Chapter 28 Now
Now
By Monday morning, I’ve convinced myself of three things:
I’ve ruined my friendship with Lucas.
I’m never going to write another book.
I might need to legally change my name, dye my hair, and start over in a new city.
After pacing in the kitchen for hours, I eventually crawl into bed around three a.m., only to toss and turn for hours. I wake up before my alarm, puffy-eyed and head pounding, and immediately call Ross.
He picks up on the second ring. “Jesus. Who died?”
“Just my dignity,” I mutter, flopping back against the pillow. “I need help. I’m in a full-blown creative and emotional crisis.”
“Great. Love starting the week on a light note.”
“I’m serious, Ross. None of this is working!” I sit up and start pacing the room. “How stupid was I to think that this manufactured meet-cute bullshit could possibly do anything for me except make me look like a fool on the internet?”
“A fool?” Ross echoes. “Girl, the people love you. Your little cereal aisle videos are iconic. They want your next novel! They’ve boosted sales for your last two! You’re just too in your own head to see it.”
“Too in my head is basically my whole brand,” I groan.
“These meet-cutes or reminiscing on the love that I lost were supposed to inspire something. Anything. But neither have brought me closer to even a vague plotline. I have nothing. Nothing but a desktop full of dead ends and a dog who keeps staring at the door like his dad’s coming home. ”
Ross is quiet for a beat. “Okay. That part’s depressing.”
“Sorry.”
“But also accurate,” he adds. “I think you need to cut all these little extracurricular stunts and lock yourself in a room with a notebook and a laptop. No distractions. Definitely no internet access.”
I sink onto the floor, which seems to be my new favorite spot these days. “What even is writing the old-fashioned way? Little Women style? Should I go outside and scream into the moors? Do we even have moors?”
There’s a pause. I hear him clicking something on his keyboard.
“No moors. But actually,” he says slowly, “I might have a solution. One of the editors I work with is sending an author to this retreat somewhere in New England. Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard, I think?
Hold on—yep, Martha’s Vineyard. There might be a spot.
It’s a last-minute kind of thing, but you’d have your own space, meals are covered, and it’s meant to be strictly offline.
Like no distractions, no pressure to post. Just vibes and word count. ”
My first instinct is to say no. I have too much going on.
I need to clean my apartment. I need to walk Winston.
I need to text Maddie. I can’t just up and vanish to an island.
And then I think about Lucas, what I might have to say to him, and suddenly vanishing to an island sounds much better than dealing with that situation head-on.
“I’ll go,” I say before I can talk myself out of it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Desperate times call for desperate location changes.”
“Martha’s Vineyard is far from desperate.” He laughs on the other end. “I’ll send an email. Pack a sweater and your favorite pen.”
“Ross?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. But also—don’t forget who the fuck you are. You’re Ainsley Green. You’ve done this before. You can do it again.”
I hang up, crack my neck, and look at Winston, who’s still curled up by the door.
“We’re going to Martha’s Vineyard,” I tell him. “Well, I am. You’re going to doggy day care.”
He blinks once, unimpressed, but I’m not doing it for him. I’m not even doing it for Lucas or Ross or my readers. This time, I’m doing it for me.
It’s time that Ainsley Green figures her shit out.