1
Josefine
“Fuck!”All the good words are taken. I toss my notepad and pen at my open laptop with such force it flips onto its back.
On the other side of the desk we share in our quaint Santa Monica apartment, Tyler removes his headphones. “You okay?” He sets my MacBook upright.
I drop my head to my arms and let out an incoherent grumble.
He rattles my wrist. “Look at me, Beck,” he says, using my childhood nickname. It’s short for Beckham—my last name. (And yes, when we started dating, he exhausted all theBend It Like Beckhamjokes.)
I lift my head but keep my chin propped on my arms. “Yes?” I sigh.
“You’re going to write this book.” He grins, his gray eyes shining. “You’re the most talented person I know. And I know talent.”
That he does. Tyler is a music producer who works mostly with electronic dance music artists.
“You really think so?” I ask, blowing out a long breath.
I’ve been writing a book for the past six months, but recently,my work has come to a standstill. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block, per se, but I can’t find coherent words to fill in the gaps in my plot. Like a dog chasing its tail, I go around and around in circles, but everything I write lately is utter shit. Maybe I should buy some of those disposable plastic poop bags, stuff my laptop inside, tie the baggie in a knot, and toss it over the Santa Monica Pier.
I’m working on a novel loosely based on my life. I considered writing a memoir, but I’m worried that if I do, my mom will sue me. It’s probably better this way anyway. It allows me to be more creative. Although I feel about as creative as a sponge right now.
“Yes. Now come here,” he commands.
I round the desk and climb onto his lap, relishing the way his tattooed arms engulf me. He’s toned, but not a big dude, and I love how my petite frame fits against him. His blond hair tickles my nose when I bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale his signature honey and rosewood scent, courtesy of Tom Ford.
“You need a haircut.” I nip at his neck.
“Oh, do I now?” he murmurs into the messy brown knot planted on top of my head, giving my hip a playful pinch.
“No, not really.” I brush a hand across his chest. “I like it this way. More to pull on.” With a giggle, I bite his neck again.
“Josefine Beckham,” he quips. “Am I going to have to bend you over this desk?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
After an adequate night’s sleep, I’m feeling refreshed and motivated. I work from home most days, but staring at the same walls starts to feel like a prison after a while.
Even though Tyler could afford a nicer place in LA, I begged him to keep the Santa Monica apartment he’s owned since beforeI moved in. It’s just the two of us, and while we’re minimalistic, it does sometimes feel like we’re living in a hermit crab shell. But its location can’t be beat.
We’re steps away from the shore, and when I need a change of scenery, I pack my laptop bag and wander to my favorite coffee shop. I swear it’s the only one in all of Southern California without ridiculously overpriced lattes. Over time, it’s become a sort of unofficial communal workspace. I’m one of many patrons who set up shop there regularly.
Each of us is part of the writing world in some way, shape, or form—a discovery I made because of my growing curiosity. Writing a book has helped me see the world from other angles and encouraged me to open up and learn more about the people I encounter.
As a child, I was shy. I’d tiptoe around others, observing from afar—a wallflower of sorts. It’s taken years (and lots of therapy), but I no longer collect boob sweat like it’s going out of style when I talk to strangers.
These days, I approach social encounters as potential material for my book. My accountability partner, Brooks, and I have a saying:It’s for the plot. Car breaks down on the side of the road? It’s for the plot. Dealing with a total asshole in the middle of Whole Foods? Potential material for the plot. Babysitting Tyler’s goofy-ass clients who throw temper tantrums in the middle of nightclubs? You guessed it—it’s for the plot.
Any life event—whether it’s happening to me or aroundme—is up for grabs. The juicier, the better.
Most people working at the coffee shop prefer to be left alone with their nonprescription blue-light glasses, near-permanent hunched shoulders, AirPods, and double espressos. But picking their brains and chatting them up is what I live for.
Brooks is already waiting for me, and he’s got a smirk glued to his smug face. He’s wearing a baseball cap, which makes him lookeven more like his doppelgänger, Penn Badgley, fromYou. Like he’s ready to lock someone in a glass cage at any moment.
Fantastic. We’ll never get anything done; people will be gawking and asking for “Penn’s” autograph all day.
“What?” I ask as I approach our usual table. Brooks & Beck may as well be carved into the wood. Technically, we can’t reserve tables, but we regulars have an unspoken agreement about not taking the seats others prefer—sort of like in middle school.
