CHAPTER 13—MADDIE
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Maddie: Kellan, okay?
Damian: He's sleeping it off at my place. He's good . No Sparkling Dick tonight.
Maddie: There must a Gif for that.
I'M SCROLLING THROUGH gifs after scheduling an old #DearSantaWithLove letter for tomorrow when Becca's WhatsApp call comes through. I accept, and her face fills my screen, Rose settling in beside her.
"Spill," Becca demands without preamble. "Your text was way too cryptic."
I take a deep breath, recounting the evening's events – the trivia night, Damian's defense of me, the cheek kiss. As I talk, I find myself veering into the shelter crisis and my ideas for the Christmas-A-Thon, all while a voice in the back of my mind screams about the blank document haunting my laptop.
"...and there's this whole thing with the senior dogs, you know? Their stories are incredible. I'm thinking it could make a great feature," I say, my words tumbling out faster than usual. I should tell them, I think. They've always been there for me, through every writing crisis, every career hiccup. But admitting I can't write, not to Rose and Becca who've seen me pour my heart out since we were kids... feels like failing them
"Sounds like things are heating up in Swans Cove," Rose teases. "Both with Damian and your work. How's the contest piece coming along?"
I feel a knot tighten in my chest. "Oh, you know, still brainstorming," I lie, hating myself a little for it. "But this shelter story, it's really something."
"Isn't it always a work in progress?" Becca says softly. "But Mads, you seem different. Excited about this story?"
I pause, fiddling with the hem of my Freddy Krueger sleep shirt. "I guess so. It's just... it feels important, you know?" I swallow hard, thinking I should probably talk to my therapist about this inability to admit I'm struggling. Telling Aisling was one thing – she's new, she doesn't have the weight of my entire writing history behind her eyes. But Rose and Becca? They were there for the late-night writing sessions, the celebrations over every byline, even that disastrous proposal for a story. How do I tell them that the words just... won't come?
Rose leans forward, her expression serious. "Speaking of mattering, I talked to Mom and Dad last week."
My breath catches, grateful for the change of subject. "Oh? Did they finally learn how to use the TV remote without calling us?"
Rose chuckles "Not quite. They've actually started volunteering at the local animal shelter."
I blink, trying to process this information. "Wait, what? Mom and Dad?"
"I know, right?" Rose shakes her head, grinning. "Apparently, Dad said something about learning from their kids.'"
I let out a laugh that's half disbelief, half something I can't quite name. "Wow. That's... unexpected."
"Yeah," Rose says softly. "I think they're trying, Mads. In their own weird way."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. There's a part of me that wants to celebrate this change, to see it as a step forward. But there's another part – the part that still remembers every "your sister got another prize" and "second place isn't winning" – that's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Rose must see the conflict on my face because she adds, "Look, I know it's not everything. It doesn't magically fix the past. But I thought you should know."
I swallow hard, nodding again.
Becca, who's been uncharacteristically quiet, pipes up. "You know. It's okay to feel conflicted about this. Change is good, but it doesn't erase the past."
I shoot her a grateful look. "Thanks, Bec. I guess I'm just... processing. Are they planning some grand Christmas gesture too? Maybe dressing up as Santa and Mrs. Claus for the community center?"
Rose chuckles. "Actually, they are organizing a Christmas dinner for the seniors. Dad's even learning how to cook a turkey."
"Now that's a Christmas miracle," I quip. "That's what a winner would do, right?"
Becca groans loudly. "Mads, come on. You're not seriously still on that 'winner' bullshit, are you? You're worth so much more than some arbitrary measure of success."
"Dammit, Becca," Rose and I say in unison, then look at each other and burst out laughing.
Rose's expression softens. "She's right, though. And I need you to hear this, okay? I love you, Mads. Whether you're in Swans Cove writing about small-town shenanigans, or around the world winning a Pulitzer, or deciding to become a professional vampire hunter in Transylvania. You're my sister, and I'm proud of you. Always."
I feel my eyes well up, and suddenly I'm laughing and crying at the same time. "A vampire hunter? Really? That's the alternative career you came up with?"
"Hey, I'm just spit balling here," Rose grins. "Although, with your love for true crime, maybe 'Vampire Protector' would be more appropriate. 'The Case of the Sparkling Dick', coming to Netflix this fall."
I snort-laugh, wiping my eyes. "Oh please, stop. You're terrible."
"You love it," Rose counters.
"Yeah," I admit, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. "Yeah, I do."
There's a beat of silence, and I find myself torn between the urge to deflect with another joke and the need to express how much her words mean to me. I end up doing both.
"So, just to be clear," I say, my voice wobbling slightly despite my attempt at humor. "You'd still love me if I became a vampire-hunting journalist who writes about small-town supernatural drama and occasionally saves puppies from werewolves?"
I feel a twinge in my chest as Rose and Becca start joking about vampire stories. Their easy banter about writing stings more than I want to admit. I haven't told them that I can't seem to write anything right now - not an article, not a column, not even a new #DearSantaWithLove letter. The only thing I can manage are emails and posts directly related to helping the shelter. It's like my creativity has gone on vacation without leaving a forwarding address.
"Especially then," Rose replies without missing a beat. "Although I might have to disown you if you start sparkling in the sunlight."
Becca chimes in, "I, for one, would absolutely read 'The Fang and the Furious: A Vampire Hunter's Chronicle' by Madison Smith."
I laugh, but it feels hollow. "You guys are ridiculous. And I love you for it." I'm grateful they can't see how much their casual mentions of writing make me want to crawl under my desk and hide.
"You looooove us," Becca says. "And you reallllllllllllly like your vampire neighbor."
"That's right," Rose adds with a mischievous grin. "One bite is a one-night stand. Two bites is..."
"Mads is the journalist. What's the Chicago Style for multiple vampire encounters?"
I smile, trying to keep up the facade. "Ugh, I don't know." If only they knew how much I'm struggling, how the words that usually flow so easily now feel like they're stuck behind some kind of creative dam. "I think like he doesn't hate me anymore." At least, that's the truth.
"It's the sex. The sex told you that?" Becca's grin is practically audible.
Rose's face lights up. "A talking teddy bear dick... or vagina, I'm not picky. And those teddy bears would be all, 'Hi, I am Sex. And I'd like to tell you you're catching feelings.'"
"I'll take an eight-ball vagina teddy bear for sex, please." Becca dissolves into giggles.
I shake my head, feeling like I'm in some bizarre fever dream. "Really? Realllllllllly?" But then I tilt my head, considering. My fingers absently trace the pattern on the pillow as I speak.
"But it's not just about the physical stuff, you know? It's the way Damian smiled when he read the portrait I wrote about his mother. Or how he laughed when we watched an F1 replay at the Irish pub a couple of weeks ago. The way he listens... like he really hears me, not just the polished version I usually present."
I pause, surprised by my own words. "And it's not only Damian. It's this place. Swans Cove. I never expected to feel so... at home here. The way Aisling always has a new recipe for me to try, even though I suck at them, or how Mr. Johnson at the library keeps a stack of true crime books for me. Even Aunt Locelli's gossip is starting to grow on me." I hesitate, thinking about the blank document on my laptop. "It's like... for once, I don't have to be 'on' all the time, you know?"
"Why are you saying it like it's a bad thing?" Becca asks, her brow furrowing.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Because even though it feels good, part of me is terrified. What if I'm just settling? What if I'm giving up on my big dreams for small-town comfort?"
Becca's expression softens, and she leans closer to the camera. "Have you ever thought that winning isn't about the prize and the trophy? It's about finding out who you are, what you love, and being lucky enough to do it. Gosh, I'm going to become a Hallmark card, but maybe it's about the journey, too."
I stare at her for a moment, a mix of emotions swirling in my chest. Part of me wants to argue, to defend my old definitions of success. To tell them that right now, there's no winning at all, no success to be gained - at least not in the way I've always measured it. But another part of me recognizes the truth in her words, especially as I think about the work I'm doing for the shelter. It matters, even if it's not what I originally came here to do.
"Dammit, Becca," I whisper, half-laughing, half-sighing. "When did you get so wise?"
AFTER WE HANG UP, I toss and turn in bed, my brain buzzing like I've inhaled espresso. I try that 4-7-8 breathing technique my therapist keeps harping on about. Inhale for 4, hold for 7, exhale for 8. Rinse and repeat. It helps... a little. At least enough to take the edge off my racing thoughts. Note to self: maybe I should actually do this more than once in a blue moon.
With a groan that would put zombie-Freddy Krueger to shame, I kick off my covers and stumble to the living room. My eyes land on my mountain of unpacked boxes. Might as well put this insomnia to good use, right?
I dig through them like I'm hunting for buried treasure, and bingo! There it is. "Fundraising Communication for Nonprofits: Engaging Your Community." The spine's more cracked than my dating history, and don't even get me started on the highlighting.
Book in hand, I flop onto the couch and fire up my laptop. If sleep's giving me the cold shoulder, I might as well tackle the Christmas Adopt-a-thon planning.
I'm deep in scheduling and brainstorming more when my phone buzzes.
Damian: You still up?
Me: Unfortunately. Brain won't shut up about dogs. You?
Damian: Kellan's snoring could wake the dead. Might as well plan.
Me: Ah, the sweet sounds of friendship. Any ideas for our Christmas Eve extravaganza?
Damian: What if we start with the seniors? "Silver Paws" segment or something.
Me: Not bad, Bitey. There's hope for you in marketing yet.
Damian: Don't get carried away. We've got 7 days to pull this off.
Me: Right. Phones, socials, convincing local channels... piece of cake.
Damian: One headache at a time. We'll figure it out .
Me: Even the festive outfits part?
Damian: Don't push it.
Me: Too late. I'm thinking sequins for you.
Damian: I take it back. This is a terrible idea .
Me: Nope, no takebacks. You're committed now. Night, Bitey .
Damian: Night, Maddie. Try to actually sleep.
I set my phone down, a mix of excitement and anxiety churning in my stomach. Who knew planning a dog telethon could be this engaging at 2 AM? At least it's a distraction from the blank document mocking me from my laptop screen.
Still riding the wave of Damian-induced energy, I turn my attention to the #DearSantaWithLove hashtag. Might as well tackle those not-so-merry commenters. I open my mouth to take a deep breath, then realize I'm actually following my meditation app's instructions for once. Small victories, I guess.
I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The familiar panic starts to rise - what if I can't do this? What if the words won't come? Then a thought strikes me: what if I wasn't writing as myself, but as one of the shelter dogs?
Suddenly, it's easier. I pull up a photo of Prancer, our senior dog extraordinaire, and start typing as if I were him. " Dear Santa, I may not be as spry as I once was, but I've got a PhD in sunny naps and belly rubs. Looking for a forever home with a comfy couch and a patient human. I promise to love you fur-ever! "
The words flow more easily now, each reply coming from the perspective of a different shelter animal. It's not my usual writing, but it's something. And right now, that feels like a small miracle.
And would you look at that? The positive responses start rolling in faster than I can say "viral sensation." I keep going, transforming every Negative Nancy comment into a four-legged feelgood story, each one tied to our Christmas Adopt-a-thon plans. Before I know it, it's 3 AM and #SwansCoveSantaPaws and #DearSantaWithLove are trending locally.
As I work, a memory from last week bubbles up. I'd been having one of those 'why did I ever leave New York' days when Mrs. Johnson cornered me outside the library. Her eyes were misty as she grabbed my hand, and for a sec, I thought I was in for another "back in my day" lecture.
"Maddie, dear," she'd said, her voice wobbling. "I needed to thank you for that menopause podcast. My Sarah, she's ok now—in remission and all, but cancer pushed her into early menopause before 40. It's been... well, hell doesn't even cover it. But hearing those women, their stories, the tips, that laughter - my girl didn't feel so alone. And she laughed, too."
I'd stood there, probably doing a great impression of a codfish, as she continued. "You're making a difference here, sweetie. Don't ever doubt that."
Remembering her words now, I feel my chest tightening and expanding all at once. That moment hit me harder than any viral article or big-city byline ever had. It wasn't about clicks or shares or climbing some imaginary career ladder. It was about connection. About making a real difference, right here in Swans Cove.
Feeling a glimmer of hope, I turn to my laptop, ignoring the glow of my fiber optic Christmas tree. This is it. I can do this. I can write that contest-winning story about the shelter, about Swans Cove, about everything that matters.
But as the cursor blinks on the blank document, the words still refuse to come. My throat tightens, panic rising like I'm starring in a new sequel from Halloween.
With a sinking feeling, I open my folder of pre-written #DearSantaWithLove letters. Only three left. Three letters between me and having to admit I'm stuck.
I take a deep breath, catching a whiff of Damian's cologne still lingering on my sweater. I am Madison Smith. I can do this. I have to do this.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. One word. That's all I need. Just one word to break this curse.
The cursor blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
Oh...crap. What am I going to do?"