Page 41 of Booked on You
Hallie
With my luck, it’s happening. Happy writing! Chat soon!
I sit at the table and blow on the noodles. It takes too long, so I grab a few ice cubes and throw them inside to cool it off faster. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I take my first bite. Eating this brings me back to my college days, when I was studying literature at New York University, trying to survive on pennies while living in a one-bedroom apartment with my two friends. If anyone knows about being a struggling artist, it’s me. That’s another reason why I don’t ever take this for granted.
Once I’ve inhaled my ramen, I return to my laptop with my recorder in hand. I download my audio and run it through my app, where soon, my dictated words appear on the screen.
The excitement returns when my fingers are back on the keys. I happily get lost in my work, and it feels like something has been released beneath the surface. When I glance up, I see Ezra in the backyard with an axe in his hand, chopping wood for the firepit, I assume.
Muscles ripple down his back as he swings it overhead. I quickly grab my phone and record a video of him, then immediately send it to Hallie.
Hallie
Wow. He should be on a cover.
Scarlett
Hell no! I am not sharing this man with this world.
Hallie
Oh, you totally are. And I can’t wait to read about it.
Scarlett
Hush! I have to keep him a secret. I can’t let the same thing happen that did before.
Hallie
You know what they say? Third time’s a charm. And a man who has big hands…
I can’t helpbut blush.
Scarlett
Wears big gloves.
Hallie
That’s exactly right.
I setthe phone down and glance toward the window one last time. Ezra is no longer chopping wood, which is probably for the best, because I might’ve stared for too long. I lose myself in my words.
When I lift my head, the sun has shifted lower in the sky. That long stretch of afternoon gold, which makes everything look more romantic than it is, makes its way into the light pink room.
I spin around in the chair and take in the space. This cottage has become my haven, and it will save my career from burning to ashes.
The adrenaline from the sexual scene I wrote has worn off. My eyes sting, and my muscles are tight. I check the clock and groan because the day is almost over. It will be dark soon, and I’m running on a few hours of sleep. I glance at the comfy bed, wondering if I should call it a night and sleep until Harry crows again.
I don’t have any words left in me. My brain feels like mashed potatoes. I’ve experienced three thousand different feelings since I started writing today. Plus, I don’t like to force it.
I close my laptop with a yawn and lean back in the chair, letting the quiet of the evening settle around me.
Ishouldpush through. I should keep going while the momentum is still warm, but my body disagrees.
Right now, I want to rot in cool sheets and darkness that doesn’t ask anything of me. My brain could review the words I wrote, but my heart wants a break.
Writing has always been my therapy.
