3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Emma
S ome people stress eat; I stress cook. The scent of cinnamon and melted butter fills the kitchen, mingling with the warm aroma of fresh bread cooling on the counter. When everything feels wrong, I whip up enough food to feed an entire town—often without even noticing until the plates are piled high.
It’s been two days since I returned to Grover Hill, and I haven’t written a single word. The blinking cursor on my screen taunts me relentlessly, a constant reminder that my agent expects a manuscript any day now. I resist the urge to slam the laptop shut, instead rubbing my temples as frustration coils tight in my chest. My creative well has run dry, and inspiration seems to have abandoned me.
“Are we having a party I don’t know about?” Reed, my brother, asks as he strides into the kitchen with a chuckle and a briefcase in hand. He surveys the chaotic bounty before him—lamb chops, apple pie, lasagna—and I wonder how I even managed to gather all these ingredients. Every pause in my movements only fuels my compulsion to cook even more.
The oven dings, and I pull out a freshly baked carrot cake. “I’m stress cooking—no, maybe sad cooking. I haven’t decided on a name yet,” I murmur with a sigh. “At least it means we won’t have to cook for a few days, though it also means I can’t be left alone with my thoughts unless I want to buy a second fridge for all these leftovers.”
“Why are we trying to avoid our thoughts?” Reed asks, grabbing a fork to sample some meatballs I can barely remember making.
I let out a hoarse laugh. “Because my thoughts aren’t very pleasant.” I scan the kitchen for other tasks, realizing with mild dismay that I’ve probably used up all of Reed’s ingredients. I make a mental note to restock next time I’m at the grocery store.
Reed raises an eyebrow, glancing at the overflowing table. “Should I be worried? Is this a cry for help, or just your audition for a cooking show?”
I just shrug, and Reed gestures for me to join him at the dining table. I sigh and sink into a chair, bracing myself for the inevitable conversation. Reed isn’t one to let things linger. He confronts issues head-on, always ready with his brand of advice.
“Come on, humor me. What’s really wrong?” he says, setting a plate of cookies in front of us.
I grab one and take a bite, stalling. “Nothing. Just felt like cooking.”
Reed raises an eyebrow. “Right. Because most people casually whip up a feast when they’re feeling totally fine.”
I sigh, setting the cookie down. I fiddle with the edge of the napkin, debating whether to say it out loud. I pick up the same cookie, stalling for a moment longer before finally exhaling in defeat.
“It’s my…writing,” I confess. “I know I mentioned it before, but it’s going terribly, Reed.”
“How bad is it?” he presses, his brow furrowing.
I let out a dry laugh, though it feels hollow. Crying seems excessive, but the frustration bubbling up inside me is hard to ignore.
“Very bad,” I admit. “So bad that I haven’t written a word in months. So bad that my agent is on the verge of dropping me. And when that happens, I’ll have no one to catch me when my writing career goes up in smoke!” I mimic a tiny explosion with my hands and smile, though Reed’s expression remains solemn.
“I’m so sorry, Emma. What are you going to do now?” he asks, and for a moment, I almost believe there might be a solution hidden in his words.
“I just need a spark—something to reignite the dying flames inside me. Then Emma Riley will become a huge name in publishing,” I say, though even my hopeful tone sounds hollow. Every day, my hope deflates a little more, and I wonder if I should quit, find another job, and leave the writing to people who are actually better than me.
A bitter lump rises in my throat, and I loathe myself for failing to ignite that spark. Why is it so hard to come up with a book idea and simply start writing?
Reed exhales loudly. “I wish I could help, but you know I’m hopeless when it comes to writing. You’ve always been the creative one in the family.”
His sweet smile is meant to reassure, yet it only deepens the pit of self-doubt growing within me.
“What if I never do?” I whisper so quietly he doesn’t catch it.
“What?” he asks.
I let out a heavy sigh. “What if I never figure it out? What if this writer’s block is here to stay?”
Reed shakes his head firmly. “Don’t say that. You’re talented, brilliant, and capable of amazing things. I don’t want you drowning in those negative thoughts.”
I nod, though the emptiness remains. “Thanks.”
Then, with a wide grin, Reed declares, “Bear hug time! You know that always lifts your mood.”
I shake my head vehemently. “I’m going to pass on that.”
But Reed’s version of a bear hug means squeezing me so tight my ribs creak—followed by relentless tickling until I’m laughing uncontrollably. I remember those childhood moments when his tickles always chased away my tears. As an adult, though, the idea sounds absurd.
“Oh, come on,” he whines. “It won’t hurt.”
I eye his outstretched arms warily. “I know it’ll hurt—and I know you’ll tickle me, too. I’m not falling for your huge smile and those big, innocent eyes. No bear hug for me.”
Reed pouts. “Fine, just a little hug then.”
I should have made him pinky swear, because the moment he pulls me into a hug, I yelp and try to squirm away. But Reed is relentless, his grip firm as he starts tickling me until I’m breathless with laughter, flailing in a futile attempt to escape. I laugh so hard I’m convinced the neighbors can hear me, and I collapse onto the floor as soon as he releases me.
“Never again,” I manage between giggles. Somehow, Reed’s tickles transport me back to simpler times, when my biggest worry was a scraped knee, not a dying dream or relentless calls from my agent.
I pick myself up, shoot him a playful warning glare, and sit down at the table to eat.
“I guess we have to hope none of this food rots,” I remark, eyeing the mountain of leftovers and wondering if it’ll all fit in the fridge.
After helping set the table, Reed casually suggests, “Hey, why don’t we invite my neighbor over for dinner? He’s usually a loner—it might cheer him up a bit.”
I hesitate, glancing at the overwhelming amount of food. The last thing I want is to entertain someone new, but maybe company will keep my mind off everything else.
“I guess...why not? Not like I have anything better to do,” I mumble, rubbing my temples.
Reed grins, gives a thumbs-up, and heads off to fetch his neighbor, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again.
“Maybe I should get a cat,” I muse out loud, exasperated by the disarray of my life. I might be just as lonely as Reed’s neighbor.
Even though Reed is kind enough to let me stay with him until I find my feet, I can’t shake the worry that I’m freeloading. Time is running out, and I can’t afford to linger here forever.
I glance at the narrow stairwell by the dining room that leads up to our bedrooms. Memories of childhood flood in—the house where we grew up, where I felt like I was running in circles and could never escape Grover Hill.
Frustrated with myself and with Reed’s unhurried return with his neighbor, I wander around, lost in nostalgia. The familiar walls feel both comforting and suffocating, a reminder of the dreams I once had and the ones that feel further away with each passing day. A framed photo of the four of us hangs on the wall, and I miss the life we once had. I miss our parents, but I’m grateful that at least Reed and I still have each other.
Then I hear Reed call from the front door, “I’m back!” A pause follows, a murmur of low voices, and then two pairs of footsteps echo in the entryway. A strange unease prickles at the back of my neck, though I don’t know why. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to get him out. I should get a medal.”
“Hey, I hope you weren’t a pain in the butt for the poor guy!” I shout back, heading to the door, only to find Reed standing there with the one person I don’t want to see—the one man on earth who can make my mood worse in an instant.
My stomach twists. My pulse stutters. Because standing in the doorway, looking just as frustratingly composed as ever, is Jonathan.