“And Scott? For what it's worth? If this woman is the reason you finally wrote something honest again, maybe she's also the reason you'll figure out how to fix this.”
“I don't think this is fixable.”
“You're a romance author. You literally write about fixing things for a living.”
“Fiction is different.”
“Is it?” He pauses. “Think about your books. Your best ones. What do the heroes do when they mess up?”
“They grovel. They grand gesture. They prove they've changed.”
“And what are you doing?”
“I'm...hiding in my condo and pulling my book.”
“Exactly.” His voice is dry. “Something to think about.”
He hangs up.
I sit in the silence of my expensive, empty apartment and think about what he said.
In my books, the heroes fight for love. They don't give up. They find ways to show the heroine that they've changed, that they're worthy of a second chance, that their love is strong enough to overcome whatever obstacles stand in their way.
But this isn't a book. This is real life. And in real life, sometimes the kindest thing you can do is step back. Respect someone's wishes. Give them space even when every cell in your body is screaming to fight for them.
Jessica asked me to leave her alone.
So I will.
Even if it kills me.
The afternoon dragson in a haze of misery.
I try to write. Can't focus. The words that usually come so easily feel locked behind a door I can't open.
I try to eat. The sandwich tastes like cardboard. I throw half of it away.
I try to read. End up staring at the same page for twenty minutes without absorbing a single word.
Around four o'clock, Grayson shows up.
He doesn't knock. Just uses his emergency key and walks in like he owns the place.
“You look terrible,” he announces.
“Thanks. That's very helpful.”
“You're still wearing the khakis.”
I look down. He's right. I'm still in the sandy beach clothes. The sunscreen-and-regret outfit. “I didn't notice.”
“Scott.” Grayson sits on the arm of my expensive couch. “Michelle told me what happened at the beach with Penelope and Jessica's ex-husband.”
“Great. So everyone knows.”
“Everyone knows Penelope started something and David made it worse. No one knows the actual details.” He studies me. “Want to fill me in?”
So I do. I tell him everything—the kiss, the umbrella, the moment I thought everything was finally going to be okay. Penelope's calculated cruelty. David grabbing Jessica's arm. My threat that I'm still not sure I regret.
