Type another one. Less terrible, and I leave it.
Austen jumps up and curls next to the laptop, purring. The vibration hums through the keyboard, into my hands.
I type another sentence. Then another.
It’s not good. It’s messy and rough, and I have no idea where it’s going.
But it’s mine.
For the first time in years, I’m not reading someone else’s story.
I’m writing my own.
My phone buzzes around nine.I’ve written three pages—three terrible, wonderful pages that don’t look like anything yet but feel like something.
It’s the group chat.
Michelle:Anyone up for brunch tomorrow? 10 am. My place?
Amber:I’ll bring Tally’s pastries from the restaurant.
Jo:What’s the occasion?
Michelle:Jessica.
Jo:Ah.
Grandma Hensley:I’ll bring hard truths.
Michelle:Grandma Hensley, please be gentle.
Grandma Hensley:I’m always gentle, and I’m always right.
I should be annoyed, feel ambushed. The book club staging an intervention about my love life is exactly the kind of meddling I normally resist.
But I’m tired of being alone in my own head and stress-reading my way through feelings I refuse to examine. Tired of being the stubborn heroine who won’t admit she’s in love until chapter twenty.
I text back:
Me:I’ll be there.
I set down my phone and look at Austen.
“They’re going to make me talk about it.”
He purrs.
“They’re going to have opinions.”
More purring.
“They’re going to tell me I’m being an idiot.”
He bumps his head against my hand, the closest he ever gets to affection.
“Fine. Maybe I need to hear it.”
I close the laptop, three pages saved, and feel something I haven’t felt in days.
