For the Plot (All for Love #1)

Chapter 4

4

Josefine

Southern California’s rainy season has finally received its eviction notice, and I’m all too eager to open the windows. The metal hinges protest with creaks and whines as I slide the panes up. Dust and spider corpses pool in the grooves. Writing from home has its perks. Like foregoing a bra. I’m in the middle of developing a difficult scene about a young girl navigating a world in which her mother is addicted to painkillers. When I woke up this morning, I knew it was what I needed to write. When I’m working my ass off on a particularly burdensome scene, I prefer not to be surrounded by people. I’ve made that mistake before. Unbeknownst to me, mascara was streaming down my cheeks, à la Taylor Swift in her “Blank Space” music video, in the middle of the coffee shop. According to Raj, he stood in front of me for a full minute, waving his hands like an air-traffic controller and asking if I was okay before I finally acknowledged him.

So yeah, I tend to sequester myself in the apartment some days. Scheduling self-care in anticipation of writing about heavy topics like this is vital. On days when I know my mental health will be drained due to the content of my writing, I take it a step further and call in a favor from a higher power: Help me write whatever is meant to be written today.

Additionally, I light my favorite candle—the one with hints of lotus blossom and aloe. I gather my emotional support drinks—water with lemon, peppermint tea, and black coffee—a box of tissues, pen and paper, a timer with a visible countdown, my hot pink Bluetooth keyboard (the clickety-clack sound is so satisfying), and my “Concentrate” playlist on Spotify. I swear I’m not usually this high maintenance.

Writing this book has been thoroughly cathartic. The act of writing fiction alone is healing me one small piece at a time. As an only child, I’m alone in the trauma of my youth. Losing a father at age ten and being left with a mother who didn’t handle the loss well would make any person feel some shit.

I’m forever thankful to Aunt Rachel. She lived in San Diego as well, though she worked full time, which made it difficult to see her except on weekends. Those weekends, though, were my saving grace. When I visited, I could most often be found with my cousins Millie and Asher. They are two and four years older, thus wildly entertaining for me.

When Uncle Ethan’s job relocated them to New York about the time I entered high school, and Millie, my closest friend and weekend lifeline, was suddenly on the other side of the country, I’d never felt lonelier.

My friends from elementary school didn’t know how to act around me following my dad’s death. I cringed at the way they’d walk on eggshells or pause mid-sentence with their eyes bugged out when they accidentally mentioned their own fathers. As if the word father would break me. It was even worse when they’d invite me over. Parents would ask me how my mom was doing, and I’d lie that she was “just great” when in reality, the last time I’d seen her, she was leaning over the toilet. And that was if she wasn’t MIA .

In middle school, I was still the kid whose dad died. My peers would attempt to pair me up with the other kid whose parent died, as if that was a prerequisite for a special club. I kept my head down for those years, spending every spare moment in my English teacher’s classroom, pouring poems and monologues into my notebook until it overflowed.

By the time I got to high school, I was no longer notorious for my dad’s death. I’d become infamous for having the party house. My mom was rarely home (read: always out with a new boyfriend), and teens loved to congregate at the cool and unsupervised house. Those friends didn’t stick around long, though. Once their parents discovered my mom was never around, they were forbidden from hanging out with me. Then there were the kids who befriended me long enough to steal prescription meds from my mother’s medicine cabinet.

I used to dream about sneaking out in the middle of the night and catching a flight to New York City. I’d knock on my aunt and uncle’s door and beg them to adopt me. But then guilt would claw its way in. Like if I left, then I’d be betraying my dad. If he were alive, he’d be devastated by the way my mom dealt with his death—prescription drugs, alcohol, and men. But then again, if he were alive, none of it would have happened.

No, I knew I could never leave her.

In my junior year of high school, my guidance counselor encouraged me to apply to colleges outside California. The notion of leaving the state frightened me, but I managed to distance myself from San Diego by choosing a school in Los Angeles. It allowed me to be far enough away to have the time and space to create my own life while being close enough that I could get home quickly in an emergency.

I’ve known Tyler since I was sixteen. He’s a few years older than me, and before my move to LA when I was eighteen, we were nothing more than friends. After I had settled on a college and discovered I’d missed the deadline for housing and didn’t think I could afford a place off campus, I called him. He lived in LA, and I thought he might know someone in need of a roommate or have advice regarding my situation.

Tyler insisted I move in with him, and so I did. It was impulsive and wild, but I had nowhere else to go. We’ve always had chemistry, though, early on, we strove to remain roommates and set boundaries. But before long, I found myself slipping under his sheets in the middle of the night. I claimed it was because his bed was like sleeping on a cloud. Not that either of us needed the excuse.

Four years later, we’re still together.

Sometimes I wonder if I jumped into a relationship with him too quickly, like my mom with her men.

After my dad died, she couldn’t stand on her own two feet. She was twenty when they married, and she hasn’t worked a full-time job since. While we lived off a hefty life insurance payout in the beginning, I think she knew early on that the money wouldn’t last forever. That’s when she began throwing herself at well-off men. It was harrowing to watch, and if the way she numbed herself with pills and alcohol was anything to go by, it was painful for her too.

My mom quickly became a shell of herself. Sure, she is still fit and breathtaking to most, but there is a permanent hollowness behind her eyes.

Initially, when Tyler asked me to move in with him, I flat-out refused, despite not having a backup plan. I didn’t want to leap into the arms of the first guy who propositioned me. It felt too much like something my mother would do. But Tyler assured me I was nothing like her, and because I was so tired of being let down by the one person who was supposed to love me unconditionally, having him show up for me was a huge blessing.

As a writer, the most splendid place to find myself is in the writing zone. A place where a character’s soliloquy is so spellbinding it’s hard to believe their words are actually coming from me.

Enchanted—that’s how I feel right now, propped up against the headboard while a light breeze flows in from the open windows. My start was rough, though. I’d get fifty words onto the page, then delete forty-eight of them. Over and over until finally the ideas poured out of me like a waterfall, crashing and rushing, my fingers barely keeping up. At one point, the letter R ricocheted off my keyboard and I had to find a video on YouTube to figure out how to reattach it.

Because I’m in the zone, taking full advantage of the noise-canceling feature on my AirPods, I jump when Tyler slams the door.

According to the clock on my laptop, he’s home much earlier than normal. I remove one earbud when he appears in the bedroom doorway and motions for my attention, but I don’t catch what he’s saying.

“Give me one minute. I’m in the middle of something.” I nod at my laptop and pop my AirPod back in. I’m at the climax of a major scene involving a plethora of back-and-forth dialogue and I want to get it all down before I lose it.

Across the room, Tyler paces, huffing and puffing. He’s obviously worked up, and the annoyance radiating from him is stealing my concentration. I’m trying my best to hang on to it, but he’s doing an excellent job of distracting me.

He parks himself on the bed and yanks an earbud out of my ear, pulling a couple of strands of hair along with it .

“Ouch! What the?—”

“I was fucking talking to you, Beck!” His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. This combo has been making an appearance all too frequently these days.

“I’m working. You can’t just interrupt me like that,” I say, patting the mattress in search of my earbud.

“Working?” Tyler scoffs. “In bed?”

“Yes, in bed. I work from home.”

“I’ve had a fucking hard day!” he spits.

“Okay, I hear you. I’m sorry about that, but it doesn’t give you the right to interrupt my creativity.” I sit a little straighter and pull my shoulders back. “Do you know how hard I’ve been chasing it all day? You come home and bark about whatever the fuck you’re barking about, and now I’ve lost all the stuff swimming around in my brain.”

He looks me straight in the eye. “You’re fucking selfish.”

“I’m selfish?” I jab my thumb at my chest. My ability to maintain an even tone is dissipating. “I spent the last two nights with your clients for your work, and now you won’t wait ten minutes?”

This always happens. The life of a music producer is hectic. As the girlfriend, I’m expected to show up at parties and events on his arm. I’ve even been to the occasional award show, though I don’t like being in the limelight on the red carpet and avoid that part at all costs. The last thing I need is to stumble upon an article from a still-lives-at-home-with-their-momma blogger about whether my stomach pooch is a food baby or a real baby. I can assure them it’s just a woman’s body.

Every time I turn around, we have to make an appearance at some event. Regardless of whether I want to attend or how busy I am with my own work, Tyler reminds me that it’s important to him that I be there. I want to be supportive, I really do, but partying like that is exhausting. The nights start out promising. He sticks with me for a bit, showering me with attention, but after a drink or two, he ditches me for clients and other low-key celebrities, and I’m left making small talk with the bartender or calling an Uber so I can head home early. Then, when he returns just before the crack of dawn, he drunkenly slips into bed, apologizes, and makes it up to me with sex.

“Your job is different,” he continues, kicking off his boots and letting them fall to the floor beside the bed. “You can write anytime you want.”

Gritting my teeth, I work to keep my voice even. “That’s not true. I can’t control when creativity strikes. You should know that; you work with artists.”

“Yeah, but they get paid hundreds of dollars a day,” he says. “You’re not even getting paid to write.”

Oh, no he didn’t. “You know that’s not fair.”

Regardless of how little he thinks of my writing, he doesn’t even bother to consider the deadlines I have for my freelance clients.

Tucking my chin, so sick of this battle already, I close my laptop and return my AirPods to their case. I won’t be writing any more today.

“And what about all the time you spend reading?”

Is he referring to me curled up with my Kindle before bed?

“It’s for research,” I sneer, slapping a hand on the mattress.

“How much research ,”—he puts up air quotes—“are you going to do, Beck?” He hops off the bed and storms toward the tiny en suite bathroom.

“Do you think scientists ever stop searching for a cure for cancer?” I challenge him.

“This isn’t cancer, Joey.” He turns and stands in the doorway. “This is writing a book.” With that, he spins on his heel and disappears.

I gape at the empty doorway, my stomach knotting.

“Are you going to write the fucking book or sit here all day and yell at me like you always do? ”

The thrum of my pulse intensifies. “I don’t always yell at you.”

“You do. And it’s getting really old,” he calls from the bathroom.

I pop off the bed and stand in the doorway, blocking him in. “You wouldn’t get it.” I’m pushing it, but I can’t help it.

“What?” He glares at me through the mirror, yanking at the handle of the faucet. “What wouldn’t I get?”

“You didn’t have to climb your way up in the industry.”

His eyes are hard, cold, as he scrubs his hands under the stream of water. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Oh boy, I’ve really started it now. “It means—” Don’t say it, Josefine, don’t say it. “It means—” Oh shit. “You’re only successful because you’re a fucking nepo-baby.”

“The fuck did you just say?” He whirls around so fast hygiene products go flying off the counter with a clatter.

I flinch, my heart leaping into my throat. I may have taken it too far, but he pissed me the hell off.

I can’t party with him and his wild colleagues and clients “for work” nearly every night, then wake up with a clear, creative head. Though it may sometimes look like I’m staring off into space, in reality, I’m allowing my characters to work out their shit in my mind. Until now, I thought Tyler understood; he works with massively imaginative people every day.

He shoves by me and grabs his keys and boots. He doesn’t bother to put them on his feet before he slams the front door with a “Fuck you, Joey.”

My vision blurs and I wipe away my tears. I slump against the mattress and search the ceiling for answers. When I come up empty, I extricate my journal and a pen from the nightstand and pull the covers over my legs. There’s so much power in writing things down, pen to paper, and I’m determined to work it all out before Tyler comes back. If he comes back. He doesn’t always.

The room is dark when I open my eyes. A sole streetlight flickers outside.

“Wake up, Beck,” Tyler whispers, nudging my shoulder.

I roll onto my back. “What time is it?” I croak.

“Late.”

I sit up and pull my legs into my chest. “Listen?—”

“No, me first,” he urges. “I’m so sorry.” He puts a hand on my knee and rubs circles against the sensitive skin on the inside with his thumb. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. Your writing is important. I’m just so fucking stressed at work right now. The new crew we’re working with is full of prima donnas and it’s driving my whole team crazy. Our deadline is this week, and everyone is asking for more money. It’s just stressful as hell right now.” With a hand pressed to my cheek, he leans closer. “Please forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” I say, leaning into his touch. “I’m sorry too. It was shitty of me to say that stuff about your career. I didn’t mean it.” Though my words were true—Tyler’s career is certainly attributed to nepotism—it was a low blow. He gets trashed for benefiting from his father’s fame enough as it is. He doesn’t need it from me too.

“Can we just forget about this stupid fight?”

“Yes. Please.” I let out a long breath and close my eyes.

He kisses my forehead, lingering with his lips pressed to my skin.

The vacation we’ve had planned for months couldn’t come at a better time. He’ll have finished this project, and we’ll both be able to unplug with the Mediterranean Sea lulling us to sleep every night for a week. It’s exactly what we need to get back on track.