Chapter 8
Tate: Is she okay?
Will: What do you mean?
Tate: She jumps at everything. She’s too nice.
Will: She’s always been nice. Just not around you.
Tate: I don’t like it.
Will: Good. Pull her out of it.
Thankfully, the rest of our stops running errands weren’t as bumbling as it had been at Keller’s.
We didn’t run into anyone we knew, so there was no need to explain anything.
Tate kept it to a simple hand hold throughout the stores, and it wasn’t the worst way to spend a day.
The farther we got outside of Autumn Ridge and away from Montpelier, the more I relaxed.
Tate was very vigilant in watching our surroundings inside the store, and it was kind of nice to let him take the brunt of the worry for a bit.
Our stops were spread around a fifty-mile radius around Vermont, so there was also a lot of time to kill in the truck.
Tate graciously offered for me to use the donut pillow his mom had set in the truck—the one he’d flung into the backseat when we climbed inside.
“What would I use this for?”
“You can use it like a desk. Put it on your lap so you can write easier.”
“How is your butt these days?” I asked brazenly, glancing toward him. I could barely notice his limp.
“You tell me. You’re the one so interested in it.”
I shook my head at his low chuckle and settled the pillow onto my lap. If he was refusing to use it, then that was his problem. It would be a more comfortable position to write.
Write.
That thing a writer did when said writer had a deadline.
It was a simple motion, really. Normally, I’d have a computer on my lap, and thanks to implicit muscle memory, my fingers could remember exactly where to go to procure the letter they needed. All I had to do was think of something to say and start typing. Or in this case, writing.
Even one little sentence would work great. At this point, I’d gladly take a word.
One word, brain. That’s all I’m asking for.
ONE.
And yet…the notebook in front of me remained in a depressing state of white.
To be fair, I was used to writing in a more…
cave-like atmosphere. These days, my apartment enjoyed a moody vibe, with the curtains shut and the glow of the lamps casting a mood more fitting for writing about crime or murders than romance.
I thought that was the problem. But here, the sunlight glared in through the window.
Instead of hoodies and sweats, I wore jeans with buttons that dug into my skin and clung unnaturally to my body after six months of being shoved into the back of my closet.
Something wasn’t working.
Perhaps it was the way my eyes kept noticing every shift in the air. Every bump in the road. Every flicker of muscle in Tate’s arms as he adjusted his position at the wheel. Writing in the same space as someone else was not for me.
“How’s it coming?” Tate said after some time of me staring out the window, not writing.
“I’m not used to writing romance. I’m having a hard time finding inspiration.”
He pointed at his chest. “Have you even looked at your boyfriend lately?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“What do you usually write?” he asked.
“Family crime dramas. Murder mysteries. Funny enough, I have even written about a stalker before.”
“How’d you catch him in the end?”
“The girl learned self-defense and took him out.”
To his credit, he looked mildly impressed. “Have any of your screenplays been made into movies?”
“A couple. They were collaborations with other writers. This is the first on my own.”
“Do you write the kind of movies where the writers get all the police stuff wrong?” he asked, amusement lining his face.
“That depends. You guys still eat donuts every day, right?”
“Of course. My favorite is when the results from forensic testing can either come back in one minute or two weeks, depending on the episode.”
I smiled. “That’s actually my specialty.”
He laughed. “And you like that kind of stuff? Murder shows?”
“Yeah. Don’t you, Detective?”
“I get enough of it at work, so I usually just watch sports.”
I slipped my feet out of my shoes and put my feet up on the dash. “Such a cliché.”
“I thought all girls were into romance. You’re not?”
I shrugged. “The type of romance I’m supposed to write is cheesy and overdone.”
“Why do you have to write it if you don’t like it?”
I sighed. “My company got into some legal trouble a year ago, so they had to make major changes to stay afloat. We were predominantly a family-friendly murder-mystery channel.”
Tate held up a hand, a delighted look on his face. “First question: could you tell me how you make murder family friendly?”
I cocked my head. “That just means they’re not graphic, and the language is mild. Anyway, some of the actors and writers got into some PR trouble and had some really bad publicity, and the company was almost run into the ground.”
At the question in his eyes, I added, “The actors and writers forgot who they were all married to and destroyed the family-friendly image of the company.”
“Ah.” Tate nodded, understanding immediately.
“Anyway, stocks and ratings plummeted. We broke the public trust. We lost sponsors. Social media started to boycott the company and all that. So my boss and her higher-ups decided to save the company by doing a complete one-eighty. They changed the company name and cleaned house—hired new actors and writers. But their ratings had been slowly tanking even before all of that, so they took this opportunity to focus on the fastest-rising genre in the nation.”
“Which is?” Tate asked.
“Family-friendly romance.” I couldn’t even say it without an edge to my voice. “The kind of movies you can watch with your eight-year-old and your grandmother.”
“Why is that bad?” he asked.
I shrugged, running my finger over the seam of my jeans. “It’s not. It just sets…unrealistic expectations.”
“So does an action hero who never runs out of ammo during the whole movie, but you don’t see me complaining.”
I snorted.
When I didn’t say anything else, he added, “For someone so sure she doesn’t like romance, you think it would be easier to answer the question.”
“Maybe it’s classified.”
He smiled. “Maybe you’re just a big chicken.”
“I used to watch them, but then I grew up and lost interest.”
“Just like that?” He pressed, doubtful.
I sighed. “Okay. Fine. A long time ago, I was watching a romance with Ari and Reese. We used to watch them all the time, but then, suddenly, the magic was gone. Bad acting. One-dimensional characters. No chemistry between the leads. No guy would really leave his high-paying career to become a farmer in Vermont. And while he’s on his knees, professing love to the little apple-orchard girlfriend, all I could think about was how many girls he probably had on the side at work. ”
I knew I was saying too much, but I was on a roll and unable to stop. “Anyway, the magic bubble had popped. Eventually, I found true crime and loved the idea of writing something with a focus on justice, where the guy who ruined everybody’s life goes to jail.”
We both sat there in semi-stunned silence at the words I’d just spewed. I had gone to therapy for a short while after high school and had unpacked quite a bit of that, but it sure seemed like I hadn’t.
And then Tate spoke.
“This is completely unrelated, but have you talked to your dad lately?”
I pursed my lips and shook my head, irritated that I wanted to laugh right now. And even more annoyed when I actually did.
When I finally looked over at Tate, he was watching me with a little smile on his face.
“My dad and I are actually pretty good now. I talk to him every so often. It’s been ten years. We’ve all moved on. I’m over it, but it’s still hard to…” I trailed off, feeling a disconcerting sting in the back of my eyes.
Tate kindly looked out the window for a moment while I composed myself. I had just pulled the blank notebook back on my lap when he spoke again.
“Alright, I’ve got an idea,” he said as he pulled into a parking lot in front of a store called United Ag and Turf and parked.
“What do we need here?” I asked, motioning to the store.
“We’re picking up a pallet of twine. Then I’m taking you to lunch. And then I’m going to help you write your screenplay.”
A knot formed in my stomach.
“Oh, we can just grab something through a drive-thru. I’m sure you need to get back.”
“I’m fine. I know a good place to eat here.” He gave me a pointed stare—a challenge.
“Really, we don’t need to—”
“It’s for our cover.”
I gave him a look. “It is not.”
“Rawlins, I’ll keep a watch out the whole time,” he said softly.
The whole idea of sitting in an actual restaurant, complete with air conditioning and a waiter who brought food and endless drinks, felt so luxurious. So swanky.
So out in the open.
“Come on, Liv. I’ll even buy you an appetizer.” He said, eyeing me carefully and dangling his bait.
I tapped my finger to my chin like I was in deep thought.
“Playing hardball, I see. Fine. Let’s throw in a milkshake.”
It was no surprise that, eventually, the temptation of good food won out over self- preservation.
I finally smiled over at him. “I would have said yes at the appetizer. But you don’t have to help me with my work.”
“I don’t want to, but seeing as I’m a walking vision of romance, I guess I could give you a few tips on how to make a movie…sizzle.”
The word almost got stuck on his tongue, and even he struggled to keep a straight face.
“My boss is looking for swoony. Sizzle is on a different channel.”
He sighed. “Guess I’ll have to dial the sexiness down for TV.”
I tried to hold it back, as it would only go to his head, but the smile came anyway.
After our pallet of twine for the balers had been dropped by a loader onto the back of Tate’s truck, he pulled us into a restaurant called Cider and Smoke, touting the best grass-fed hamburgers this side of the Winooski River.
Tate requested a corner booth and sat so he could see the entire restaurant, and I forced myself to pretend none of this was a big deal and that I could relax.