Printouts of her screenplay were scattered around, but her mind was too jumbled for her to focus. Normally she would go for a run or hit the gym before trying to write, but neither was an option, so she was going to have to get creative.
She opened a desk drawer and pulled out her set of throwingknives, then went into the dining alcove where she kept a paper silhouette of a man tucked behind the hutch. She leaned it against the wall and smiled when she saw the head shot of Prescott Jameson—hunky actor, action hero, ex-boyfriend and total asshole—was still taped in place.
“Hello, Prescott,” she said with a grin. “Want to play a game?”
She hop-stepped to the far end of the dining room and steadied her breathing. After closing her eyes, she imagined the knife flying straight and true toward the target, landing directly in the center of his chest. Then she opened her eyes and released the blade.
It flew across the room and landed two feet from the target, thunking as it sank into the wall.
“Well, shit.”
She threw all of the knives, getting closer until she managed to hit the target, just below Prescott’s very square jaw.
“And that’s a win for me.”
Feeling refreshed and mentally clear, she returned to her office and settled in front of her laptop. She was going to reread what she had so far with the idea that tomorrow she would actually write five new pages. Later, she would check in with her critique group to see when the next meeting was. She would go to that because she needed the social contact as much as she needed their thoughts on her most current scene. Oh, and if she was planning to drive there, and she was, she needed to take her car out later today, just to make sure she was physically capable of driving.
She followed through with her plan, and by the time her groceries were delivered at eleven thirty, she was feeling pretty damned virtuous. But as she started unpacking her order, she found herself regretting all the healthy options. Sure, grilled chicken breasts, tons of fruit and bagged salad were good for her, but why hadn’t she thought to add some tortilla chips to the order? Or ice cream?
Should she make a grocery store run by herself? She couldn’t carry much, what with the crutches, but surely she could manage a couple of pints of ice cream and a—
Her doorbell rang. She glanced in that general direction, wondering if it was her mom coming to check on her. Not that Ava stopped by without calling, but a case could be made that they’d parted on more uneasy terms than usual.
“I’m coming,” she called as she made her way to the door and opened it only to exhale in relief when she saw her father standing there. Even more exciting, he was holding two big takeout bags from The Cheesecake Factory.
“I brought lunch,” he said, walking into her place and kissing her on the cheek. “I wasn’t sure if you had food or not so I brought you an order of Bang-Bang Chicken and Shrimp to warm up for dinner tonight.”
The sight of him, the thoughtfulness of the food and the general air of affection for her he always exuded made her throw herself at him. He set the food on the coffee table and pulled her close.
“How are you, baby girl?”
“Better now.”
When she pulled back, he looked around. “The place looks good. That makes me happy. I was worried you were, you know, hiding out.”
“You mean staying in bed and not taking care of myself?” she asked, refusing to admit that was how she’d spent the last three days. “Dad, come on. I’m super tough. I’ve been dealing in my own way.”
“You’re getting around okay?”
“I am. Later I’m going to try driving.”
He frowned. “Should you be doing that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my right leg. I’m good.”
He carried the food into the kitchen. In addition to the chicken, he’d brought her two different kinds of cheesecakeslices. For lunch there was the Chinese chicken salad for her and the Cuban sandwich for him. Also an order of avocado egg rolls for them to share.
She got them each a glass of ice water, then sat across from him and leaned her crutches against a spare chair.
“Does Mom know what you’re having for lunch?” she asked with a grin. “Because there’s no way she’d approve of that sandwich.”
“Or the fries,” he said cheerfully. “I eat right ninety percent of the time. This is a special event.”
“Lunch at my place?”
“Having lunch with my daughter.”
He was teasing, of course, but the words still felt good. She knew that, no matter what, her dad would be there for her. They’d always had a bond like that. When she’d been little and had nightmares, he’d been the one to sit up with her until she calmed down enough to go to sleep. Running to her parents’ room and crawling into bed with them had never been an option. They’d never told her she couldn’t—instead it was something she simply didn’t do.
