Chapter 7 Sad Kate Winslet #2
“You have to experience life to write about it,” Margot had said, her red hair thrown in a messy bun as she all but dragged Sage away from her computer and out for a run down the Venice Beach Boardwalk.
“Technically the world I’m writing about doesn’t exist,” Sage had grumbled.
“Shh. Let the endorphins do their job.”
The endorphins, surprisingly, had not fixed Sage’s crisis. In fact, they’d nearly created another one when she’d run up on a tall, blond man who was also running the Venice Beach Boardwalk and had the exact same build as Theo.
She hadn’t been able to tell if she was relieved or disappointed that it hadn’t been him.
They haven’t spoken. Obviously they haven’t spoken, because Theo had said everything he needed to say when he issued that statement and followed it up with telling Sage she was a mistake.
It’s fine. It’s not like he’s the first person to kiss her and regret it.
It’s just …
God, she feels so stupid about the whole thing.
She’d written him off as an asshole, had refused to get distracted by him, and then he’d weaseled his way in with how he so easily perceived her, and then he kissed her.
He all but admitted he had feelings for her, he acted on those feelings, and then he took it back faster than she could blink.
And sure, she was the one who pushed him away in the greenroom, but she’d been startled, and it was complicated, and …
I’m complicated.
She can’t shake the thought no matter how hard she tries, can’t stop replaying just how much she’d shared with him in such a short time, just how vulnerable she’d let herself be, just how much he’d seen of her, understood, only to throw it back in her face.
It was the worst sort of whiplash, and she’s still reeling from it.
But it’s fine.
It’s better this way.
She knows it’s better this way, even though she sometimes finds herself half hoping she’ll run into him. She doesn’t even know which part of LA Theo lives in, and yet she’s constantly glancing over her shoulder, her stomach twisting whenever she sees a tall blond with a similar silhouette.
She isn’t even sure what she would do. If she’d ignore him or give him a piece of her mind. She’ll probably never find out.
The beep of the microwave pulls Sage from her thoughts. She grabs her mug, pours in enough caramel creamer to give the coffee a nice beige color, and lets her head thump against the paint-chipped cabinets.
Maybe Anna was right. Maybe she does need a change of scenery—something to truly jolt her brain out of its slumber. Not a night out, not a spin class, not the green smoothie Margot swears will give her the vitamins she needs for her brain to work.
Her mother will, of course, kill her if she’s not home for Thanksgiving. Never mind that Sage will be back in the Midwest for Christmas.
Sage rolls her neck to try to relieve some of the tension coiled in the muscles there. She has so much to do, and yet here she is, wallowing in her kitchenette like Kate Winslet’s character at the beginning of The Holiday.
Or maybe she’s more Cameron Diaz? She is in LA, after all.
She sets down her mug and reads the text from Emerson.
She’s asking about trying some new restaurant, and Sage lets out a long breath as she navigates to her Internet app to look it up.
She taps on the tabs to open a new one, her screen showing the forty-plus squares of windows she already has open, and pauses as one catches her eye.
It’s the “Ten Best Hikes on the Isle of Skye” article she’d been reading at Comic Con.
She should probably feel something about how long she keeps tabs open in her browser, but she can’t because an idea is rapidly forming.
A stupid, stupid idea that she can’t believe she’s actually considering, because it’s impulsive and foolish and …
And technically … she could escape to a beautiful, picturesque countryside like Cameron Diaz did in The Holiday. Just … not in England.
She has airline miles saved up, and it’s not like she can’t bring work with her.
All she needs is her laptop and a decent Wi-Fi connection.
She could probably even sublet her apartment.
It’s nearing the holiday season, and people are constantly looking for a cheap place to stay as they escape colder weather.
She bites her lip, clicks out of the browser, and starts flipping her phone in her hand again as she thinks.
Surely she’s not really considering fleeing Los Angeles because she has the worst case of writer’s block known to man.
She’s not really going to do this.
Is she?
Forty-eight hours later, Sage has three new notifications on her phone:
Boarding passes for flights from LA to London to Inverness.
A message from the host of the Airbnb she’s renting for the next month and a half.
A voicemail from her mother reiterating how disappointed she is that Sage won’t be home for Thanksgiving and that they’ll see her in Chicago for Christmas.
So, yeah. She is very much going to do this.
“Is this a bad idea?” Sage asks, hands planted on her hips as she stares at a half-packed suitcase, her computer open next to it.
“No.” Emerson’s voice comes from the speaker of Sage’s phone just as Margot says, “Sort of.”
Sage flashes Margot a glare, and her friend just shrugs as she holds up a sweater for Sage to inspect.
“Pack it,” Sage says.
“Lots of writers go off in search of inspiration,” Emerson reasons. “Or shut themselves away. Or both, I guess?”
“Reassuring.”
“I do what I can. Oh! This person looks normal!” They’ve been reviewing sublet applicants, Margot having created a post on various sites.
With her career in real estate, she was confident she could get Sage a subletter who wouldn’t burn her place down.
Emerson offered to keep an eye on the apartment, serving as the stand-in landlord.
Sage truly has the best friends.
“Bash,” Emerson continues. “Employed, completed background check, can pay the security deposit immediately. Hmm, we might even be able to meet them before you leave tomorrow night.”
Sage can hear Emerson’s fingers tapping across her phone screen, already texting the applicant.
“Are you sure you’re okay to manage this while I’m gone?
” It’s not the first time Sage has asked her this, and it probably won’t be the last. “It’s not like you don’t have enough going on at the firm.
” She cuts a glance to Margot. She’s holding up one of Sage’s amethyst dresses, admiring her reflection in the mirror.
It pairs wonderfully with her golden complexion. “And you have homes to sell.”
“Sage,” Emerson says seriously, “you know how much I love The Holiday. Helping you re-create the movie is the greatest honor of my life.”
“Seconded,” Margot agrees solemnly.
“You two do realize I’m going to the Isle of Skye, not Shere.”
“As long as you find your Jude Law, it doesn’t matter,” Emerson chirps. “Or your Cameron Diaz, I suppose.”
Sage huffs a laugh and hopes it doesn’t sound bitter. “I think I’m done with actor types. Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.”
She technically never really started with actor types, but her point stands. Besides, this trip is about cutting out distractions. Even if the only reason Sage learned of her idyllic escape was because of a distraction of the tall, blond, and infuriating variety.
Sage buries her face in her hands and lets out a frustrated noise. Margot puts a soothing hand on her shoulder. “I’ll make sure Emerson actually checks in on whoever rents this place.”
“Hey!” Emerson exclaims through the phone. “I’ll have you know I’m plenty responsible.”
“Tell that to the money tree I got you,” Margot retorts.
“You know what—Oh! Look! Bash can meet tomorrow!”
Margot looks at Sage and rolls her eyes in fond exasperation.
“Is 7:30 AM at Urth too early, S?”
“Yes,” Sage says dryly. “But I’ll be there. Thank you, both. Really. I’ll pay you for this.”
“Shut up,” Emerson and Margot say with creepy synchronicity.
“I don’t want your money,” Emerson adds. “I will take a book dedication, though.”
“Shit. I was planning on dedicating it to Jude Law.”
Both of her friends make sounds of protest.
“Rude!” Margot cries.
“I’m not going to miss you at all,” Emerson grumbles.
The next evening, Sage settles in the middle seat of the last row of her flight, neck pillow wrapped around her. She pops in her headphones and resolutely does not think of Englishmen, despite being en route to London.
No more distractions, she reminds herself firmly as she checks her backpack to make sure her melatonin is easily accessible.
She sends off a text to her brother to let him know she’s on the plane—a sibling ritual she refuses to admit that she loves—and then scrolls down to her earlier texts.
She pulls up her thread with Theo.
It was a mistake.
Sage swallows hard.
She deletes the text thread.
No more distractions.
And then she deletes Theo’s number entirely.