Chapter 30 Now
Now
The morning sunlight seeps through the gauzy curtains, bright and too cheerful for the way I’m feeling.
My room at the little bed-and-breakfast feels both comfortable and foreign, the crisp white sheets carrying the scent of fresh cotton—my favorite.
I stretch and groan, forcing myself up even though my body wants to stay in bed.
From the muffled sounds of clicking dishes downstairs, Beth must already be hard at work, probably laying out breakfast for the guests.
I could go down and pretend to be social, but I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to write a book.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad to the small bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.
My reflection doesn’t lie. It’s clear by the dark circles under my eyes that I spent the night overthinking everything.
Nothing new there. I pull out my makeup bag and swipe on some concealer, adding a light layer of mascara and a dusting of blush to bring some life back into my face.
For clothes, I go with something simple: a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt layered under a navy cashmere sweater and a pair of white sneakers.
It feels perfectly New England, and though I’m not sure I can pull off the look without screaming tourist, I decide it’ll do.
I grab my tote bag and head out of my room. Beth offers me a kind smile as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
“There’s plenty of breakfast here,” she offers. “Coffee, muffins, you name it.”
“Thanks! I’ll grab something for the road.”
Outside, the morning air is crisp and salty, stinging my lungs as it wakes me up.
Bikes sit lined up neatly against the house, and despite the weather, I decide to ride one to the workshop.
A solo bike ride on a cold and gloomy day is exactly what an uninspired author needs for her main character moment.
After all, Rose’s cottage is only a mile down the road.
The breeze carries the scent of low tide and whips my hair into a tangled mess as I pedal.
I take in my surroundings—the lawns are more brown than green, the hydrangea bushes are nothing but bare sticks, stubbornly waiting for warmer days.
As I ride through the quiet streets, I realize that Martha’s Vineyard in March feels less like a postcard and more like a secret.
It’s calm, it’s quiet, and even though I’ve never been here before, it reminds me of home.
When I arrive, Rose’s cottage is straight out of a fairy tale—a whitewashed dream with a wraparound porch.
A few people are already gathered there, sipping coffee and chatting, their voices carrying to the gravel driveway as I park the bike.
I take a deep breath and walk toward them, smoothing my sweater, which I plan to use as a security blanket for the day.
Here goes nothing.
Rose herself is magnetic. She claps her hands to get our attention, her silver hair frizzy in a way that makes her look approachable instead of intimidating.
“Welcome, everyone! Before we get started, I’d love for us to give introductions and set intentions,” she starts. “What do you hope to get out of this retreat? Be real. None of the polite, surface-level stuff. We’re here to dig deep.”
The group starts, and as the others talk, I zone out a little, staring at the way the light catches the dust in the air.
Jade writes poetry and wants to feel inspired again.
Elijah is here for feedback on his historical fiction manuscript, which keeps getting rejected by agents.
Alexa’s biggest dream is to get published, but she’s too afraid to share her work with anyone but her mom. And then it’s my turn.
I clear my throat, trying to loosen the knot of nerves lodged there.
“I’m Ainsley and I write romance.” I grip my hands together to stop them from fidgeting and force myself to look up.
“At least I used to,” I continue, letting the words tumble out before I lose my nerve.
“Writing my first two books was fun. They were light and easy and felt like the stories were just waiting for me to find them. I quit my job because I thought I could do this forever. Writing love stories was my thing. But then I—” I stop, feeling like I’ve shared too much.
Rose nods, encouraging me to keep going.
“Then I went through this really bad breakup. It wrecked me in ways I didn’t expect, and now it feels impossible to write about meet-cutes or love or happy endings.
I tried to play with a few different ideas, but my agent said they didn’t feel like me.
Every idea I come up with feels fake. Like I’m trying to write someone else’s story because I can’t figure out my own. ”
The porch is quiet. I can feel the weight of my words hanging in the middle of our circle, but instead of shame, I feel relief.
Rose smiles as she folds her hands in her lap.
“Thank you for sharing that, Ainsley. It’s not easy to admit when you’re struggling, but I think you’ve already taken the first step by being honest with us and with yourself.
Here’s the thing about writing with feeling,” she says.
“It doesn’t come from the perfectly planned-out parts of life.
It comes from the messy, complicated pieces.
The ones we’re often afraid to talk about, let alone write down.
Maybe that’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for—not in what you think you should write but in what you’re scared to say. ”
As the retreat wears on, I take notes and listen intently, because what she said resonated with me in a way that I didn’t expect to feel while I’m here.
She gives us each a writing prompt tailored to what we’re working on, and mine is right up my alley.
The sticky note she hands me reads: Write about someone who feels like the love of your life.
It can be romantic, platonic, or whatever that means to you. Just dig into the feeling.
I place it in my notebook, which I then shove into my tote as my chest tightens. Because I know exactly who I’m going to write about, and it’s not Cole.
I skip lunch and head back to the bed-and-breakfast. I tell myself it’s because I need a quiet space to write, but the truth is I feel raw—like someone cracked me open and shined a flashlight on everything I’ve been avoiding.
By the time I get back, the sun is high in the sky and the streets are starting to empty. I grab a La Croix from the mini fridge and take it to my room, pausing only to smile politely at Beth, who seems to know better than to ask how it went.
I set my bag down, kick off my shoes, and crawl across the bed to the desk.
The notebook is open on my lap, but I haven’t written anything in over an hour.
My pen hovers above the page, still uncapped, like I’m pretending to be mid-thought when really I’m just frozen.
Around me, the rest of the house is quiet—most of the other writers are off walking the beach or holed up in their rooms chasing plotlines and word count.
I’m chasing something too, but I’m not even sure what anymore.
I glance over at my laptop, which is sitting on the bed. I know I’m supposed to be writing the old-fashioned way, but I can’t stop thinking about the document I left open. The one labeled UGH.docx, which I’ve been dragging from folder to folder for months. The one that never quite felt like a book.
I scroll.
An unsent letter to Cole that I wrote in the middle of the night.
A half-remembered dream I tried to turn into a metaphor.
A playlist I once titled “we almost made it,” which I annotated with scene ideas.
Fictional scenes based on very real memories we shared.
A list of alternate endings where he comes back.
For months, I thought that was what I needed.
One more conversation. One more chance to ask why.
One perfectly worded text that would finally make him feel everything I had been feeling.
I clung to this idea that if I could just say the right thing, he’d finally understand.
That closure was something he could hand me if I asked in the right way.
But closure never came from the texts or the playlists or the half-written scenes where he came back. Closure came from not sending any of it. Closure came from letting the silence stay.
I glance at the file again, the mess of it all. And I realize it’s not a novel. It’s a graveyard. A place where I kept trying to write the version of the story where I still won. Where he came back and said I mattered. Where he finally gave me the ending I wanted.
Every time I tried to write through the heartbreak, I told myself I was being productive. That I was mining pain for plot. That I was a real writer because I was suffering. But looking at it now, I finally understand what this actually is.
This isn’t a book.
This is a reckoning.
This was a way to hold on to something while simultaneously telling myself I was letting go.
I sit up straighter, heart racing with the kind of clarity that makes you feel a little sick. I move my cursor to the top of the screen, click on the title, and rename the file: this was never the book.docx.
I close the document and open a new one: Untitled.
I don’t write anything yet. Instead, I just stare at the blank page.
It’s terrifying but in a different way than before.
Not because I’m afraid of what I’ll find but because, for the first time in months, it feels like possibility instead of failure.
I reach for my notebook and scribble something on the back page, like a note to myself: Maybe you don’t write to remember. Maybe you write to let go.
Later, I take a walk along a trail behind the house.
The sun is starting to set, casting a glow across the water.
I think about how many versions of this book I’ve tried to force into existence.
How many ways I’ve begged myself to be inspired.
To be ready. But maybe it’s not about being ready. Maybe it’s about being honest.
I stop at a bench and sit. Watch a couple walk by holding hands. They look happy and comfortable, like they know each other’s coffee orders and bad moods and how to share silence. I used to think that kind of love was a reward. Now I think it’s just a choice you make, over and over.
Back at the house, I skip dinner. Not because I’m sad but because I want to stay in this moment a little longer.
I light the candle someone left on the windowsill and open the new document again.
It feels like I’m getting closer—not to the ending, not even to the beginning, but to whatever I’m supposed to say next.