My mind began to drift, because despite what I’d said to Nathan, Iwasa dramatic soul.
“Do they still have those people at gas stations whose sole job it is to pump gas into people’s cars?” I asked out of nowhere. “I only ask because I think that might be a job I would excel at when this whole writing thing goes down the toilet.”
Nathan’s lips quirked. “I believe there’s a state with a law that somebody else has to pump your gas. It’s like New Jersey or something.”
“Oh man, I don’t want to live in Jersey.” That sounded like a fate worse than death.
“Um, the Jersey Shore is actually pretty great. It’s beautiful.”
“Doesn’t it snow there?”
He paused. “Oh, right, you have a thing about snow. You’re afraid of it.”
I shot him a withering look. “I’m not afraid of it. I just don’t want to have to deal with it. That was one of the reasons I landed on Savannah.”
“I thought you picked Savannah to be close to your dad.”
That had actually been a mark in the Don’t Live Here column when I was making my decision a year before. I was familiar with Savannah, though. My parents had moved to the area—albeit the upper-crust downtown area that was full of historic homes and charity tea parties—when I was in middle school. I had friends—okay, more like acquaintances—in the city. Savannah was a place where I couldn’t get lost when left to my own devices. Plus, the weather was right up my alley.
Sure, the hurricanes were no fun, and torrential rains caused flooding problems. But no area was perfect. So when I’d been panicking about my writer’s block a year before, I decided to move, thinking a change of scenery would help. Savannah somehow ended up on the top of my list. It hadn’t helped my writer’s block, but the food was great.
“I just like Savannah,” I said smoothly. I did not want to talk about my father.
“Why did you pick this place, though?” Nathan looked around. He lived just over the border in South Carolina but acted as if Savannah was a different country. “Don’t get me wrong—it has an interesting vibe. If I was writing murder mysteries, I would be all over this place.”
He had my full attention now. “Why?”
“Because this is the sort of place where secrets are buried deep, but nobody ever forgets,” Nathan replied. “Actually, the first time I visited you here, I started working on an outline. The board that oversees this neighborhood is creepy. I have an idea about a demonic community board that loses control and starts killing residents. It was all inspired by this place.”
I looked around blankly. “So … you hate it here. That’s what you’re saying.”
He shrugged. “Listen, it has some nice offerings. The restaurants are amazing. I haven’t had a bad meal here. I like the bars. If I lived here, I would be at those bars every night, picking up a honey.”
I slapped my hand over my eyes. I couldn’t even look at him. “You did not just say ‘a honey.’”
He pretended I hadn’t spoken. “There’s a lot to like about this place. It does, however, lock you away from the rest of the world. All the people here are vanilla. Since you’re vanilla, you need a splash of chocolate.” He seemed to realize what he’d just said. “I didn’t mean that in a racial way,” he added quickly. “Not that asplash of chocolate wouldn’t do you good. You couldn’t keep up with too much chocolate, though. Maybe you should aim for the strawberry cheesecake.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not interested in dating right now.”
“Of course you’re not.” Nathan bobbed his head as if I’d said the most logical thing ever. “I’m talking about me. Plus, eventually, you’re going to get over this writer’s block thing.”
“Not if I decide to chase the gas-pumping dream.”
He waved me off. “This is all in your head.”
He’d opened the door, so I decided to go through it. “How do you get over writer’s block?”
It wasn’t until I saw how pink his cheeks had gotten that I realized the conversation had taken a weird turn. “What’s wrong?” I asked, glancing around.
“Nothing is wrong. It’s just… I don’t really believe in writer’s block.” He held out his hands and shrugged.
I narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?” He couldn’t have said what I thought he’d said.
“I’m sorry.” Nathan looked genuinely apologetic. “I don’t mean to minimize what you’re going through, but I don’t actually think it’s a thing.”
“Um … I have writer’s block right now.”
“Yeah, I think you’re having a mental breakdown or something.” He clucked his tongue. “That’s what I mean about writer’s block. People call it writer’s block, but it’s actually depression … or anxiety … or exhaustion. You can’t actually turn off the imagination.”
