For the Plot (All for Love #1)

Chapter 50

50

Josefine

One Month Later

They—whoever they may be—say a person should write the book they want to read.

As the daughter of someone with substance abuse, I chose to write a book that adolescents and young teens could turn to for comfort in times of confusion and isolation. Because that’s how I felt growing up: confused and alone .

I didn’t start out with a committed deadline or goal, really. Just a dream to write and publish a book someday.

But Cam lit a fire inside me.

With my mom tucked safely inside a bougie rehab center, surrounded by some of the best therapists in the world (I looked it up), a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. That relief alone opened up a part of my creativity that had been sealed shut for as long as I can remember.

Cam suggested we take a couple of days to decompress before making any big decisions about how to spend the month. And by “decompress,” he meant “have lots of sex. ”

When our decompression period was over, we devised a plan. First, I made it clear that we weren’t actually living together, but rather on a “work-retreat-like vacation.” Whether I was kidding myself or not with this reframe, he appeased me.

Next, I promised to try my best to communicate my needs, even if all I could think to say was “I don’t know how to express my needs.” Having a simple script to communicate better was liberating.

While I wrote, Cam worked for his parents. Traditional office life isn’t his jam, but it was only temporary. This time, though, he didn’t experience the same pressure from his father as he once did.

Brooks drove out to Palm Springs for a couple of nights and helped me clean up certain plot holes and kill off an unnecessary character—metaphorically speaking.

Though I hoped the change of scenery and finally allowing myself to open my heart to Cam would magically give me the motivation and inspiration I’d need to finish the book, writing is ultimately a slow process. No number of hyped-up texts from Millie, Brooks, and Ari can extract me from feeling like I’m suddenly stuck.

Worse yet, I’m beginning to question my ability. Why can’t I finish it? Why do my words read like they were written by a chimpanzee?

I’ve been meeting with a new therapist via video weekly, and she’s encouraging me to “trust the process” and practice patience and compassion for myself.

She and Cam are quick to remind me that being a Creative—with a capital C—is mentally taxing. As if I don’t already know. Some days, I feel like I’m absolutely losing it. Our suite is covered in sticky notes. I’m pretty sure housekeeping thinks I’m investigating a murder with the way I’ve tacked them on every surface. But I’m terrified of forgetting the ideas that hit me in the shower or sprout in the middle of the night.

Cam hasn’t batted an eye at my creative madness. Rather, I think he understands the sense of urgency—though he’s taken to wearing earplugs to bed so I’m less likely to wake him in the middle of the night while I record voice memos on my phone.

But now I’m at a standstill with my book. The words, once flowing like a waterfall, have dried up.

And tomorrow is the day my mom is released from rehab. Will she be healed? Will she fall back into her old ways? Fuck, I wish I could see into the future. Or at least have a set of super-bright headlights.