Chapter Two #2
I let out a sigh and roll my suitcase toward the living room, the sound of the wheels echoing too loudly in the open space. I hear Louie following behind me, and can almost hear his pride as he watches me take it in.
“This looks nothing like the pictures online,” I say, turning to face him.
“Just completed the remodel,” he says proudly. “You’re the first guest since we finished it, actually. We’re pretty proud of her. My wife did most of the design herself. She’s got an eye for this stuff.”
That makes more sense. It explains the contrast between Louie and this house.
The living room furniture is completely sterile.
A low black leather couch that looks more like a showroom piece than something you could sink into and read a book on.
A glass coffee table that reflects the light in too many corners, its edges sharp enough to slice open a knee if you aren’t careful.
Even the fireplace, which I thought might offer some rustic warmth, is just an elegant gas fixture behind a smooth modern facade. It flickers with a mechanical precision that makes me long for the uneven crackle of real wood burning.
I am such an ungrateful brat. Who would be sad to stay in a place this gorgeous?
It’s just . . . there’s no charm in it. No history.
It’s efficient, sure, but it doesn’t feel like a place for inspiration.
It feels like a place to execute tasks, to work, but not to create.
I wanted solitude, yes, but I wanted to feel connected to the wilderness of this place, to the raw beauty of the woods.
Instead, I feel like I’ve been dropped into a high-end Airbnb, too pristine for the kind of messy, creative process I imagined.
My writer’s block has been so bad, I blame everything for it. I’m even prematurely blaming this beautiful house.
I sigh again. This might not be the retreat I hoped for, but considering my sour mood, I don’t know that anything would be met with warmth from me right now.
“Really nice place,” I say, giving Louie at least a fraction of the reaction he’s probably hoping for.
“I’ll tell my wife you love it,” he says. “You know, we live just down the road. You probably noticed the house, actually. First and only other one on the whole road,” he adds, his eyes fixed on me a little too long, as if waiting for me to ask for more details.
I nod, hoping that’ll be enough to keep him from offering more.
“I know you’re here to work,” Louie continues, “but if you’re not too busy, you could come over for dinner sometime this week.
The wife would love to meet you. It’s just the two of us, and we love having company when we can.
” His grin widens, and there’s that gleam again in his eyes that makes him come off way too eager and forward.
Or maybe the word I’m looking for is desperate.
Or just lonely?
My mouth twists at the dinner invite, but I try to suppress it with a smile.
I can’t imagine anything worse than spending an entire meal making small talk with Louie Longsetter and his wife who thinks she read one of my books and is an actress, but not really an actress, but kind of is an actress.
I’m already exhausted by the explanation of that, and I haven’t even met the woman.
“Oh, that’s really nice of you,” I say, my smile feeling more forced with every passing second. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll text you if I find some free time?”
There’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but he quickly recovers, nodding.
“Of course, of course. You’re here to write, after all.
I just thought, you know, if you needed a break or anything .
. .” His voice trails off, and he gives a little wave.
“Well, I’m just down the road if you need me. ”
I nod again, tighter this time. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
With another awkward wave, he turns and heads out the door toward the road. I close the door, lean against it for a moment, and stare back into the unnervingly modern space.
The backyard overlooking the lake isn’t west-facing.
I always get a west-facing house for this part of the process.
There’s something about watching the sunset that lights a creative fire in me like nothing else.
The way the sky burns with hues of orange, pink, and violet pushes me to write with a kind of urgency that feels both exhilarating and necessary.
That’s how it’s supposed to work, anyway.
But I booked so late this time around, I had to settle for an east-facing backyard view, and I feel the difference in every fiber of my insecure, untalented being.
Sunrises just feel harsh and demanding, almost as if they expect too much from me too soon, and that’s how I’m going to start each day here with these massive east-facing windows.
Maybe I could write in the primary bedroom, which is the next room I peek into. There’s a window that faces west behind the bed, but it wouldn’t offer views of the sunset through the dense trees.
“Almost forgot!”
Shit! I spin around at the sound of his voice, a yelp stuck in my throat. I bring my hand up to my chest, startled, but try to keep my anger at bay when I see Louie is standing in the doorway to my bedroom.
He waves a sheet of paper in the air. “Wi-Fi password and such. Forgot to leave the rules.” He sets it on the credenza next to the bedroom door.
“Like I said, first guest since the remodel, so I’m sure there’s a thing or two I’m forgetting.
Let me know if you have any trouble, or if any of the appliances don’t work, or . . .”
“Thank you,” I say sharply. “I can take it from here.”
Louie nods, but half his teeth disappear in what would still be considered a smile on most people, though for him it’s basically a frown. “Break a leg,” he says. “Or . . . whatever they say to writers.” He heads back toward the front door. “Break a pen? Break a keyboard?”
He’s still muttering alternative phrases as he closes the door behind him. I hate that he knows who I am and what I’m here for. I shouldn’t have booked under my business email, but I’ve been using it for so long, it would be too much trouble to change it to something that isn’t my author name.
I can’t get away from myself, or my recognizable name, even to a guy who is older than my father and lives in the middle of nowhere.
No matter how much I try to hide from being Petra Rose, I’m here.
I’m there. I’m every-fucking-where. On the cover of People, on the home pages of E!
News and TMZ, on podcasts with only two thousand followers.
Whatever pays the bills, I guess. I’m sure I’d be doing the exact same thing if the writing didn’t work out when it did.
Hell, I have the following—I should monetize my own platform and start shit-talking myself too. I’d probably make more money by trashing me than being me.
I always feared this would happen. The loss of anonymity. But I don’t think I ever imagined it happening on this level.
When I first began writing, I did it purely for fun.
It was a need. Something I could escape to when my real life got hectic.
It was exciting, and readers were excited.
I’d write about anything I felt like writing about.
Hot MMA fighters, aliens attacking Earth, farmers falling in love with city girls.
Seventeen books later, my name was out there and bills were getting paid and life was good. I felt like I was on top of the world.
Unfortunately, gravity pulls everyone back down again. And boy did I fall hard. It was like someone sliced a hole in my parachute and threw my descent on live television for the entire world to see.
Which is why I’m in the predicament I am in. Way too far behind on a deadline, and a house with a past-due mortgage. And the icing on the cake?
Writer’s block.