22. Bread and butter pickles are garbage. I said what I said
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
bread and butter pickles are garbage. i said what i said
Ididn’t think I’d say this again, but I’ve been writing.
A lot.
That little half-thought about a love story wouldn’t die. So, I hopped on board and decided to see where it would take me. Now I’ve got these two lovesick idiots who can’t get out of their own way that I’m completely obsessed with, and I’m not entirely sure what to do about it.
I figured I’d drop a corrupt and powerful politician into the mix…
and make him the woman’s father. And then I made our male character the reporter determined to take him down.
Stir in a very expensive contract killer, set it in the most peaceful-seeming beachy small town, and we’ve got something brewing.
I don’t know why I’ve never considered writing a romantic thriller or a suspenseful romance or whatever this is turning out to be before.
It’s like a perfect little chocolate covered pretzel.
It’s something sweet, but still something salty.
I get my happy ending, but there’s also murder, corruption, and manipulation.
Things my writing is very familiar with.
But this whole idea is brand new—at least to me. It’s exciting. It has whimsy. And it makes me want to write again. Not because I feel like I have to. But because I really want to.
It feels like I’m riding a fucking high. I don’t know if my publisher will feel the same way—the contract is pretty specific about what I agreed to produce—but I can’t walk away from this when it’s the first piece of writing that has felt right in a long time. I have to believe it’s meant to be.
I’d love some stability in my job, but I need to be doing something that feels right. If I could get both, that’d be ideal, but I’ll take one out of two for now.
Besides, I might be physically unable to stop. The story has been spilling out of me, like my first book did. It’s a living, breathing being, and everything about working on it just feels right. Who am I to say no to that?
“Hey, Shakespeare. You’ve got to eat,” Forrest says, tapping me on the side of my arm with the back of his hand.
A hand that holds a to-go box.
A to-go box that smells amazing.
“I got some things from the resort restaurant,” he explains as I look up at him from beneath my enormous floppy hat.
Out of nowhere, my stomach growls loudly. I didn’t even realize I was hungry. What the hell time is it?
Afraid of scaring my idea off, I’ve been writing anytime the tiniest drop of inspiration hits, even getting up in the middle of the night more than once.
It would appear that at some point today, mid-morning became mid-afternoon, and I completely skipped lunch after only having coffee for breakfast.
Because the whole point of coming here early was to give myself time to write, I did leave most of this week unplanned, and we’ve been bouncing around to different spots for writing and studying.
We went to the park by Tempe Town Lake, the main library at DCU’s campus, and a picnic area near the base of a mountain where more adventurous people than us like to mountain bike and hike.
When we went for a walk that day, we met a couple that had just gotten engaged at Antelope Canyon in Sedona, and I like to think that’s a good omen for me writing a romance story. They were so giddy they told their whole engagement story to a pair of strangers. It sounded beautiful.
While I’d love to go see the pink rocks up there, I think it might have to wait for another trip. And the longer I’m here, the more I’m desperate to book another trip… or many other trips. I forgot how much I love being here.
Since he’s learned proper sun protection and hasn’t had any more run-ins with cacti, I think Forrest might agree to come back with me. I just need to make sure he doesn’t see a scorpion during the rest of the trip, or all bets are off.
Forrest and I decided to stay closer to home and hang out by the pool today.
In stark contrast to the beginning of our trip, the weather has been dancing around in the low eighties, and knowing we have New England winter waiting for us back home, we’ve been eager to soak up as much sun as possible.
Safely. With copious amounts of sunscreen and regular breaks in the cabana that we staked a claim on first thing this morning.
I reach for the Styrofoam box, but Forrest pulls it away.
“It’s time to stand up. Make sure your legs still have blood flow. Maybe take a break, eat with me,” he says, backing away as I start leaning out of my lounger, stretching for whatever deliciousness he foraged for me. I smell fries.
“You’re the one who told me to write,” I whine.
“I take it back for the next half hour. I didn’t know you’d forego literally everything else when you got into whatever headspace you found,” he says with a smile, but also looking the tiniest bit worried. “Don’t get me wrong. I support you and whatever your process is. So long as you eat.”
It’s a fair deal. Maybe I’ll even get in the water before settling back into work. About to get crazy poolside over here. I did bring a brand-new one-piece here with a cute cutout below my sternum, and it hasn’t seen a drop of water yet.
I close that precious little notebook and unfold myself from the chair.
My laptop is back on duty now that I’ve started drafting, but all planning still happens by pen on paper in the notebook.
When I feel the blood rushing back down my legs followed by the static-like buzzing tingle in my toes, I do fear Forrest may have been right about my writing conditions.
I try to subtly shake out each leg so Forrest doesn’t notice.
“How you doin’ there, champ?” he asks without even looking up from the food he’s setting out.
Busted.
“So good,” I say, and I mean it. I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Hopeful.
Also hungry.
“When did you go get all this?” I ask, looking at the spread of boxes on the little table in the cabana. I adjust the halter top tie of my suit. It’s been digging into my neck, but I didn’t notice until now.
“Literally fifteen minutes ago. We spoke before I went. I asked if you wanted to pick something. You made a mumble noise that I took to mean no.” Forrest is smirking, showing off that dimple I love.
“Ok, ok,” I say, surrendering. “I get the message. I become a zombie when I write. Sue me.”
“Pick which one you’d like,” he says, flipping open both larger boxes at once, revealing a BLT and a buffalo chicken wrap, both with fries.
I reach for the box with the BLT at the exact same time he picks up the buffalo chicken wrap.
“How did you know which I’d pick?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t even dignify my question with an answer.
I know you, that look says.
I sit in one of the upright chairs and resist the urge to snarf down my entire sandwich in fourteen seconds flat.
“You know what would go so good with this?” I ask, wishing I had some cold, crisp pickles.
“Yup,” Forrest says, reaching back into the paper bag by his foot and pulling out a zip-tied bag of pickle spears.
“Dill?” I gasp, elated.
“Obviously,” Forrest answers, opening the bag and handing me one.
The sound I make when I bite into the pickle is pornographic.
“Fuck.” I draw out the word.
Forrest chokes on his bite.
“You can’t be doing that,” he says quietly, his voice hoarse.
My head whips around, looking for a child I might have just traumatized.
“Right, sorry,” I say. “Family-friendly place.”
Forrest blinks a few times.
“No, I just didn’t expect the college flashback with the sounds you make,” he says.
And suddenly I’m the one left stunned silent.
Of course, food was the right move. I didn’t realize I was starting to feel like crap until I realized how much better I felt after eating. Forrest and I did end up going for a swim and then found ourselves in the hot tub.
I’m happily listening to my characters living their lives in my head when I realize I want to share them.
“I know it’s been a few days, but can I take you up on your offer to listen to me word vomit about this book idea?
” I ask. It’s something we used to do when I first started creating stories before I became self-conscious about my writing.
Usually, we’d be in the treehouse, but I think I can make an exception this time.
I can be a little like the fearless kid version of myself.
Forrest lifts his head from where he’d been resting it on a towel at the edge of the tub, looking at me like I just offered him a puppy.
“You mean it?” he asks.
“I just want to know if it sounds like I might have something before I take it to Lori. It’s pretty different from what I’ve done before,” I explain.
“I know we’ve known each other for decades, but I hope you also understand I’m your biggest fan, and this is basically a dream come true,” he says, probably joking to butter me up. But I already know I have a kind audience in him.
So, I tell him about the characters, the plan I have for them, their awful families, and the twists I’ve been noodling through. I fiddle with the C charm on my bracelet while I do, and it somehow reminds me of how far I’ve come.
And when I finish, even before Forrest says anything—he’s so supportive—I realize I need to tell this story. And I’ve never felt so sure about a project before.