Chapter 9
Opinion: Writer’s block just means you need more caffeine and chocolate.
—Delilah Dune, opinion writer
L yla stared blankly at her computer screen. The words weren’t flowing like they used to. Her opinions blurred with other people’s and pieced with things she knew Bob would like. Lately, those things had begun to contradict who she was at her very core. A couple of months back, when she’d tried to write about the beauty of imperfections, Bob had insisted she shift what had started as a wholesome story about a beloved chipped coffee mug into a story about ignoring a man’s flaws on a first date, because picky women turned into old maids.
The opinion made her nauseous, but it had sparked debate. And Bob had been happy, at least for that month.
Lyla closed her laptop. Maybe another bike ride would get her ideas flowing. After dropping off the donations, Travis had fixed her bike’s tire. He was indeed handy and handsome. Walking her purple bike out of the garage, she swung her leg over the middle bar and let gravity roll her down the driveway. She was halfway past Ms. Hadley’s house when the barking started.
Fear shot through Lyla as something brown darted toward her. A dog. A loud, barking, vicious dog was chasing her bike just like Ms. Hadley’s prior dog used to do. It didn’t matter that the creature was small, no bigger than her purse, when it was barking as loud as a mastiff and coming at her at the speed of light. She wasn’t going to take her chances that it was actually friendly. Maybe Sonny had been part devil-dog, part angel-dog, but Lyla wanted to keep her fingers today. She needed them for typing later.
She pedaled as fast as she could, but the dog was still leaping toward her back tire. If his teeth punctured the wheel, it would deflate. “Go away! Go away, devil-dog!” she yelled behind her, wondering if Ms. Hadley had put the dog out as payback for all of the pranks Lyla and Travis had pulled at her expense.
They were all Travis’s ideas. And they’d been harmless. Mostly. Maybe the fake spiders in the mailbox crossed the line. Maybe Lyla would get some baked treats from Bernadette’s coffee shop next time she was there. She could support Bernie’s business and also get brownie points with her neighbor.
Opinion: The road to forgiveness is paved with chocolate treats.
As she rode, the dog eventually disappeared, most likely turning back to guard its territory. She slowed her speed and let herself calm down, as her mind wandered from one topic to the next. Travis. The summer bucket list. The items that were still left were unchecked for a reason.
Opinion: Life knows exactly how to cure an oversized ego—with an oversized embarrassment.
As Lyla rode back to her parents’ home, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and stared at the unknown number. “Hello?”
“Is this Ms. Dune?” a man’s voice asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Hello, Ms. Dune. This is Peter Blake,” the man said. “I’m a real estate agent in town. I was told you were the contact for the property on Briar Lilly Road. Is that correct?”
Lyla balanced her bike with her feet on either side, squinting against the sun as it rose beyond the tree line. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“I’m good friends with your parents. I told them I’d do everything I can to get their house sold for them, and I already have a couple who is very interested in looking at the place.”
“Okay.” She was nowhere near finished cleaning out her room, and she and Travis had several more trips to make to get the donations out of the living room. A person could barely walk around the living room at this point. Or her bedroom that wasn’t packed up at all. “When would your clients like to come?”
“My clients will only be in town for a couple of days. They were hoping Thursday would be doable.”
Thursday. As in the day after tomorrow. “That soon?” she asked, breathlessly.
“These are serious buyers, so I think the house has a good shot at selling. It would be advantageous for you to make Thursday work.”
There was no way Lyla could make that day work on her own. Not without a ton of hours and a lot of help.
“Sure. Of course.” What else could she say? “I can definitely accommodate that. What time?”
“Three p.m.?” he suggested.
“Sounds good. I’ll make sure I am out of the house so that you and the potential buyers can look around freely.”
“Perfect. Selling your parents’ house is my top priority.”
“Thank you, that’s good to hear.” And even more reason that Lyla needed to get to work immediately. After saying goodbye, she disconnected the call and rode full speed past Ms. Hadley’s house, hoping the little devil-dog wasn’t still outside. She didn’t stop until she was safely inside her closed garage.
Potential buyers was good news. If they liked what they saw, it meant she would be out of Echo Cove sooner and back to figuring out her real life, which wasn’t in the town where she’d grown up. The old 7-Up bottle caught her eye as she walked into the kitchen for a cup of water. There were still items inside.
She gulped the water down and reached beyond the bottle’s open flap, pulling out her Britney Spears fan club pin. Wow. It had been so hard to part with this token, she remembered. But a new high school grad and college woman was too mature for a fan club pin. At least that’s what she’d told herself.
Reaching into the bottle again, she screamed and flung a rubber snake onto the floor at her feet. Before realizing it was fake, she danced around and continued to squeal in panic. Now she understood why this particular prank had sent poor Trudy Bellows, the local mail lady, to the ER with chest pains. That’s when Lyla’s mom demanded Lyla and Travis stop their shenanigans. That incident had also incited Pastor Painter’s sermon on fools and their ungodly ways.
Maybe the good pastor couldn’t see how it affected his children, but Lyla noticed. Travis was self-deprecating to a fault, because his father tore him down publicly, every Sunday morning.
Picking up the snake, she set it on the counter and decided to reach into the bottle one more time, hoping for something more sentimental. This time she pulled out a folded piece of paper and a formative memory surfaced, one that had shattered her confidence so thoroughly that it had perhaps changed the course of her life.
She’d wanted to be a writer since the moment she could turn words into a sentence. Every teacher since the first grade onward had raved about Lyla’s stories and predicted she’d be an author someday, and she’d believed them. At least until the real world had gotten a chance to read her work.
Lyla unfolded the paper now, the raw emotion releasing from wherever she’d locked it up all those years ago.
Dear Ms. Dune,
Your story has no plot. Your characters are flat and one-dimensional. Emotion is what drives a story, but I felt nothing in these pages. I often encourage hopeful authors to take classes and sharpen their skills before sending work off for professional review, but in my opinion, complete and brutal honesty is a favor. Many want to be what few actually achieve. Unless you are certain that you are the one in a million, the exception to the rule, save yourself the heartache.
The words still stung. Folding the letter back up, Lyla placed it on the counter next to the whistle and the rubber snake. Enough reminiscing for one day. The first showing for the house was in less than forty-eight hours, and the place was far from ready. She needed to get busy, and she needed help.
She picked up her phone and tapped out a text to Allison.
Lyla: Up for helping out a friend?
Allison’s response came quickly.
Allison: Always. What do you need?
Lyla: My parents’ house has its first showing on Thursday.
Allison: Say no more! I’ll be over in twenty minutes .
July 12
Dear Diary,
All my life, adults have preached to dream big and never give up. Yet now that I’m adult, just barely, the truth comes out. Dreams rarely come true and chasing them is a risk.
I may never write again. I wouldn’t even be writing in you if Sonny was outside tonight. I sat on my porch and waited for him. I even had a piece of bacon to lure him over. Perhaps I’ll change my college major and study accounting, even though I suck at math. All I know is I never want to feel the way that editor’s letter made me feel again.
Lyla