Page 2 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

Penny: Did you know that Stephen King was rejected by thirty publishers before one picked up Carrie?

I huff out a laugh. Since my last book bombed I haven’t found a whole lot to laugh about, but Penny Darling has been the one bright light. My high school best friend who I lost touch with for far too long. I’m not sure how I lasted without her ridiculous commentary.

Penny: Also, your day has to be going better than mine was yesterday. Stop me if I already told you this story but Babs and Rayna actually tried to set me up with someone yesterday. And before you tell me, but Penny, maybe this is a good thing, let me tell you—he’s still in HIGH SCHOOL!

This time my laughter is loud. Shit, that’s bad.

Penny: When I reminded them of that fact they told me he’s eighteen and has a car. Beggars can’t be choosers! God, Monty, I wish you were there for that one. Then again, it was humiliating so maybe not.

Penny: I guess it’s better than Babs trying to set me up with her son–who’s married! I don’t care how stony his relationship is, that’s a no!

It takes me a second to puzzle together what she’s saying and then I chuckle at her wrong choice of words. Marriage on the rocks…She always screws up the easiest sayings. It’s just as endearing now as it was in high school.

Me: I would never tell you to take dating advice from Babs and Rayna, I promise.

I also would never tell her she should date. I just about did a backflip when she told me her engagement was over when we reconnected this past spring.

We were seated at the bar in the local brewery. The lighting wasn’t great, but I remember every detail. From her thick auburn hair pulled to the side in a braid, to the choppy bangs that framed her heart-shaped face. Her bright eyes had danced wildly as if she, too, was taking in every facet of this moment, and her full lips were so wide her cheeks must have hurt. The last time I had spent any real time with Penny before that night, we were eighteen and both leaving for college. I’d wanted to kiss her so bad my tongue hurt from biting down on it. But we were kids, and I was scared I’d ruin our friendship if we crossed that line.

Would it be weird if I asked her to send me a selfie right now? Then I could settle this eye color thing once and for all.

Before I can muster the courage to do something so ridiculous, my phone trills with a ring.

“Hey, Mom.”

With a thick New York accent that two decades in Hope Harbor didn’t soften, she asks, “How was your flight?”

“Quick. Just at baggage now, waiting for Dad.” I wince as soon as I say it, and quickly cover up the mention of him. “I tried writing on the plane.”

My mother hums. “Don’t stress, I’m sure the words will come.”

Right. Because my mother knows about my—I swallow the dreaded term—inability to write. “Not soon enough to avoid moving here.”

“You know you were more than welcome to stay at my place, honey.”

“And what? Sleep on your couch?”

“We could have gotten a bigger place together.”

“I’m not moving in with my mother,” I huff, embarrassed. I’m twenty-eight. At one time I was a New York Times bestselling author. Okay, I still am, I guess. Though those few words above my name on the front of a book aren’t enough to pay my rent every month. No one tells you how quickly your success can be forgotten. How quickly you can be forgotten.

“But it’s okay to move in with your father?” I can hear the hurt in her tone, though she immediately takes the jibe back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

My mother rarely talks about my father. It’s the oddest thing, because for the first eighteen years of my life I would have told you they were best friends before they were husband and wife. They had that kind of love people write about: they finished each other’s sentences, they danced together in the kitchen, they laughed over the same jokes, enjoyed the same television shows, read the same books. And then one day they sat me down and told me they were separating. It made absolutely no fucking sense. Honestly, it still doesn’t.

It was right after my grandfather’s death, which we all took hard since we lived with him and my vovo. At first, I thought my father was depressed, but his grief didn’t seem to end and then their marriage did. My mother moved back to New York when I went to college there, and we both stayed after I graduated.

The weight of my laptop bag digs into my shoulder, so I shift it to the ground and move the phone to my other ear.

“I’m only going back to Hope Harbor because I need a change of scenery to write and somewhere cheap to live. Dad’s offered me both.” It’s the least he could do after destroying our family. “You know if I could stay in the city, I would.”

“I know.” My mother sighs. “And maybe this will be good for you. You did some of your best writing on the back porch.”

That’s where I wrote my first novel: a love story and my mother’s favorite book of mine. It spilled out during high school and has never seen the light of day. Reading and writing about love felt too hard after everything that happened with my mom and dad.

“Maybe. Listen, the bags are starting to come out. I’ll give you a call later this week.”

“Okay, Jake, talk soon. Give my love to Vovo.”