My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Eventually,” she says around a bite of brie. “But preferably now. You’ve got this look about you. You know—the one where your hair’s about to join a cult and your laptop is planning a murder-suicide.”
“I’ve been working,” I lie.
“No, you’ve been pretending to write while watching twelve-year-old baking competition reruns on HGTV and stalking Eric’s Insta.”
I open my mouth to argue.
“You’re also out of clean underwear and have been wearing the same hoodie forfive days.”
“I washed it,” I mutter.
She gives me a look.
“Fine. IFebreezedit.”
Sasha leans forward, grabbing my knee and giving it a shake. “Babe. You need a reset. A real one. Not the kind where you sage your living room and end up crying into a pint of Chunky Monkey.”
I sigh. “And where exactly do you propose I reset my shattered emotional soul?”
She lifts her brows. “Lakeside.”
I blink. “You mean my writer’s cottage?”
“It’s perfect. No distractions. No press. No memories of an ex-fiancé lurking in every corner.”
It’s true. I haven’t been there for over a year. My writer’s cottage is about an hour outside of the city, nestled next to a lake in a quiet, isolated area near a small town called Lakeside, surrounded by woods, fog and the occasional moose.
I bought it after my second book hit the bestseller list. It’s always been a place I can run to when deadlines loom or the world gets too loud.
“Think about it,” Sasha says gently, pulling her feet onto the couch. “No expectations. No social media. Just you, your writing, and a chance to figure out what the hell comes next.”
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling as the rain drums against the windows.
“Fine,” I finally say. “But only if you come with me.”
She smirks. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The lake housesmells like cedar and dust.
It’s a two-story, three bedroom cottage tucked beneath acanopy of evergreens, with light wood siding and a wide front porch that creaks under our feet. The air up here is different—crisp, damp, and laced with pine. No more car horns or people. No more of my mom calling to “check in” and casually remind me that she always knew Eric was a spineless coward.
Sasha pushes open the door and breathes in deep.
“God, I missed this place.”
Inside, everything is as I left it: cozy and cluttered. Bookshelves sag under the weight of hardcovers, paperbacks and fake plants. A macrame wall hanging is tacked up above the stone fireplace. There’s a mismatched velvet armchair by the window and a navy blue typewriter I don’t use resting on the antique writer’s desk I bought because I thought it made me look old school bookish.
“I had the fridge stocked a couple of days ago,” Sasha says, tossing her purse on the couch. “Wine, pasta, pop tarts. All the essentials.”
“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” I grin, setting Goonie down on the floor.
Sasha rolls her eyes, but I can still see the concern lingering in the expression on her face. She’s been doing that a lot lately—watching me like a hawk—like she’s waiting for me to crack.
“Go ahead and judge,” I huff as I hang my jacket on one of the hooks by the door.
“Nope.” She kicks off her boots. “You’re getting none of that from me.”
