Whitney closed her notes. “Andwhy is this the first you’re saying something about it?Youknow we’re always down to talk, even if it’s not about work.Hell,Ithink we talk about life more than work most of the time.”
She wasn’t wrong in the least bit.
But it wasn’t something they could fix.Honestly, ifIknew how to fix a mental break,I’ddo it myself.ButIwas pretty sure brainBand-Aidsweren’t a thing.
I didn’t want to saddle them with my burden, even thoughIknew they would jump at the chance to carry it.
But more than that,Ididn’t want to admit thatIwas carrying a burden in the first place.
Willow fluffed her newly blue hair. “Isit just the writer’s block?Oris it the house or the breakup or the?—”
“Okay,Ithink that’s good.Shedoesn’t need a reminder of everything going wrong,”Whitneysqueaked.
I dug my hands into my hair. “It’snot the house or the breakup.Imean,IwantTerryto pay me back, but we all know that’s not happening.He’sgone, and that is relief enough.I’llfigure the financial stuff out.”
“So . . . the writer’s block?”Whitneyguessed.
It was now or never.WhatdidIhave left to lose?Mypride should have dissolved along with my publishing contract, but somehow it stuck around.
“Kind of.Igot dropped by my publisher becauseImissed all my deadlines and had to pay back my advance.”
“Wander . . .”Willowcooed with kindness and concern.Maybea little shock.
“So, yeah.I’mdone,”Isaid with a huff.
Whitney screeched as she fell over in her chair.Literally.Therolling wheels upended, and her feet were where her head used to be.Hersocks disappeared, replaced by her hands as she used the edge of her desk to pull herself up off the floor. “Geez.Don’tscare me like that.Ithought you were serious for a second.”
“I am,”Isaid. “Idon’t have any more books in me.I’vetried, andIcan’t do it.It’slike trying to squeeze water from a rock.Ipeaked.I’veaccepted it.”
“I don’t think you’ve peaked,”Willowsaid. “Maybeyou just need to?—”
I shook my head. “I’vetried all the mental exercises.I’vetried all the plotting techniques.Ieven saw a sports psychologist to see if he could fix me.”Ishook my head. “Itis what it is, andI’vemade peace with it.”
Whitney’s face tightened in concern. “Haveyou, though?”
I shrugged. “I’vebeen through anger, denial, and bargaining.IthinkI’mfirmly in the depression era, andI’mfine with that.AtleastIhave a houseIcan take it out on.Ihave a crowbar and a sledgehammer.It’slike my own personal rage room.”Iglanced behind me at the sagging kitchen cabinets.Theywere my next victims.
Heat and pressure built up behind my eyes.
I had been angry.Ihad been determined.Ihad given up.ButIhadn’t cried over the death of my career until now.Thecomfort of having characters take up residence in my mind was gone.Thesafety of escaping into imaginary worlds when the real one was too much to take had disappeared.
I felt like a stranger in my mind.Likea time traveler who had been dropped into the present and had no idea where they were or what was going on.
WhenIglanced back at the screen,Icouldn’t bear the sight of the girls’ sad eyes.
Tears welled up in mine. “Ishould go.Ineed to get a little more work done outside before the sun sets.Idon’t want to keep you guys from being productive.”
Willow andWhitneyjumped in, one on top of the other. “Wander?—”
“I’ll talk to you guys later.”Beforethey could say anything else,Ilogged off.
Tears streamed down my cheeks asIthrew my laptop onto the end of the couch.
I didn’t feel like pulling weeds and traversing the dilapidated boardwalk to the beach.Instead,Islipped through the divot in the hedge whereJackhad been cutting across every day and used his path to the beach.
The sand was soft and warm, retaining the heat of the day, even as the sun disappeared.
I sat on the dune and hugged my knees to my chest.Thesteady crash of waves was the percussion to my funeral song asImourned the death of the personIused to be.
