chapter 3
When Charlotte came down for breakfast carrying her laptop the next morning, her mother beamed at her. “Well, look at you!
I’m so glad to see you—and you’re even showered.”
Charlotte drew a deep breath. “I’m trying to keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
“You can do it. How’d it go with Julian last night?”
“We had fun,” Charlotte admitted, but one night out with a friend couldn’t fix what was broken in her life. The fact that
her mind kept circling back to Cliff and the pictures of him with that woman proved it. But after Julian’s kindness and support,
at least she had the energy to try. She’d needed to hear what he had to say, and she believed him when he said that surviving
her heartbreak would be easier if she didn’t let the rest of her life fall apart at the same time.
The last thing he’d said to her when he dropped her off was that it would be difficult “digging out from beneath the rubble”
and warned her to do whatever she could do to make the comeback easier—which was, basically, not to let herself sink any lower.
So here she was, up and about, even though she still didn’t feel like getting out of bed.
“I see you have your computer,” Penny said. “Does that mean you’re going to write today?”
Charlotte wished she could say yes, but she was empty inside. Too empty to create. She couldn’t even contemplate staring at
her computer screen, trying to force a story, and having a blank page gazing stubbornly back at her. “Not today. I just brought
this down so I can check my email while I’m here in the kitchen with you. I haven’t done it in a while.”
Her mother nodded encouragingly. “That’s a step in the right direction.”
Maybe, but if she didn’t write today, she’d fall another day behind, ratcheting her tension even higher.
Charlotte tried not to let that freak her out. Be kind to yourself. Julian had said that, too. Although her deadline was marching inexorably closer, she could still finish her manuscript in
time if she could get on her feet soon. And that was exactly what she was all about today. “I’m thinking of looking for an
apartment. Would you like to come with me?”
“You don’t want to stay here with us for the time being—in your old bedroom?”
She heard the disappointment in her mother’s voice. At least she still had people who cared about her. “I might. But shopping
for an apartment will give me a reason to leave the house. I just want to see what’s out there, get a feel for the market.”
“Sure, I’ll go with you. Let me make you some breakfast first.” Her mother took out a frying pan. “How many eggs would you
like?”
Charlotte was still too upset to crave food. But, again, she decided to push past the pain and behave as normally as possible,
regardless of what Cliff had done. “Just one. That’s probably all I’ll be able to get down.”
“I’ve got bacon, too.”
Fortunately, bacon always sounded good. Charlotte imagined that even during an apocalypse people would still be eating bacon. “I’ll have a couple of slices.”
“And toast?”
“No, that’ll be enough.”
Her mother chatted about the weather, Sloane’s design business, which Julian had apparently told her about while Charlotte
was getting ready last night, and how busy Charlotte’s father had been lately. “Should I call your dad?” she asked. “See if
he can pull away for lunch?”
“That’s a good idea,” Charlotte replied. Her father had always treated her like a little princess, but he worked long hours.
It would be great to have him join them for a change.
“He mentioned he had meetings this morning, but maybe he’ll be free in a few hours. I’ll check with him.”
Although Charlotte nodded, she was paying more attention to her computer. The pictures of her having dinner with Julian had
started appearing online before she’d even gone to bed. Ten hours later, they were proliferating like ants pouring out of
an anthill. They were everywhere, and after seeing how they’d turned out, she was satisfied that no one would be able to tell
how devastated she was on the inside. She looked okay, she thought, and Julian looked better than she’d even realized while
she was so worked up about the dumpster fire her life had become. A lot of people in the comments, especially women, stated
that she’d traded up and they were happy she’d landed on her feet.
She found that interesting . . . Maybe the world didn’t begin and end with Clifford Jackson. Maybe she’d just let her world shrink that small.
Her mother slid an egg onto a plate and called her father as she clicked away from the celebrity gossip sites—because there were also harsh comments she couldn’t bear to see in her current frame of mind—and checked the sales rankings on her book.
Playing for Keeps was experiencing another surge in sales—a byproduct of everyone talking about her online again.
At least that was positive.
She could hear her mother speaking to her father while she logged into her email account. Besides plenty of spam from the
retailers she liked best, trying to tempt her back to their stores, she found some fan letters asking for the title of her
next book. She had a release date, but no title. Sadly, no book, either.
She fumbled through those responses, asking her readers to sign up for her newsletter so she could keep them informed. Then
she read an email from her web gal asking for any monthly updates she wanted on her website.
She hadn’t even looked at her website, so that would have to wait. She replied that they’d catch any fixes next month and
moved on to a message from the publicist at her publisher. Shauna wanted to see if she was okay since she hadn’t been returning
calls or emails.
Charlotte reassured her. Then she came to the email she’d spotted first thing. It was from her editor. She’d saved that one
for last—and wished she could avoid it altogether—but she knew she had to respond before logging off. Megan Schwimmer was
a wonderful person, but she had a job to do and that was to get Charlotte’s manuscript in and edited on time so they didn’t
hold up the other departments at her publisher and her book could come out on its scheduled date.
“He said he can make it,” her mother announced when she disconnected from her call and carried Charlotte’s plate to the table.
Charlotte got up to gather her own silverware while her mother poured her a glass of orange juice.
“Anything interesting?” Penny asked, indicating her computer.
There was nothing from Cliff. Email would be an unlikely way for him to contact her, and she knew that, but hope reigned supreme.
“Just something from my editor.”
Penny had returned to the sink and was scrubbing the frying pan. “What does she have to say? Do you think she’ll give you an extension?”
Charlotte didn’t see how that would be possible. Her release date in the fall was a coveted one—typically reserved for the
big-name authors who could make or break a publisher’s entire quarter. An extension would screw up everyone. “I don’t dare
even ask. I know they have high hopes for my second book.”
“Has she heard about the state of your marriage?”
That was, no doubt, what had prompted the email. Megan had already let her know she was eager to see some sample chapters
or, barring that, a synopsis giving the basic premise of her next book. But Charlotte still needed to decide on what that
premise would be.
She ate slowly, putting off the inevitable until after she’d pushed her plate away.
“Finished?” her mother said.
She glanced up to see Penny watching her and nodded before opening her editor’s message.
Megan told her how sorry she was to hear about her split with Cliff. She didn’t act as though losing one of the most famous
shooting guards in the NBA would hurt Charlotte’s career, but Charlotte knew she had to be afraid it would. Charlotte was
afraid of that herself. So now was not the time to admit she hadn’t even started her next manuscript, that she was entirely
blocked. She knew the panic it would cause at her publisher—and that it would only bring more emails and unsolicited suggestions
for what her new story should be. She’d welcome that if she thought it would truly help, but she couldn’t write according
to someone else’s vision. The premise had to stir her imagination—had to call out to her.
Taking a deep breath, she wrote a brief reply:
It’s so nice of you to check in. I’m sure, with time, I’ll be fine.
I’m staying with my folks, so I’m in good hands despite what you may see online.
And don’t worry about my work in progress.
I’ll be putting my nose to the grindstone over the summer.
At least now I won’t have Cliff’s busy schedule to distract me. Ha!
After reading that email several times, just to make sure it struck the right tone, she hit Send. But she was painfully aware
of the words she’d chosen. “Work in progress” wasn’t really accurate. All she had was a work that had yet to be started.
She sighed, lifting her glass of orange juice.
“Everything okay?” Penny asked.
Nothing was okay, but she offered her mother a feeble smile. “It will be eventually.”
“I’ll finish cleaning up in here while you get your makeup on,” Penny said, taking the empty glass from her. “Are you sure
you don’t want to buy a house? Should I call my Realtor friend, Jenny?”
“I’m definitely not ready for that kind of commitment. I don’t even know where I want to live.”
“So how will we find any apartments you’d like to see?”
“I’ll look online. Maybe I’ll rent a townhouse or condo.” She was just getting up when her computer dinged, signaling a text
message. She’d left her phone in her room, but since her phone was synced up with her laptop, she could receive messages on
either device.
Hoping it was Julian—she could already use a little more of his resilience and strength—she sank back into her seat. But it
wasn’t Julian; it was Cliff.
Hey, hope you’re doing well. You have a shit ton of mail piling up over here. Are you ever going to come get it?