I’ve written over ten thousand words.
Then more.
It’s a mess. A raw, tangled, emotional wreckage of dialogue and heartbreak and aching silence—but it’shonest. It’s real. It’smine.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
It creaks open an inch, then a little more, and Nina pokes her head in.
Her eyes take in everything in one glance—the pile of coffee mugs, the untouched snacks, the avalanche of tissues on the floor, my smeared eyeliner and the open Word doc glowing like a battlefield on my screen.
“You okay?” she asks, gently.
I look up at her.
My throat tightens, but I force the words out anyway.
“No,” I whisper. Then after a beat, “But I think I’m writing the best thing I’ve ever written.”
Nina smiles. Not wide, not pitying. Just soft. Solid. The kind of smile that says,I see you.
She nods once.
“Then we’re calling that a win.”
And just like that, I believe her.
Even if only for a moment.
Even if it still hurts.
Even if I’m still wrecked.
Because the writing is messy.
And I am too.
But I’m still here.
And the story isn’t over yet.
32
ASH
Fucking Stupid
Something’s been keeping me from making the call. But the wedding is two days away, and I can’t put it off any longer. Olive’s silence says everything—she doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore, doesn’t want to marry me. So this call is overdue.
I’ve done press junkets, late-night shows, even walked onstage after throwing up from a panic attack. But none of that feels like this—staring at my phone, thumb hovering over the screen, knowing the second I hit call, there’s no going back.
I hit it anyway.
Scott picks up on the second ring. “Hey. I was just about to call you. I spoke to Celeste, and she wants to go over some last-minute details with—”
“It’s off.”
There’s a beat of silence.
