Chapter 2
TWO
noia
A week after being left at the altar, I realize my condo has become a mausoleum of empty wine bottles, fast food containers and unanswered questions.
Aside from the rain it’s pretty quiet.
It hasn’t stopped for days. It’s the kind of steady, droning drizzle that quickly soaks the city to the bone, painting the skyline in grey watercolors, and turning headlights into blurry stars.
I used to love this kind of weather, all moody and cinematic. But now it feels like the universe is sighing right alongside me.
Curled up on my couch in one of Eric’s old hoodies, I refuse to admit it still smells like him. Oversized and swamp green, I’ve matched it with a pair of threadbare boy shorts that used to be sexy, but now just scream: Emotionally Damaged.
The city sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows set between glass and steel with a thousand lives humming along on the other side.
My condo sits on the twenty-fourth floor. All sleek white walls, brushed gold fixtures, high ceilings and way too much curated art. It looks like it belongs to someone who actually has their life together.
I haven’t washed my hair in three days and there’s an entire bottle of Sauvignon Blanc sweating on the coffee table. My laptop is sitting on my thighs like a lead weight, open to a blinking cursor on a half-finished chapter I’ve rewritten so many times it doesn’t even make sense anymore.
I stare at the name on the screen and want to scream.
Ryder Blackwood
My newest fictional god is a brooding, leather-jacket-wearing, sinfully hot former-Marine-turned-tattoo artist with a heart of gold buried under ten layers of emotional damage.
He’s my latest blue print of a book-boyfriend that women across the world will thirst for by the time I’m done with him.
But there’s a problem. I can’t write about him anymore.
He won’t talk to me. He just… sits in my head, arms crossed, silently judging my lack of brain power. And the worst kind of writer’s block? Is when a figment of your own imagination starts ghosting you.
I’ve texted Eric once. Just once.
I don’t even know what the hell I want to say. I just want to understand. I deserve at least that much.
That was four days ago, and the asshole left me on READ.
I never imagined I’d be the woman staring at her phone, rereading a text she regrets sending, but here we are.
A hard knock breaks through my reverie.
Dragging myself to the door, I toe aside a stack of unopened mail spread across the floor and crack it open to find Sasha, holding up a giant canvas tote bag with a bright smile on her face.
She’s in high-waisted black leggings, an oversized lilac sweater that slips off one shoulder, combat boots, and a messy top knot that makes her look effortlessly cool. Her skin is dewy from the rain, but her eyeliner’s still intact.
“You look like shit,” she says, brushing by me to step inside.
“Great,” I mumble. “That was the look I was going for.”
She sets the bag on the kitchen island with a thunk. “I brought supplies. Wine, stuff to make a charcuterie, trashy tabloids and bottle of tequila. And also—because I love you—a discounted cake from the bakery down the street that says ‘Sorry Your Life Is Trash’ in black frosting.”
That actually makes me snort.
“I also brought these,” she adds, digging out a pair of fuzzy socks with middle fingers stitched into them. “Because mood.”
“Not only are you my bestie, you are an icon.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
We settle onto the couch with a spread fit for two queens. We don’t talk much for the first hour. We don’t have to.
She flips through a tabloid reporting a rumor I’ve ghosted the wedding on purpose to drum up publicity. There’s even a blurry photo of me looking haunted outside a grocery store.
Jesus. I had no idea I looked that rough.
“You need to leave,” Sasha says out of nowhere.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Eventually,” she says around a bite of brie. “But preferably now. You’ve got this look about you. You know—the one where your hair’s about to join a cult and your laptop is planning a murder-suicide.”
“I’ve been working,” I lie.
“No, you’ve been pretending to write while watching twelve-year-old baking competition reruns on HGTV and stalking Eric’s Insta.”
I open my mouth to argue.
“You’re also out of clean underwear and have been wearing the same hoodie for five days.”
“I washed it,” I mutter.
She gives me a look.
“Fine. I Febreezed it.”
Sasha leans forward, grabbing my knee and giving it a shake. “Babe. You need a reset. A real one. Not the kind where you sage your living room and end up crying into a pint of Chunky Monkey.”
I sigh. “And where exactly do you propose I reset my shattered emotional soul?”
She lifts her brows. “Lakeside.”
I blink. “You mean my writer’s cottage?”
“It’s perfect. No distractions. No press. No memories of an ex-fiancé lurking in every corner.”
It’s true. I haven’t been there for over a year. My writer’s cottage is about an hour outside of the city, nestled next to a lake in a quiet, isolated area near a small town called Lakeside, surrounded by woods, fog and the occasional moose.
I bought it after my second book hit the bestseller list. It’s always been a place I can run to when deadlines loom or the world gets too loud.
“Think about it,” Sasha says gently, pulling her feet onto the couch. “No expectations. No social media. Just you, your writing, and a chance to figure out what the hell comes next.”
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling as the rain drums against the windows.
“Fine,” I finally say. “But only if you come with me.”
She smirks. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The lake house smells like cedar and dust.
It’s a two-story, three bedroom cottage tucked beneath a canopy of evergreens, with light wood siding and a wide front porch that creaks under our feet.
The air up here is different—crisp, damp, and laced with pine.
No more car horns or people. No more of my mom calling to “check in” and casually remind me that she always knew Eric was a spineless coward.
Sasha pushes open the door and breathes in deep.
“God, I missed this place.”
Inside, everything is as I left it: cozy and cluttered.
Bookshelves sag under the weight of hardcovers, paperbacks and fake plants.
A macrame wall hanging is tacked up above the stone fireplace.
There’s a mismatched velvet armchair by the window and a navy blue typewriter I don’t use resting on the antique writer’s desk I bought because I thought it made me look old school bookish.
“I had the fridge stocked a couple of days ago,” Sasha says, tossing her purse on the couch. “Wine, pasta, pop tarts. All the essentials.”
“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” I grin, setting Goonie down on the floor.
Sasha rolls her eyes, but I can still see the concern lingering in the expression on her face. She’s been doing that a lot lately—watching me like a hawk—like she’s waiting for me to crack.
“Go ahead and judge,” I huff as I hang my jacket on one of the hooks by the door.
“Nope.” She kicks off her boots. “You’re getting none of that from me.”
Once Sasha leaves, not only will I be alone with my self-deprecating thoughts, but my unfinished manuscript, and a stupidly hot fictional hero who refuses to cooperate—my skin feels itchy just thinking about it.
At least my cat, Goonie, will be here for impromptu cuddles.
Sasha plops onto the couch and drags the couch blanket over her lap.
“Remember when we stayed up all night here binge-writing book three?” she asks, her eyes going soft with the memory. “You were eating chips with chopsticks to keep your fingers clean.”
“Best system I ever invented.”
“Back then, you were unstoppable.”
I stare out the big picture window that faces the lake. The water is slick and grey under low-hanging mist, while trees stand sentinel on the opposite bank like watchful shadows.
“I used to know how to get lost in the story,” I say quietly. “Now I can’t even fake it.”
Standing from the couch, my bestie steps over and pulls me into a hug. Warm, tight and familiar, she smells like vanilla and fabric softener.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she whispers into my hair.
“Even if I never write again?”
She pulls back, grips my shoulders and gives me a hard look. “Especially if you never write again. You’re more than just your books, Noia. It’s important for you to remember that.”
She stays long enough to unpack the extra groceries we bought and build me a cheese plate I don’t feel like eating. She makes the bed with clean sheets and lights a lavender candle in the kitchen.
When she finally zips up her bag and shrugs on her coat, the setting sun is painting everything in amber and gold burning off some of the mist. But that won’t last long.
“You sure you’re good?” she asks as she stands in the doorway.
I wave her off. “Go. Take your tight yoga ass and leave me here to rot.”
She snorts. “You’ve got Goonie to protect you.” She grins at my fat calico as he jumps onto the couch and spins a couple of times before claiming his spot. “Call me if the woods try to murder you.”
“I’ll scream your name into the trees and hope for the best.”
Pulling me into another quick hug, she turns and heads to her car. I stand at the door and watch until her taillights disappear down the gravel road and get swallowed by the fog.
And just like that—I’m alone.
When I realize I’ve been holding my breath, I blow it out in a whoosh.
After pouring myself a glass of wine, I change into an old thermal and a pair of fleece leggings, and light every candle I own. Less musty now, the house smells more like lavender, citrus, and sage.
I crack open the windows to air out the house, just enough to hear the lake lapping softly at the shore as the stars, one by one, slowly start winking into existence against the night sky.
Grabbing my suitcase, I go upstairs to my bedroom, sit at my desk and open my laptop to a blank page. The cursor blinks back at me until after a few minutes, I reluctantly start to type.
Ryder Blackwood stepped out of the dark. Leather jacket soaked in blood and rain, his eyes were full of—
Ugh. I stop, backspace and try again.
Ryder leaned against the doorframe, smirking like—
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
I slam the laptop shut.
Resting my head in my hands, I groan. “Come on. Talk to me, you stupid, sexy figment of my imagination.”
All I can hear is silence—the kind of silence where the only sound you can hear is the ringing in your ears.
I push away from the desk and pour another glass of wine. The night stretches on as I scroll on my phone. I listen to old voicemails and delete Eric’s number—again.
By the time midnight rolls around, I’m back downstairs, lying on the couch under a fleece blanket with my laptop open, page still blank.
I close my eyes and whisper, “Damn, I wish you were real, Rye. You’d know what to do.”