“Well, the little cooking bits are delightful. I was thinking I could do a longer-form version of learning to cook at the ripe old age of, well, no need for exact numbers, but you get the point. If the right role came along, though, I would snatch it up in a heartbeat.”
I nod, amazed by her bravery to try something new. I started acting as a kid. It’s all I know, but is it my greatest passion? And if it’s not, then what am I doing clinging on to it like it’s a life raft in the North Sea?
SKYE
It’s been nine days. Miles has been gone for nine days. We’ve texted a little, but not much. The reception where they are is spotty. And honestly, I haven’t been quick to respond. If I let the texts sit unanswered, maybe I won’t miss him so much. I can fool myself into being okay with this. Like tapering off contact will make it easier.
He offered for me to visit again. But I can’t. They are staying in a small group of cottages all next to each other. How would we sneak around when everyone else is so close? Anyway, I need to finish this book.
In fact, I’m at my laptop right now, killing time until I need to leave for my writing critique group, but the words aren’t coming. I got here an hour early to try to get some writing done, since this morning I wrote a whopping one-hundred and thirty-seven words. And also because I didn’t want to stay at dinner any longer.
Thora came back a week ago, and tonight she and my father made dinner together.
“Isn’t the roast great?” Dad asked, kicking my foot under the table.
Truth be told, it was dry. Very dry.
I smiled. “It’s great.”
Dad and Thora kept exchanging these looks the whole meal. They had little in-jokes too that didn’t make a lick of sense to me, but made Thora giggle. I excused myself after what to me seemed an acceptable amount of time. It’s not that I’m against my father dating, if that’s what they’re doing. But where could it go? Thora lives in LA. Dad lives here. A familiar problem, for sure, but not mine this time.
I thought I’d get more done with the production crew leaving—a quiet castle, no interruptions. But that is definitely not the case. It’s like the muse accepted Miles’s invitation, packed up, and left with him. The hussy.
I could visit him. What would be the harm?
It’s a dry night, so I opt to ride to Thistle House for our meeting. The night swallows me in its cool embrace, the wind in my face refreshing. I didn’t give myself enough time, so I’m ten minutes late.
“There she is!” Bella says and claps her hands together as I walk through the door, shrugging off my coat.
Gabby’s face is a little pinched, but it always is. It’s probably not from my tardiness. Hopefully.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Kate hands me a whiskey she had waiting for me with a smile. “What were you getting up to?”
I blush, even though I absolutely wasn’t fooling around since Miles isn’t even in town.
Gabby smiles. “Ah, yes, probably just furiously typing away.”
I laugh. “Not hardly.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Bella says. “You’ve nearly written a whole novel in…when did you start it again?”
“The beginning of September.” When Miles first came here. It feels like a lifetime ago.
I take a seat, settling into the cushions. We talk about Bella’s work first. Her killer needs a better motivation to be believable. Right now, the motive is protecting a long-held family recipe for mincemeat pie, and Gabby, Kate, and I agree, we’re not sure that’s murder worthy.
We talk about Gabby’s manuscript. It's flawless, as per usual. She’s going to send it out in the new year, since most of publishing takes the holidays off.
Then we come to my pages. They’ve read all I’ve written so far. I’m about sixty percent through my manuscript.
Gabby clears her throat. “I’m curious how much of this is… well… autobiographical?”
Kate bites her lip, not saying a word. She’s the only one who knows about Miles and me.
I freeze, quite literally, with my whiskey glass halfway to my mouth. “What makes you ask, out of curiosity?”
“I follow your IG account, and back in September, you were tagged inYHF’s post. You were walking with Miles Casey. And I noticed in the pages, there are a few times early on, where Mickey is spelled M-L-E-S.”
