WhenIhad jumped at the chance to get out ofColoradoand renovate my late great-aunt’s beach house all summer,Iwasn’t expecting it to be quite so...run down.
I imagined some paint touch-ups.Maybea little landscaping, and some exterior work.Butthis was a nightmare.
I didn’t need a hammer;Ineeded a bulldozer.
The house looked like my boobs whenItook my bra off for the day.Itwas still safe even though it was sagging, right?Ididn’t exactly have any other options at the moment.
“It’s not company-ready yet,”Ihedged.
“But soon,”Willowchimed in. “BecauseIthink we’re definitely overdue for a beachfront writers’ retreat.Pictureit: the three of us with laptops and margaritas at the ready.Suntanning and writing all day, and getting drunk off our asses and commiserating over deadlines at night.”
“I’m in,”Whitneysaid.
WhileWhitneyandWillowping-ponged back and forth about a hypothetical girls’ trip,Istudied the house.
Once upon a time, it probably had charm and character.Flakesof paint in teal blue still clung to the siding for dear life.Scallopedtrim hung off the deck like a broken arm.Theweeds were nearly taller thanIwas.
The lime-green shutters were a choice.
The image of what had once been flashed through my mind like a premonition.Thevision of brilliant summers full of salt-sprayed magic.
“Wander.”
I snapped out of the daze at the sound ofWhitney’svoice and looked back at the screen.
“Huh?”
“I was asking if you got over your writer’s blo?—”
“Don’t say it!”Isnapped. “Idon’t have it, but if you say it,Iwill.”
Whitney just rolled her eyes.
I might have been more than a little superstitious.AndmaybeWhitneywasn’t exactly wrong...
I had been b-l-o-c-k-e-d for eight months and twenty-nine days, butIwasn’t about to admit that to them.
WhitneyWestandWillowWinsletwere two incredible authors and my best friends.Theywere out in the world, kicking ass and taking names.
And hereIwas.Thebroke, newly single romance author who couldn’t write another book.
Willow’s smile was kind, but completely unhelpful. “Haveyou tried seeing a therapist?Maybeyou’re not—you know—the ‘B’ word.Maybeit’s like stage fright, and you just need to figure out a way to get over it.”
Just get over it.IwishIhad thought of that.
I bit back a snarky response becauseIknew they meant well.IfIasked, the two of them would drop everything and fly across the country for me at a moment’s notice.
That was the thing that sucked about long-distance friendships.SouthernCalifornia,Colorado, andRhodeIslandweren’t exactly conducive to a “come over and hang out” friendship.
But they were my sisters in every way that mattered, even if we rarely got to see each other.
“Okay.Ihave to pee.WhichmeansIhave to figure out how to get inside and hope there isn't a snake in the toilet or something.”
Whitney squeaked and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Ohmy god.Isthat a thing?Whereexactly did you move to again?Becausethat sounds like hell.”
Honestly?Itwas starting to feel like it.BecauseCedarIslandwasn’t actually an island.Andthis magical beach house summer?Itwas starting to feel more like a curse.
3
