Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
“You’re right. I went to the bonfire with you in the hopes of getting to know you better. An interview with you would jump-start a career I’ve only dreamed about. But as the night went on, I realized we might have something. Something worth more than any interview could give me. I put the idea aside, just hoping to get to know you better with no other agenda. And then, when you kissed me back? I knew you were special. But now? Now I think it’s a good idea for us to just chalk this all up to a bad idea.”
Slamming the door again, she turned on her heel and was in the house before I could even formulate a response. Great, Landon. Just great. I hoped the absence of cars in the driveway meant no one else was home to witness our goodbye. I was fairly certain everyone within a two-mile radius heard her, though. Letting my foot off the gas, I stopped myself from squealing the tires as I turned out of the drive. I was mad at her for overreacting and mad at me for being a dumbass, seeing red as I drove back to my house. I’d woken up in a great mood, and now with a few words, I’d destroyed it all. I felt my blood pumping, and my insecurities reared their ugly head.
I had half a mind to just keep driving. Shelby could have someone pack up the house. I could go wherever I wanted to go, thanks to Shelby handling what was left of my finances. Of course, if I didn’t start writing soon, what was left would dwindle away. Taking a deep breath, I knew I couldn’t keep running. I was thirty-six years old. For goodness’ sake, it was time I faced my fears once and for all.
As I pulled onto my road, I was still reeling and didn’t slow down enough. I nearly fishtailed, jamming my foot on the brake and forcing the truck to a stop. Sitting at the end of the road, trying to catch my breath, I counted to fifty. Then one hundred. It wasn’t working. I was still livid. Fuck my therapist and her damn coping skills. I’d send her an email telling her exactly what I thought of her, except she’d respond and remind me that I was the one who’d walked out without really giving her a shot.
At the house, I followed suit and slammed both the truck and house doors. The house smelled of Tara, sweat, and sex. I kicked the chair she’d knocked over against the wall. I wished I hadn’t already cut all the firewood. I would’ve torn through it in no time at all. Instead, I stormed into the bedroom, ripping the sheets off the bed. I didn’t have a way of cleaning them, but damned if I was sleeping on the same sheets we’d slept on together. I rolled them into a ball and threw them outside in the fire pit. Grabbing a can of kerosene, I squeezed it onto the sheets and lit a match. The fabric lit in a fireball of hot fury, matching my mood precisely. It didn’t hit me until I’d gone back inside that I had no clue if I had another set for the bed.
Staring at the laptop on my desk, I pulled my chair out and dropped it down. My intention in starting it up was to completely wipe it clean. Instead, I opened my writing software and started typing for the first time in years. At some point, my hand started cramping. I got up and stretched, shocked that it was getting dark outside. How long had I been typing? I moved back to the laptop, gasping as I realized I was a third of the way through a first draft. I flexed my fingers, stomach growling. I was exhausted and hungry. I checked to make sure I’d saved my work and shut down the laptop. I needed food. I remembered someone mentioning a place in town delivering pizza. I’d taken down the number. Searching the house, I couldn’t find my phone.
I gave up my third time through the house. I needed to eat before I passed out. I grabbed whatever I could find in the fridge and pantry, reminded of the weeks I’d spent glued to my couch, refusing to get up, bingeing Chopped. Strangely, that’s when my love for cooking started.
I loved the challenge of making something out of nothing. It wasn’t that different from writing.
I fired up the oven, cracking a few eggs and throwing them in the skillet with zucchini, onions, shredded chicken, and peppers. I added pepper jack cheese to top the whole thing off. I didn’t know how the chicken fit in, but it smelled good. I threw the last of my bread, which consisted of one heel and one whole piece, in the toaster. Throwing it all together, I ended with a shredded chicken omelet sandwich. It wasn’t half-bad.