Anger spiked inside me. “I’m not depressed.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re anxious, though.” His shoulders hopped. “Ever since that conference thing with Bree James?—”
“Don’t say her name,” I gritted out. Warmth pulsed through me, and I could have sworn I could feel my blood pressure climbing to freaky heights.
Nathan’s smile was back with a vengeance. “It wasn’t that bad.”
I didn’t want to talk about the conference from hell. Whenever I even thought about it, I had to go to bed for the day with a migraine. That conference had been … well, not good. It was the last conference I’d attended, although I wouldn’t be able to get away with that much longer either. Weirdly, publishers were not sympathetic about anxiety they felt you should just get over.
“It was the worst day of my life,” I said.
Nathan snickered. “It was kind of funny.” He registered the look on my face. “I can see why you don’t think it’s funny, but it’s one of those stories you can look back on and laugh.”
“I don’t laugh when I think about that day.”
We needed to stop talking about this. Just thinking about Bree James and the way she’d taken over the panel, belittled everything I’d done, and said high fantasy was for pasty nerds with delinquent social skills… Well, I didn’t want to dwell on it. She’d said a lot of things that day. She’d been the belle of the conference room. Everybody, even the people she was targeting, laughed. I hadn’t laughed, though. Every potshot had been aimed directly at me. That was after the Amy Ryan situation, which I was still mocked for in author circles. They all believed I’d done it on purpose.
“I get that the day didn’t go well for you,” Nathan said in his most patient voice. “But you have to let it go. If you don’t move on…”
He didn’t have to finish that sentence out. My career was hanging by a thread. I wasn’t oblivious to that fact. “I’m working on it. I have a plan.”
“Oh yeah?” Nathan broke into a wide grin. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m not going to allow myself to leave my house unless I write two thousand words every morning.”
“Ah, so you’re going to keep yourself prisoner.”
“Something like that.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it. He didn’t think I could do it. That was written all over his face. He might have been a pain, but he was also a good friend. He would never openly admit my shortcomings.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “I rented a place here to finish my book. I’ll be close.”
That was news to me. “You did?”
He nodded. “I want to do some research for my next book while I’m here. Savannah has a great ghost history. My sister is watching my place right now, and she’s annoying. I’ve been thinking about doing something with ghosts for a change of pace.”
All I could do was nod. Here was Nathan—he had multiple story ideas piling up. I had a beat-by-beat outline that I’d finished almost two years ago. I couldn’t get beyond the third chapter. I’d been stuck there forever. I felt like such a failure.
Perhaps reading my face, Nathan patted my wrist. “It will be fine. We’ll get through it.”
I appreciated the sentiment. I wasn’t certain there was anything left to get through, however. Maybe I was just done.
AN HOUR LATER, I LED NATHAN TO MYstandard black golf cart. A year before, I’d scoffed when people told me I needed a golf cart to get around the property—I had a car, so why would I need a golf cart?—but I’d figured out quickly that they had the right idea. Golf carts were the preferred mode of travel here. Cars were dangerous to golf carts. I’d almost hit three golf carts with my car before I’d given in and bought a cart. Now I used it more often than my car, which was parked in the garage, collecting dust, because I almost never left the Landings.
“Now, this, right here, is my favorite thing about this place.” Nathan swung into the passenger seat of the cart. He wasn’t drunk but he’d downed two cocktails with his lunch and seemed inordinately happy. “I would live here just so I could drive a golf cart around.”
That made me laugh. “Yes, well…”
“You need to decorate it or something, though,” Nathan continued. “It’s just boring.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to decorate them,” I muttered absently as I started the cart.
His eyes slid to me. “That, right there, is the problem. This place stifles individuality. It’s weird.”
I shrugged. “I don’t need to decorate it.”
I was paying attention when I pulled out of the parking lot. The problem was, I was looking for other golf carts. I’d gotten used to the traffic in the community. I knew what to expect—which was not a scooter with two people on it appearing out of nowhere.
