Chapter 5
SCARLETT
By the time I return to the cottage, my thoughts are a jumbled mess.
I place the mug on the table and grab the recording device that I use for dictation, hoping the movement of my pacing will help me shake something loose.
All I can think about is how I willingly spent my morning talking about mugs with a man I barely know.
Somehow, it felt more intimate than most of the relationships I’ve had in the last three years.
I don’t know how to process this feeling.
I came here to be alone so I could write and be invisible. Now, I’m suddenly going back and forth with a man I don’t know, but I want to learn everything about.
As I pace the room, I speak nonsense into the recorder. After ten minutes, I sit and open my laptop again. This time, there are no playlists or playlists-about-playlists or self-bribes involving retail therapy or secret Pinterest boards.
I glance over at the mug one more time, then open my document from yesterday, the new one I started. The cursor blinks like it’s waiting to be impressed. I stare at it for a second too long, then type a sentence. My fingers find the rhythm before my brain has time to interrupt.
Helena sits at the edge of the bed, heart slamming against her ribs, and tries not to look at him like she’s already memorized every inch of his skin. However, she’s alone. For now.
I pause because I can’t deny Ezra is on my mind. Thinking about him gives my words a heartbeat. I close my eyes, knowing I shouldn’t use him as inspiration, but I’m not able to help myself. Now that the thoughts about him are there, I can’t seem to push them away.
I type faster, and the action writes itself.
Unexpectedly, the hero arrives. He walks toward her, slowly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to touch her.
And she lets him. She doesn’t deny herself the experience.
She doesn’t run. She doesn’t make a joke, deflect, or apologize for being too much.
Helena willingly takes everything he offers her, like she’s starved for attention from men.
She is.
Fuck. I am, too.
The story pours out of me. It’s full of heat and hesitation, and too much space between their mouths and not enough time to explain why they’re so careful about crossing the line.
Who cares that my two characters just met?
I pause, fingers hovering above the keys, my chest tightening around something I don’t want to name.
I was writing about Ezra, and I can’t help but recall the way he looked at me. Even the thought steals my breath away.
I sit back against the couch. The words on the screen almost feel like they belong to someone else, like I’ve finally admitted something too true, and now I have to decide whether I’m brave enough to keep going.
This book wasn’t supposed to be personal.
I’d promised myself I’d never put my real feelings, desires, needs, and fears onto the pages again, but ignoring the essence of who I am stopped me creatively.
Here I am, behind on my deadline, fantasizing about the man who rented me this cottage.
After a deep breath, I start typing again because it feels right. When I hit the bottom of the page, I read the scene again, and then a third time.
I didn’t outline or build the sentences with practiced control or massage them to be perfect.
They just happened.
This feeling that’s overtaking me is different. I’m not sure if it’s panic or awe. Maybe both.
This scares the hell out of me.
The media will find Ezra.
They’ll learn about this cottage and my getaway.
Rumors will spread.
I cannot do this to him.
However, this is the best thing I’ve written in years.
The scene burns under my skin and leaves a mark. It came from somewhere inside of me that’s real. Helena’s breathless want. Her surrender. The fear of being too much, too late, too everything. It’s not fiction.
I close my laptop, then begin to pace the room.
This is what happens when I get too close, and instead of holding it in my hands, I flinch.
Over the past two years, every time I wrote, it was about heartbreak, about a cheating piece of shit who I thought I’d marry. Each time I wrote, I fell apart and mourned the loss of the family I wanted to have with him.
I let out a shaky breath. I’m proud of myself for not pulling back.
I didn’t sift my thoughts through a filter. I just wrote what I felt.
And it’s Ezra’s face and the sound of his voice that won’t leave me.
I reach for my phone; the need to talk to someone is too strong to deny. I message Hallie.
Scarlett
I wrote a scene. It was good. And I’m terrified.
Hallie
That’s great! Not the terrified part. Tell me what’s going on!
I stare at the screen for a second before my eyes start to sting. Not a full cry. Just enough to blur the text.
Hallie
Also, terrified means the words mattered.
Of course, she knows. Hallie has always been my anchor when I forget who I am. She knows my habits and cycles.
Hallie
Who is he?
Scarlett
The man who owns this cottage. I can’t cross the line with him.
Hallie
But you’re already writing about him?
Scarlett
I know! That’s what scares the shit out of me!
Hallie
Okay, has anything happened between you two?
I glance out the window.
Scarlett
No. We’ve had coffee the past two mornings. He’s attractive. My type. Intriguing. Makes jokes and is somewhat of an asshole at times.
Hallie
Look, I’m not telling you what to do in any way, but maybe see where things go? Write your fantasy with him. Maybe you’ll manifest it.
Scarlett
I need to protect him from me. I ruin everything.
Hallie
You’re getting ahead of yourself, babe. Write your book. Have some adult fun. Then tell me all about it.
I drop the phone beside me and groan, then start writing.
Sunlight spills in through the window like honey, painting the pink room’s wooden floors in a dreamy gold.
My mug sits on the table, empty. I pick it up, running my fingers along the edge, tracing the curve where the glaze pools near the base. There’s something remarkable about this color and the way it fits in my hand, like it was made for me.
I stand and stretch, needing to shake this feeling away.
I move to the wall of windows that look out over the backyard. The path that leads to the main house is barely visible through the ivy. I don’t see Ezra, but I think about him.
Honestly, I can’t stop thinking about how he looked like he couldn’t decide whether to tease me or live in the moment with me.
He held my mug and turned it over in his hands, as if he were impressed that I had chosen that one.
He meant it when he said it was a good one, and considering he has a cabinet full, he’d know. Ezra is a Paris Pottery connoisseur.
I didn’t come here to connect or open up to anyone or feel anything.
I came here to finish this fucking book about love and happily ever after, to prove to myself that I could, even if I don’t believe in those things anymore.
This project has been the elephant on my back for far too long, and I can’t avoid it any longer.
For the first time in years, the idea of writing feels less like failure and more like a new beginning.
Outside, the wind rustles through the trees. A bird calls out once but then goes quiet again. In the distance, a screen door bangs shut. It’s so ordinary, but it’s evidence that life is happening around me.
Right now, I want to write more. Not because I have to, even though I do, but rather because today reminded me that I still have it in me. And finding my confidence is enough, at least for now. I have one week to finish this book. The pressure is on.