Page 14 of The Haunting Plot

My eyes pop open, narrowing as I try to decipher if he’s fucking with me. “What are you talking about?”

“The Dead Parents Club. We usually have brunches on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Another one around the holidays.”

Definitely fucking with me. “I don’t know if you’re joking.”

“It probably started as a joke, but it’s definitely a thing. They call it the club no one asked to join. I’ve met some cool people there. It’s kind of a non-traditional grief support group.”

“I’ll look into it.” My gaze drops to the floor, tracking a crack in the cement. Fuck, I hope that’s not a foundation issue.

“Losing both parents and a husband while raising two young kids on your own is a lot. That’s an entire support system. It’s okay to accept help, especially when I’m offering.”

Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Of course I know it’s a lot; I’ve been doing everything on my own for over two years. And I don’t need another member of the patriarchy reminding me that I have to do it all with a smile on my face. I clench my fists at my sides, trying to channel the anger bubbling up inside me. When my emotions hit, they hit hard. I’m about to unleash my ire on him, but the sincere look on his face stops me in my tracks. His bright blue eyes twinkle in the dim lighting. Seriously, what is up with that?

“You have my number. I really hope you use it,” he says as he slowly backs away and jogs up the stairs.

I should follow him out, but I stand there alone in the semi-dark basement for several minutes until the sound of the front door closing jars me from my daze.

——————

Once the kids go to bed, I open my laptop. It’s a newer model than the one I lost in the fire, so it takes me extra time to do something since everything looks different. I hate it. I pull up my work in progress and stare at the blank screen for several minutes, but the words won’t come. I keep seeing Sawyer’s face when I read through the male parts I’ve written.

I write romance for the same reason a lot of my readers pick up my books: to escape. When I write, I can live out whatever my fantasy is at the moment, explore my sexual desires. I can fall in love with myself through my characters. And I can give my characters the happy ending they deserve instead of the shitty one I’m living in.

Emotions are difficult for me to process. When I started reading for fun, I could escape into a character’s head, and it helped me understand the decisions they made. That extended into my real life, too. I tend to take things literally, and picking up on social cues was always difficult for me. Growing up, my best friend Summer shared every thought in her head and feeling in her heart. And the ones she didn’t share were often written all over her face. She was always easy to read, and she pulled me out of my shell.

When she suddenly clammed up, back in high school, I knew something was up. And when I saw the change in my idiot brother’s behavior too, I knew they liked each other. Seeing the two of them, two people who had been so easy for me to read, become difficult to decipher, it opened my eyes. I watched them pine for each other from afar for years. It challenged everything I thought I knew about emotions. Up until then, emotions seemed so black and white: yell at someone, they get mad. Cause, effect. But there was so much happening in the gray areas that I didn’t understand.

It was confusing. I didn’t like it. It defied logic and reason, two things I excel in understanding.

So I started writing. It began as an exercise from my therapist. I was supposed to spend twenty minutes a day writing about a traumatic or emotional experience. My childhood had been far from easy, so I had no shortage of topics to write about at first.

RJ and I lost our mom at a young age, and our deadbeat father gave us up for adoption, so our great-aunt Mildred took us in. She was in her seventies, and her health was poor, so we really only had each other. Even though I’m only two years older than my brother, I practically raised him.

When I ran out of feelings to write about, I would let my mind wander into made-up scenarios, working through fictional trauma with my writing. Somehow that turned into creating characters and throwing them in all kinds of situations. And before I knew it, I was drafting whole narratives around these characters and their emotional roller coasters. It’s a huge departure from the expository journalistic writing I do for the local paper, and each type of writing satisfies a different part of my brain.

But tonight the words aren’t flowing. I open my notes app and type a quick list of all the items I need done. RJ could probably help with some of them. He’s pretty handy. But some of the more complicated items will require a professional.

Do I want someone I don’t know in my space? Absolutely not. And neither will Jonah. I’m not sure if I can be around Sawyer all the time. Each time he looked at me, something tickled the inside of my stomach lining. I wouldn’t call it butterflies, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

This isn’t one of my books. I’m not going to flower up my feelings with colorful prose and metaphors. He makes me uncomfortable in my skin, eliciting sensations I’ve never experienced before, and I’m unnerved by it. But it also gave me this rush of endorphins I usually only experience in extremely happy situations.

Fuck. Does he make me happy? That can’t be right.

I spend the rest of the night overanalyzing our entire interaction until it’s taken up way too much of my time and brain power. I can’t get caught up in this man’s web. I’m not sure I’d survive it.

CHAPTER 5

SAWYER

It’s been three days since I left Raven’s house. She hasn’t called or texted, and it’s causing a panicky feeling in my chest. I’m about ready to have Tommy ask the pencil wizard to pass his mom a note for me, but it’s Labor Day, and I have to work.

Rudy grins at me as I walk down the hall. “There are some women in your office. Said they needed to talk to you?”

I don’t have any scheduled appointments, but I nod and walk into my office. Three heads turn in my direction, and a lead weight sinks in my gut. This can’t be good.

Hardy’s fiancée, Bella, speaks first. “We’re here for Raven.”

“I can’t help your friend,” I say calmly as I sink into my desk chair.