THE REWRITE CLUB #2
“I get hundreds of emails,” I say, not quite sure why I’m saying it.
“From readers. And they almost always start with ‘I know this probably sounds stupid, but…’ or ‘I thought I was the only one, but…’ And then they tell me the same story, over and over. Their partner cheated. Or left. Or their best friend blew up their life. Or their parents never forgave them. Sometimes it’s just that they’re alone and don’t want to be, which sounds like a small thing until you realize it isn’t. ”
Liv raises an eyebrow. “And they expect you to… what? Fix it?”
I shake my head. “No. They don’t want it fixed. They want to know they’re not alone in their pain.”
Luca tilts his head, thoughtful. “Isn’t that basically the entire point of storytelling?”
Freya, who hasn’t spoken in fifteen minutes, says softly, “I think they want to know that it ends. That it’s survivable. That you can have a bad chapter without it being the whole book.”
I look at her, surprised by the insightfulness of it, and she just shrugs like she’s embarrassed to have said it out loud.
Elsie is quiet for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is almost cautious.
“I would have given anything for something like this after Daniel. Not therapy, not a hotline. Just a room full of people who already knew what it felt like. Who didn’t make you explain, or act like you were over it after six weeks. ”
She turns her wine glass slowly in both hands, watching the reflection of the fairy lights in the liquid. “The worst part wasn’t even the betrayal. It was the way people got… uncomfortable around it. Like it was contagious. Like you might infect them with your brokenness.”
Liv snorts. “That’s because everyone’s afraid they’ll catch it. Like if they get too close, their own lives will go up in smoke.”
Elsie laughs, but it’s a small sound. “Yeah. Except it doesn’t actually work that way. You can have the most boring, stable, vanilla marriage and still get blindsided. It’s not a personality flaw, it’s just…” She searches for the word and settles on, “Bad luck.”
Luca looks at Liv, and then at me. “You’ve never told your version, you know. Not really.”
Liv makes a face. “What version?”
He waves a hand, dismissive. “The Liv Carter Version. Where your only mistake was trusting someone not to be a fucking cliché.”
She shifts in her seat, suddenly very interested in the table, then says, “It was worse watching you two go through it. At least when it happens to you, there’s a logic.
Even if it’s awful. But watching people you care about get destroyed twice in just a few years…
” She trails off, then shrugs, eyes on the wine.
“I didn’t even want to try again after that.
It just seems too difficult and rare to find a good one. ”
The admission hangs in the air. I don’t know what to say to that, and apparently neither does anyone else. The circle goes quiet, the only sound the soft scratch of Luca’s thumb against the side of his glass.
Freya says, “It doesn’t just break the person it happens to. It hurts everyone around them too.”
Liv lifts her glass. “That’s the most depressing thing anyone’s said all night.”
Freya smiles, tiny and soft-spoken. “I’m not trying to be depressing. Just honest.”
Luca leans forward, elbows on knees, and says, “Which is why this exists.”
He gestures around the room, and for a second I get a flash of what he’s always been able to see, even when the rest of us could only see the mess: the potential for a place where all the bullshit rules of decorum and shame and performative healing are suspended, even if just for an hour or two a week.
Where people don’t have to explain why they’re still mad, or still sad, or still not over it, even years later.
“Harper,” says Elsie, her eyes bright with something that could be tears or just too much wine. “You never said if you believed it before, about second chances. Or whatever it is you call it in the books.”
I’m not prepared for the question, but it doesn’t really matter. The answer is already waiting.
“Sometimes,” I say. “I think the universe keeps breaking us open just to see if we’ll find new ways to survive it.
But sometimes…” I think of Leo, Grace, the man who walks her back to sleep in the dead of night, the friends who show up even when you haven’t earned it.
“…Sometimes you don’t have to survive it alone. ”
Luca gives me a look that is all pride and absolutely no gloat. “See? This is why you’re the headliner.”
Liv, not missing a beat, says, “Do we get actual headshots, or is it just this circus flyer?”
The mood is lighter now, less exposed nerve, more healing scar. I look at the flyer in my hand and, for the first time, don’t cringe at the earnestness. I glance around the circle. At the people who know more about me than anyone else in the world and still keep coming back.
“I think people will come,” I say, voice low.
Luca nods, as if it’s already a fact. “I know they will.”
Liv, dry as always, says, “Are you sure? Because these flyers have only been out for forty-eight hours, and I see no sign of the unwashed masses banging down the door.”
As if the universe personally took offense to her comment, the front door of the café swings open.
A woman steps in, mid-twenties, hair pulled up in a messy bun, eyes darting nervously around the shop.
She’s holding one of the flyers in both hands, like it’s a ticket and a shield at the same time.
She hesitates in the doorway, spots the circle, and starts to retreat, then seems to change her mind and stands frozen on the mat.
Luca is on his feet before she can bolt, his voice equal parts welcoming and disarming. “You found us! Wine or coffee?”
The woman glances from him to the circle to the flyer, then back to him. “Um… I don’t know. I…”
He waves her over, sweeping a chair out from the circle with one practiced motion. “No pressure. You can sit in or just drink and go. First meeting’s always weird.”
The woman edges closer, not quite committing to the chair, but no longer running for the exit. She gives the group a careful, appraising look.
I set down my glass, pull myself up in the seat, and offer a smile that I hope reads as You are safe here, or at the very least, We will not eat you.
She sits. The circle expands. And the story, just as Luca promised, starts again.
She sits on the very edge of the chair, fingers pleating the flyer into tighter and tighter folds, every muscle telegraphing regret for having walked in.
Freya is the first to break the awkwardness, gently offering her a slice of brownie from the plate.
The woman takes it, smiles an uncertain thank you, then sets the brownie on the table and immediately loses track of what to do with her hands.
Luca, sensing the peril, slides into the chair nearest her, not too close, just within the circle’s natural boundary.
“I’m Luca,” he says. “Don’t worry, we’re friendly. The only rules are no judgment and that someone has to eat the cake or we get fined by the council.”
The woman lets out a strangled half-laugh. “I’m Natalie,” she says. “Donovan.” She runs a hand through her hair and looks at each of us in turn, as if to confirm we are not about to pitch her out the door for improper membership credentials.
Elsie introduces herself, Liv offers a half-wave, Freya a little nod. When it’s my turn, I just smile and say, “Harper.” Natalie relaxes, just a bit.