everything laid out this way makes me feel a little more ready for her.
I place Ruby’s bed next to my own. She falls asleep first, blowing out heavy breaths and making noises while she dreams. I stare at the dark ceiling and relive every second of seeing Gabriel earlier today. Putting myself in the moment, I allow the emotions to wash over me. I even feel the rain.
But, of course, that is not rain.
Those are my tears.
She hates it.
I think.
Jill sits, silent, chewing on the side of her pinky fingernail. Somewhere beyond her office, a car horn blasts.
One side of her mouth turns down. Would she have the heart to tell me my manuscript reeks? I’m certain she would. She’s my agent. It’s part of her job. I get the feeling she enjoys that particular aspect.
Jill flips through the pages. She must’ve printed them out like I did, instead of reading the electronic version I sent her. Maybe she plans to use my words, my story, to line her cat’s litter box.
She frowns at a page, running her chewed up pinky nail down its length.
She hates it. I knew it.
The structure of the story is unconventional. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe she hates the way I’ve separated it into parts.
Or the therapist. She hates the therapist.
