3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Lizzie
I t was almost six o’clock, and I was sitting alone in a red vinyl corner booth at the dimly-lit Independent Bar, fiddling with my cocktail straw while trying really hard not to feel annoyed. Because my dear friend Brooke—who’d practically begged me to come out tonight—was still nowhere to be seen.
When I’d stopped back at my apartment to change clothes after work, I’d almost talked myself into not even coming out at all. I’d been in a funk all day, and still hadn’t quite managed to shake myself out of it. The urge to just curl up in my grandmother’s quilt and escape into another fictional world, far away from the problems in my real life, had been way too tempting.
Not that hiding in a book would fix anything, of course. Those were the wishes of a young girl, not a thirty-year-old woman with bills and responsibilities and a career on the brink. But eventually, I knew, something had to give.
Easier said than done, though, when you are a creative, irregularly shaped peg trying to wedge herself into a square-ish corporate hole. How does one even begin to feel passionate about writing stale, lifeless ad copy or sitting in strategy meetings all day when your soul is literally screaming out, “But you’re an author, dammit!”?
I mean, I used to at least be better at pretending—until my mom ended up sick. Once she was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer, though, everything changed.
Me and my brother Ethan found our lives quickly consumed by treatments, appointments, finding hospice care—all while bearing the brunt of her bitterness for the hand she’d been dealt. Especially considering the daughter by her side through most of it wasn’t the one she’d have chosen, were it up to her—a fact she reminded me of daily. That daughter was off living her best life with her upper-class family in Massachusetts, only adding to our stress the couple of times she came back home to help.
At the end of the day, I’d had no bandwidth left for things like faking excitement for the career I’d found myself in—or time to devote to my own writing. There was no space for anything, really, beyond getting through each day. After losing both Mom and Grandma Cora three months ago, things had only gotten worse.
And now, the idea of becoming a writer felt like the immature daydreams of a child—wished for long before life taught you to grow the hell up and be realistic. “Dreams are like wishes, Lizzie—both are impractical. And both have a way of fading away the moment you wake up to reality.”
How many times had I heard my own mother say this to me, desperate to knock some sense into her youngest daughter? Even now, I could still hear those words echo in my mind—not just in our mom’s voice, but my sister’s as well.
Both sensible women, yes—but were they actually happy? Our mother had never seemed to be, especially after Dad died. Mariah too, for that matter. But listening to their advice meant giving up my dream of being published altogether—and I’d sworn to Grandma Cora I never would, no matter what.
No matter how many hours and months I’d already wasted—or all the words backspaced into oblivion—I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t give up, not yet.
But speaking of giving up , I glanced down at my phone to check the time—hoping for an encouraging response from my boyfriend to my earlier venting text. Instead, all that stared back at me was a blank screen and a blinking clock, reminding me that I’d been sitting here alone like a sad sack for fifteen minutes now. Just as I was ready to walk out of that damn bar and head home, Brooke finally appeared in the doorway. Her smile lit up her entire face as soon as she spotted me, making a beeline in my direction.
As always, my friend looked effortlessly beautiful—chic, pale blonde bob brushing against the shoulders of her flirty red blouse, her tailored bootcut jeans and heeled sandals making me wish I had at least gone with the green floral blouse instead of the black.
What can I say—I was driven by mood.
“Well, look who finally decided to grace me with her presence,” I said as Brooke reached our booth, leaning down to give me a quick peck on the cheek before sliding in across from me, breathless. “You’re lucky. I was about two minutes away from leaving. It’s not like I don’t have better things to do than sit around and wait for you.”
Brooke rolled her eyes as she set down her purse on the seat next to her. “Oh, relax. I am sorry for being late. But we both know you would just be sitting at home, moping with your quilt and nose-deep in a book if I hadn’t dragged you out here.”
Sometimes, I really hated that my friends knew me so well.
“And besides,” she continued, flagging down a server as she scanned one of the menus on the table between us, “it’s Friday! And you’re barely thirty…. way too young to be acting like some crotchety old lady.” Our server arrived at the table, pad in hand. “Hi! I’ll take a…. Lizzie, what’re you having?”
I raised my glass, jostling around the ice. “An Old Fashioned.”
“I was wrong. You’re not a little old lady. Your boyfriend has turned you into a little old man .”
“Hey, now… Old Fashioneds are trending again.” I glanced up at the server for confirmation. “Right?”
The server shrugged, looking bored. “Yeah, I guess. But I’d personally go for the blackberry mojito.”
Brooke brightened, setting down the menu. “Perfect! I’ll take one of those please, and…”
“... cheese curds and a salmon salad to split?” I sighed. It really was impossible to stay mad at Brooke.
“Of course. And you can just bring all the food together at once. Oh, and waters for both of us, please.” As the server walked away, Brooke leaned in, waggling a finger in front of my face. “You will be drinking every drop of your water this time, lady.”
“No, no, no, no … I am not getting drunk tonight.” I mean, yes, I probably needed to unwind a little. Or a lot. But nights out with Brooke had a habit of going way too far in that direction, despite our best intentions.
Also the reason I’d gone with flats tonight, just in case my ‘best intentions’ weren’t up to par.
“Who said anything about getting drunk? But I could already feel your energy when I walked in… you definitely need some loosening up.”
“Why do I feel like I’ve heard this pitch before…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, ” she interrupted, waving away my words, “anyway, the reason I’m late is because I ran into a couple of old friends from high school on my way over. Do you remember Jack LeClaire and James Tate?”
“Hmmm…. I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, I think they were seniors when I was a freshman at Lake View High… so they would’ve already graduated, maybe weren’t around as much during your last few summers at the cabin,” she said, shrugging. “Anyway, apparently Jack has lived in Minneapolis all this time, but now he’s moving back home to Dearing Creek. Small world, huh?”
“Sure, guess so.”
Brooke cocked her head slightly, eyebrow raised. “Ok, seriously… What’s with you today? I’m beginning to think a wet blanket would’ve made a better date.”
I sighed, glancing up as the server returned with Brooke’s cocktail and two glasses of water. She reached for hers immediately. “Sorry, you’re right… My day started off kind of crappy, and I’m having trouble shaking it.”
“It’s ok, I just had to give you crap,” she said, smirking. “So what happened?”
“Well first, I woke up late for work, Constance was on my case again… and along the way, I had a run-in with some guy who made me spill my stupid decaf coffee all over my tampons…”
Brooke snorted out a laugh, nearly choking on her cocktail. “Excuse me, what?”
Feeling my face burn at the memory of it, I continued. “So I was walking out of Steep & Shot, and this guy plowed right into the door. Everything flew everywhere… my coffee, an entire box full of tampons...” Yep, confirmed —it was still every bit as humiliating now, replaying the scene in my head for the eightieth time. No doubt my anxiety in the moment had fired off a clear warning shot: Save yourself, sir… this woman is a freakin' hot mess.
No wonder Rude Guy had looked at me like I was crazy. Not that I even cared , but—if he was now going to be frequenting my coffee shop, I’d definitely have to find a new spot. Which was a shame because he was, well, very nice to look at.
As long as he didn’t open his mouth.
“I don’t doubt it was embarrassing, you poor thing,” Brooke said as she bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “But at least you lived to tell the tale. No doubt this one will be a winner with your kids someday.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now, what happened with Cruella?”
“ Constance? Well, I ended up missing that Q4 pitch meeting I told you about…”
She winced. “ Ooof…”
“I know, I know . Her being pissed was justified. But it wasn’t intentional. The power went out in my building, so my alarm never went off. And technically, I had the work ready.” But the excuse sounded lame, even to me. Because even if I had been on time, I knew my contributions to the project were far from my best work.
“Well, we both know the bigger issue here isn’t that you messed up. It’s that you’d much rather be doing something else.”
It was far from the first time we’d had this conversation—but what else could I do? This was the job. And I had to get my head on straight if I wanted to keep it.
Draining the rest of my cocktail, I pushed the empty glass towards the edge of our table, where it was promptly scooped up by a passing server. “Of course, in a perfect world.” God, now I sound like my mother…
“And why does the world have to be perfect? Lizzie, you’ve been wanting to be a writer ever since I’ve known you.”
“Yeah, well… I also need a paycheck, remember? Which this job provides me with, every two weeks. Besides, at the rate I’m going with my book, the only way I’ll get paid for fiction writing is if I print it out and sell it for literary kindling.”
She snorted. “Come on. How far along are you now?”
“Considering I’ve basically started over again …”
“Hmmmm.” I noticed she was studying me now, head cocked.
“What?” But I already knew what was coming.
“I’m just wondering how long you’re planning to avoid the obvious.”
“Which is what?”
She leaned in closer. “Come on, Lizzie. You’re not getting anywhere trying to force yourself into loving that book. Despite what Randall may be filling your head with, we all know what you’d rather be writing. Pretending doesn’t change that.”
I felt my body tense, thinking again of all the work and painstaking research I’d already put into my Depression-era tale about two sisters—as well as the conversations I’d had on this very topic with my boyfriend. A literature professor at my alma mater who was also twenty years my senior, Randall Price always had plenty to say when it came to both my writing and my career.
And I couldn’t bear to see the look on his face if I told him yet again about my dream to write romance novels.
“Well, like I said before… this is the sort of book I should be writing, if I want publishers to take me seriously.”
Brooke sighed. “Look, I get it… and if you keep at it, I have no doubt you’ll make that book come together. You’re an amazing writer… I wish I had even an ounce of your talent.” She took a sip of her mojito, dabbing her lips with a napkin after setting the glass down. “But I can’t help thinking you’re taking the hard road here, holding yourself back from what you love.” She paused. “Maybe it would also help you to feel closer to your grandmother.”
I twirled the straw around in my water glass, watching the ice cubes clink and dance before my blurry eyes as I thought about Grandma Cora. She’d been the one who first introduced me to romance novels when I was around fifteen years old—and it wasn’t long before the two of us were devouring piles of books together, sharing little handwritten notes written in the margins, and giggling together over the particularly swoony parts.
Thinking about it now, the constant ache I’d felt over the past few months pulsed even deeper—and I flinched from the pain of it.
Looking up from my glass, I forced a smile. “Well, there’ll be plenty of chances to write in other genres down the road if I manage to secure a publisher with this book.”
Brooke sighed. “Honey, I promise… I’m not trying to discourage you. I just want you to be happy, ok?” She reached a hand across the table, giving mine a comforting squeeze. “Besides, any publisher worth their salt will see how talented you are… no matter what sort of book you choose to write.”
“Thanks.” What I didn’t say was: I don’t know if I believe that anymore.
But anyway, what the hell was I doing? I’d made the effort to yank myself out of my apartment—I should be focused on having a fun night out with my best friend—not stewing in my problems, like a character in some melodramatic tragedy that would inevitably result in a big ol’ DNF.
Straightening in my seat, I smiled at the server as she arrived with our food. “Hey, any chance I can get another Old Fashioned? Another for you, too?” I glanced at Brooke, who nodded.
As the server walked off, I took a deep breath, eager to shift the topic away from all the ways I seemed to be falling apart lately. “Look, let’s just have some fun tonight. We both need it. And besides, don’t we have a promotion to celebrate?”
I noticed Brooke eyeing me closely, clearly recognizing my diversion tactic—but I was relieved she let it slide this time. “Ok, fine… Let’s just relax. But, ” she pointed a finger at me sternly, “I’m buying.”
“I am not letting you pay when we are supposed to be celebrating you…”
She interrupted me with a dismissive wave. “And why not? I earned a sweet raise with this promotion and I wanna spend it. Who better than my dear Lizzo to help me do it?”
I giggled. “Fine… you win. But I’ve got the next one, Ms. Director of Public Relations. ”
“That does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Brooke giggled, raising her glass. “Now let’s show Minneapolis how the Dearie Girls kick back…”