Page 85 of One Night with Number Nineteen

Tonight it was deadlines and stubborn characters who just won’t get their lives together and…The Book That Shall Not Be Written.

Or maybe I should be calling it⁠—

The Book That Shall Not Be Written (But is Being Written Anyway).

I mentioned I couldn’t get it out of my head, admitted I haven’t been able to stop writing it, and naturally Faye needed to read it.

And I let her…all the while shitting myself, telling myself that it’s terrible, that it’s the worst thing I’ve ever written, that she’ll think it’s stupid, that she’ll agree it makes no sense with my current career trajectory.

“It’s not stupid,” I whisper. “It’s good, and so what if it doesn’t fit in perfectly with my other books?”

The night air doesn’t answer me.

Rude.

Sighing, I sink down onto the porch steps and sip my wine.

It was raining earlier, leaving the grass dotted with tiny glittering orbs of moisture. Overhead, the clouds cling to the sky, diluting the moonlight, but keeping the temperature a few degrees warmer than the last couple of days have been.

All of which is to say, with my wine and my banana bread and my cozy pajamas and thick, fuzzy socks, I’m quite comfortable.

Physically anyway.

Inside, my mind’s a mess.

My heart is racing, and anxiety has my nerves running in overdrive, but I force myself to sit still and sip at my wine, nibble at the slice of banana bread, stare out at the lawn.

Then frown when I see something moving in the shadows at the tree line.

Probably that raccoon Sawyer mentioned.

I’d better make sure the trash can lid is secured.

I set my wine glass down, pop the last of the banana bread into my mouth, and go around the side of the house (keeping on high alert for any raccoons who might be unhappy about my presence).

Trash day is tomorrow and we are in desperate need of the garbage truck to come—the bins are stuffed full with moving leftovers and holiday remnants: wrapping paper and empty cardboard boxes, ribbons and bows and leftovers that Ollie didn’t eat (though he did love Harper’s homemade rolls).

When I reach the cans, I’m glad I made the detour.

The recycling bin’s lid is askew and I sigh, try to stuff down the flattened cardboard boxes and scraps of paper from the rejected plot points of The Book That Shall Not (or Shall) Be Written. There are a few other odds and ends—old notebooks, a few ideas that never came to fruition, papers I no longer need.

Including…

I exhale as I bend down and pick up the copy of my marriage certificate from the ground.

The storm from earlier must have blown it free.

It’s smudged and wrinkled, wet from the pavement. But since it’s one of a half-dozen I found when I was cleaning out old files, I’d chucked it. Frowning, I fold it in quarters and shove it down into the can.

It’s public information, so I’m not worried about anyone stealing it—plus it’s not like I’m still married—but I do feel a little niggle at throwing it away.

Like I need the reminder.

The warning.

“That was the past,” I tell myself. “Things are different now. I’m different.”

But even as I close the lid, I wonder if that’s true, wonder if this thing with Sawyer will change like it had with Ben, will morph into something I don’t recognize, into something that slowly eats away at me, at my heart and soul.