Chapter One #2
Lost for words, I stare at her as she only shrugs and waves over the barista, my former student, Katie McBride. “Katie, dear. What do you think of when you hear the book title—”
“No, no, no!” I wave my hands as if that’s going to stop Grannie from saying those next words. As if.
“ Forgetting My Vacation Fling ?” Grannie finishes. I scowl at her while Katie flicks her eyes between us, probably wondering how she should answer or if this is a prank.
Katie scratches her neck before fiddling with her blonde, straight hair. “Uh…” She glances at me. I give her a pleading look. Do your old teacher a solid, huh, Katie?
She laughs and drops her hands, then shrugs. “Sounds like a book Miss Jenkins would tell us we’re too young to read.”
I groan into my hands as Katie buoyantly walks away. “Fine, Grannie. You’re right. But what am I supposed to do? People like those kinds of titles.”
We could play around with that, my little author, the familiar, masculine voice in my head speaks.
I mentally swat at the flirty man. Not now, Noah.
According to my research—and a bazillion books to prove it—readers enjoy titles that showcase a book’s trope.
I think it’s a little cringeworthy, but to each their own.
I need to reach a market and gain a readership before I smack them with my unhinged ideas for what a romantic comedy could be and how much heart can be interwoven into the spaces between humor and happiness.
Slapstick is great, but it’s even better with angst and depth.
As my Pawpaw would say, “Who’da thunk it?”
“Here’s a word of advice for you, dear.” Grannie stands and moves to place her wrinkled, warm hand on my shoulder. I meet her gaze, hanging on to every word out of her hot-pink-lipped mouth. “Let the world roll around in the same ole muck. Don’t be afraid to create somethin’ different.”
“Thank you, Grannie.” I place my hand on top of hers. “Truly.”
“Love you, Meme. Keep me updated on that story of yours. I’m readin’ the latest Ashton Ashley novel with my book club right now, and I can’t wait for the day we get to read yours.”
Gulping down the anxiety that rises like acid when I think of my townsfolk reading my book, I stand to hug Grannie. She teeters away with her cane, leaving me to my thoughts about creating new things and standing out in life.
At twenty-six—well, twenty-seven in a couple of months—I never imagined I’d move into a homey camper across from my parents’ place, but here I am.
All because I hit my head in a jet skiing accident, which set me back in time, effectively shaking up my world.
I’m still teaching English at Whitney High School even though I took the first quarter of the year off to give myself more time to heal, but I utilize every free moment available to me to work on writing.
I hope to make it full-time one day. School lets out in just over a month, and I plan to complete this first novel over the summer come hell or high water.
I felt the Lord’s undeniable call—as I did before the accident—to write romance stories that unashamedly bring Him glory and honor while staying true to the human experience.
To show humans in all of their nuanced successes and faults as they navigate an emotion so crucial to our existence: love.
Even more, to portray reality in a way people can accept.
Through fiction.
I’m not sure how Esme and Noah are going to accomplish those things, but I trust God’s guidance as He directs my pen—er, fingers. I’m typing this draft.
When I told my former therapist about my novel idea and how strongly and vividly I could see it playing out, she suggested it could be a memory, but I don’t think so.
If it were a memory, it would have come back by now and I would know .
I would feel it as if the events happened to me, not as an outsider looking in.
No, this story is simply a tale of enduring love, and honestly, it’s a reflection of the love the Father has for His own.
He has loved me so well despite my constant questioning, fit-throwing, and doom-spiraling of despair as I’ve tried to piece my life back together after the accident.
He wants me to share the message that love—true love—is ultimately given and received through Him alone.
Losing three years of my life has taught me a lot, but most importantly, I’ve learned to live with open hands. Because only the God who gives and takes away can decide my fate. I’m mere mortal flesh who withers and wastes. He is enduring. Eternal.
“Oh, you sweet fictional version of me,” I say to my blinking cursor, “you’re going to have a beautiful character arc.”
And then I type my first sentence from her point of view: A thousand smiles can’t hide the darkness underneath my face.
As I stare at the sentence, something doesn’t sit right. It’s too dark for fictional Esme. She’s upset about being cheated on and left at the altar, yeah, but she realized it was a good thing he was out of her life.
I delete it and try again: When I look at him, it’s the same feeling I get when I watch sun rays reflecting off of raindrops.
Reading the line over, I groan. It’s too much too soon. Intense and all-encompassing despite the happy vibe. The couple hasn’t even met yet!
One more time: Not even the blisters on the soles of my feet could ruin this moment of pure bliss.
I delete it all again. Nothing is sitting right.
I knew from the off-set the story starts on a beach. I chose to use Bora Bora to pay homage to the place that siphoned my memories. But now what? My outline says to introduce the characters in their ordinary lives, but how?
Fictional Esme is from a lively college town up north called Juniper Grove, Mississippi, and Noah is from the town that neighbors Juniper Grove: Hartfield.
They meet while vacationing in Bora Bora, which is funny because they lived thirty minutes apart from one another the entire time.
Esme is there because she was left at the altar—which apparently happened to me and is why I was on a honeymoon alone when I lost my memories—and Noah is there to write a book (because who doesn’t love a male romance author lead?).
I even have the meet-cute planned, which involves an almost-kidnapping. Even though I am writing a rom-com, I can’t seem to stop myself from going dark in not-so-subtle ways.
I have all of that figured out, but what did the two of them do before meeting on the island? What was ordinary life like for them? Their day to day? Why is the mundane so difficult to imagine?
In reality, for me, from what I can remember up to twenty-three, where a black hole sucks time until I’m waking up in a hospital bed, I led a predictable, boring existence. I wasn’t happy. Not really.
But what was Noah doing? Because all I can think is that Noah Ashton’s full-time job is being hot, making women swoon, and writing words that will melt even the hardest of souls. Noah Ashton doing something mundane? Ha .
Noah? Give me a little bit of something, please?
Silence. Of course he doesn't answer when I need him to.
“Ugh.” I throw my head back and run my hands through my oily, straight strands.
“You okay, Meme?” Mrs. Gloria asks from the table behind me. I turn to address the elderly woman. Her kind, light eyes and shiny, white hair bring a smile to my face. Laugh lines paint a picture of a life of happiness and joy. I hope I age as gracefully and beautifully as she has.
“I’m good, Mrs. Gloria.”
“You were mumbling to yourself again.”
I blush. “Sorry, Mrs. Gloria.”
“Don’t apologize, Meme. You just sounded perturbed.”
“More like frustrated,” I reply. “Struggling to figure out a few things for this story.”
Mrs. Gloria smiles. “Anything I can help with? I’m a good listener if nothing else. We used to meet and chat over recipes before your accident.”
A familiar pang of memories forgotten churns in my stomach. “Thanks, Mrs. Gloria. But I’ll figure it out. Let’s meet up later in the week to talk about our recent kitchen explorations?”
She nods her head, a mile-wide smile overtaking her face, and then turns her attention back to her grandkids.
In my head, the story has already written itself, and I’m itching to skip to the falling-in-love story beat. It’s going to be flirty, reckless, and everything I’m not, because the Esme of the story is a version of myself I wish I could be.
In reality, I’m a woman of prescribed order, so I have to write the beginning first. No one told me it would be this hard to download the story from my head to the screen.
I look at my well-worn copy of Days in Dothan by one of my favorite romance authors, Ashton Ashley, tucked in my open bag. Can I write a story that well? With the angst and the tension and the depth? While still maintaining humor and romance?
“God?” I tilt my head and stare at the high ceiling wooden beams just for the heck of it. “I didn’t make up this calling from thin air, right?”
Just write .
The words are seared into my vision, and I smile. I’ll get to the meet-cute by the end of Chapter Two, anyway.
Something to work toward.