My phone’s bloop pulls me back into the present . . . where I’m prepared to see just about anything other than what I really do see.
“Great. We’re fucked. I gotta call Kelsey. She’ll prob say to ignore them, but if I can get them yanked down, I will.”
What? Yanked down? No! Leave them there. And no, we’re not fucked! This is great. This is a wake-up call, Niles. Don’t you see it?
“They’re beautiful,” I type, hoping I can reach him like he reached me the day Page Six came out. “Do you like them?”
There’s a too-long pause, which seems to be a center point in all our conversations of late, before he finally responds, “They’re incredible. But that doesn’t matter anymore.”
My heart plummets.
I could and should fight back. I should say that yes it does matter, and then ask why he’s being so blind to that. I should say that he’s making this way too cut and dry, that all that fighting he did to win me back just a day ago is what’s representative of us, not this horrible mindset he’s created about himself. I should tell him to snap out of it, give himself a break, realize that two have tangoed here and that none of this has to be this way.
But that’s not a conversation we can have over text. So instead, I break out the big guns and put it as plain and simply as I can.
“Niles,” I type, with tears streaming down my cheeks, “I love you.”
There’s no response.
***
I can’t get on the plane fast enough. Between my bombed conversation with Niles, yet another deluge of accusatory texts from Brad, and ducking the local news crew that tap-tap-tapped on my door, calling out that my story is so exciting and they’d love to hear how it all unfolded, I know that getting away from here is the only logical thing. I packed for all of five minutes, recycling my personal stuff from New York and adding a few outfits. At this point, if I sit around in my pajamas for the entire two weeks, that would be completely acceptable. Who’s going to see me anyway?
I’m thankful that not many people are headed to North Carolina right now, because I have a whole row of three to myself. I smash myself against the window and stare out over the tarmac. Some nights this view is so exciting. Today, it feels so very, very lonely.
I know I’m torturing myself, but I wedge in my earbuds anyway. I should watch a movie or listen to something (or someone) totally different, but I can’t. Because if I can’t hear Niles on the phone or whispering in my ear, I’ll have to hear him the way I always have: crooning in my ears with passion clawing through his voice.
I scroll to the playlist I made with all of his songs—from his own albums, from albums he was featured on, all of them—and go right to my fave. “The Sadder Side of Midnight” has no musical introduction—it’s just his voice a cappella, clear and strong and commanding, right off the bat. Then the music swells, but he never lets you go; he grabs you from that very first note and holds you for three and a half minutes without ever letting you slip away from him. It’s magical. I could listen to it for hours.
With my eyes shut and my mind zoned out, my body vaguely senses that the aisle seat in my row is now occupied and that there is a set of knees swinging their way toward me. I drag my gaze to my new seatmate, straightening up when I realize this person is clearly intent on speaking to me . . . and that she’s clenching a book in her hands.
My book.
“Miss Reagan?” Her eyes gleam, but her face is sheepish. “I am so sorry to bother you, but I just really had to say hello.” She holds her book out to me and flips to the back, where my author photo smiles back at us. (Surreal, much?) “I read this in one sitting. I loved it so much. What a fun story!”
Her voice has turned giddy, and I’m immediately roped in. “Thank you!” I wiggle my butt cheeks back in my seat so I’m straightened up even more. “It was so much fun to write. I’m really glad you enjoyed it.”
A pen materializes from out of nowhere, which she taps on the book. She holds them both out. “Would you sign this please?” She looks at me hopefully, the gentle-but-there creasing around her eyes tattling that’s she’s likely right around my age. “My name is Erin. You know, in case you want to write a message.”
“Of course!”
I settle the book into my lap while my tummy does that oh-my-God-this-is-so-awesome fluttery thing. I cannot believe this is happening. Someone is asking me for my autograph? In a random experience? How freaking cool! Yeah, I’ve signed lots of bookplates and plenty of ARCs for reader contests, but I’ve yet to have a fan stop me somewhere other than at a bookstore signing. I feel like a rock star.
Ugh. A rock star.
“So, uh, the Nash character?” she says. “He was based on Niles Russell, I take it?” She giggles and wrings her hands before setting them in her lap. I look at her quizzically. How would she know that?
“I saw the CelebFeed pics this morning,” she bubbles. “Very nice.” She raises her eyebrows in approval, which makes me want to both squee and cry with this poor, unsuspecting stranger. She, just like Lucy and Sara and Katherine and God knows who else, could see the love between Niles and me just by looking at those pictures. Dammit, Niles! Can’t you see what you’re throwing away?
“Were you already dating when you wrote it? Or is this something new?” She looks at me in horror as her cheeks instantly flush to crimson. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry if that’s too pushy. I’m just a huge fan of you both. You guys have got to be the cutest couple on Earth. Seriously. But forget I even asked that. I was way out of line. I’m sorry.”
I decide right then and there that I adore this human being, no matter how sad what she’s saying makes me. I’m thrilled that this is my very first random fan experience. She’s sweet, she’s sincere, and she seems to really understand how someone can be such a huge inspiration creatively. The only problem? I’m just going to have to tread lightly, so I don’t mistakenly confirm or deny anything about Niles and me.
“It’s okay,” I say with a smile. “Really. And to answer your question, I just recently met him. We became . . . very good friends.”
“I’d say so.” She leans forward and hushes her voice. “Are you meeting him down in Raleigh? Because I have tickets to that concert. It’d be totally hilarious if we crossed paths again there.”
Hm, yeah. Totally hilarious. Except I won’t be laughing. At all.
“Um, I don’t know.” And that’s true. Because I have no idea how it’s all going to go down yet. “I’m heading down for a writing retreat mostly. So I guess I’m not sure yet.”
If her smile is any indication, this is even more exciting to her than me meeting up with Niles. “I’d love to attend a retreat someday, too.” She fiddles with the seat tray in front of her for a moment, then pulls her eyes back to me and turns so she’s as sideways as she can get.
“You know,” she says, her face turning serious “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I really want you to know . . . I’ve started a book of my own. I’m less than half done, but I have to say you’ve inspired me to not only finish it, but to pour all of my passion into it as well. So, thank you for that. Really.”
She looks down at her hands, then noticing they’re empty, holds them out for the return of her book. “Maybe I’ll have a dream-come-true story of my own someday. But without the whole Niles Russell component. Unfortunately.” She laughs as I hand back her book. “Thanks so much. For this”—she holds up the book—“and for the inspiration. I’ll leave you alone now.”
“Thank you for reading, Erin.” I hold out my hand. “And for coming over to say hello. It was really great to meet you. Good luck with your writing.” I squeeze her hand, sending a grin charging across her face. I can tell I’ve made her day. Just like she’s made mine.
“Hurry up with book two,” she says, standing up. “Your fans are already getting impatient.” She gives me one last grin and disappears down the aisle.
Now that she’s gone, I can’t help but beam. Like really, really beam
. I’ve inspired her. She just said so. She’s a writer, too, and she’s been inspired by me to both finish the book and do it with passion. What an amazing, amazing feeling.
I know someone else who had that exact same effect on me, and look what’s happened now. A completed book, an agent, a book deal, and now a possible movie deal. All because of passion. All because of inspiration. All because of him.
Whatever my writing future holds—and now the inspiration I spread to others—all started because of him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Out of the Woods
Getting myself around in the mountains wasn’t something I gave much thought to when I booked my cabin. But given the winding road stretching out in front of me, I most definitely should have.
I’ve been at this stop sign for ages, fully convinced my hands are shaking so badly there’s pretty much no way I won’t steer myself into a guardrail. When it’s clear I can’t put it off any longer and I’m sure there’s not another soul around, I inch up the road, staring straight ahead so I don’t freak myself out even more. I can see that once I get to my spot, I’m not leaving again until someone sends a pack mule up after me. No, really. I’m serious.
When I finally reach my cabin—my seriously adorable cabin—I thank every religious and nonreligious deity there is for my safe arrival and tumble out of the car into the fresh mountain air.
Though there’s beauty all around, the first thing my eyes fly to is the porch where I hope to spend a good amount of time. I can’t help but notice the two rocking chairs, looking all cozy and inviting. I make a mental note to remove one of them, so I don’t feel so lonely, but decide against it when I remember that the Law of Attraction would tell me to leave it there, so that a “visitor,” ahem, would have a place to sit if “he,” ahem, were to come visit.
I run my hands along the backrests of each of the chairs, then walk into the tiny cabin. I look around for a bouquet of flowers or a card like the ones Niles had surprised me with before. Like somehow he had figured out I was coming here and pulled out his best Nash moves in an effort to win me over again. But, duh, of course, there’s nothing. I check my phone, and though there are two new emails from local news personalities and a zillion new notifications to my social media pages, there’s nothing from him there either. No texts, no voicemails, no nothing. Maybe there’s just spotty reception where he is. Yeah, I’ll go with that.
Ugh. Okay, enough Niles talk, Kallie! Time to get over this. I came up here to write, and dammit, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I settle into one of the rockers and fire up my computer, reminding myself how exciting this is. For years, I’ve wanted to do this. Just plant myself somewhere, with no distractions and no obligations, and just write, write, write. Like Emily.
My word count tracker shows I’m a little over half done with this book, pre-edited, of course. If I dedicate most of the day and night to writing, only taking breaks for quick workouts or hikes in the woods, I’ll be nearly done with the first draft by the end of the week. Then, I’ll play with the girls for a few days, come back to my book with fresh eyes for another few days, then head home. This is perfect.
And hopefully this will help boot Mr. Russell loose from my brain as well.
Until I see him at his show, that is.
Annnnnd, great. Here we go again. In one split second I’ve opened the thinking-about-Niles floodgates once more. Because I can’t help but think about what’s going to happen when I see him. Maybe we’ll have made up before then, and we’ll be right back to awesome, just like we were before this all went down. It could happen. Right?
Unless he’s back with Robbyn. Seriously, why hasn’t that thought occurred to me yet? I’ve been so busy boo-hooing over all this that I’ve forgotten what a huge piece of the puzzle she is. That big, huge, giant biyatch is the reason this all got started. She sabotaged the incredible relationship we had going by planting seeds of doubt within me, not to mention breaking into his apartment and meddling as much as she could. She is to blame for every bit of this. And she should pay.
But wait. Niles hates her now, right? And he must especially hate her since she’s a class-A crook. But what if he doesn’t? What if he’s somehow forgiven her and now she’ll be the one moving into that apartment with him instead of me? Augh, I can’t handle this!
I look at my phone and scroll to her text. There’s her number. Now’s my chance. Niles isn’t around to stop me; no one is around to hear. I can rip her a new one and no one will be the wiser. She has it coming to her. She deserves it.
But I’ll say my piece and then what? No one will be the wiser. What’s the point of that? I have a much, much better revenge idea. I am so creating a character like her in my book and doing some very, very bad things to her! Gotta love that perk of being a writer.
I notice a stick on the floor and kick it so it skids across the porch. I pretend it’s Robbyn’s face and feel the slightest bit satisfied. My glee doesn’t last long, though, because with the incessant buzz of hungry mosquitoes, I realize my outdoor writing time is quickly dwindling, and if I’m going to count Day One as a success, I better get going.
I turn my attention back to my laptop and type a few notes. Robbyn character: Name is Bertha. Fired from job. Broken up with. Pants split in yoga class. Hit by bus. There, that should suffice. I can hardly wait to get to a chapter where I can work that in. How fun will that be?
After checking my texts and emails yet again, and with not one other procrastination device at my disposal, I reread the last few pages I’d written.
And my heart breaks into a thousand pieces.
Because those pages, after all, were written atop Niles’s roof. And on his couch. While everything was going right and everything was amazing and my creative juices were in full swing.
I stare at my screen and freeze. How can I keep writing this story? How can I get myself back into that frame of mind? That’s what my readers want from me. They want fairytales and romance and little bits of conflict that are quickly resolved and massaged into happy moments and even happier endings. They want love and lust and trust and excitement. They want what Niles and I had. Until yesterday.
I slam the lid of my laptop closed and walk to the edge of the porch. I look all around and don’t see a soul. I’m not sure how far apart each of the cabins are—probably not very—but at this point I don’t really care. I stand at the edge of the porch, dangle my toes over and close my eyes. I’m loud and wobbly and weepy and overcome with so much . . . everything.
Somehow my mind decides that now would be an excellent time to take stock in all I’ve managed to accomplish lately. So, let’s see. Failed marriage? Check. Failed rock star romance? Check. Feelings of motherly inadequacy as I allowed Jilly and Alana to be hundreds of miles away while I followed my one-time rock star lover all over the East Coast? Check, check, and check.
And now I’m holed up in a cabin in the mountains, a mere hour away from them, without so much as letting them know. Oh wow, that’s outstanding. Where do I sign for my Mother of the Year award?
Oh, and let’s not forget how shitty of a best friend I am. I still haven’t called Sara back, and frankly, I have zero inclination to do so. I’m a shitty client, too, since I’m sure my message to Lucy earlier was so cryptic she doesn’t even know what to make of it. And again, now I’m up in the mountains with spotty Wi-Fi and phone reception, and she could be calling or emailing me for all I know . . . but I wouldn’t even know.
And now, possibly the worst thing of all. The most terrible, horrible, insanely baddest thing of all: I can’t even write. My one motherfucking saving grace. The one thing that makes all the shit in my life seem somewhat-kinda all right. The one thing that sets my mind straight when it’s wonky and helps me work through whatever ails me. The one thing I felt I was actually good at these days. I can’t do that either.
My fans are waiting for Book Two. But I can’t even imagine that I’ll have anything to give them. Ho
w can I? My life is totally different now. I mean, there was never any pressure with Book One. It was just me telling a fantastical story. Now, these people want a follow-up. And it better be good, or they’ll abandon me and find new characters to love. And just like that, I’ll be yesterday’s news. Just. Like. That.
Oh my God, I totally understand how Niles must be feeling about his new album.
I’m only four feet off the ground, but it feels like miles. Not only do I understand Niles’s creative struggles, but I also know how he must’ve felt that night on the bridge. He was obviously in a much darker place than me, but I understand how very, very excruciating failures are. And how hopeless you feel when you don’t know where to start in order to fix them. Which one do you tackle first? How do you do it? Can you do it alone? If not, why not?
I stand and teeter, cry and shake, heave and finally collapse to the floor. The once-upon-a-time me who once upon a time felt in control of everything—or at least of some things—is gone. Where did she go? And how do I get her back? I don’t know anymore.
I honestly don’t know.
***
I can’t say I’m dying to do it again, but sleeping on the cabin’s porch was a kinda-cool experience. After flipping out like that last night, the last thing I wanted to do was hunker down in a teeny tiny cabin, so I brushed my teeth, chiseled the cry-dried makeup off my face, and grabbed a blanket and pillow from the adorably rustic bed. I think I covered every square inch of the porch, alternating between sleeping upright in the rocking chairs and rolling up in the blanket burrito-style on the floor. I’m pretty sure I would’ve come face-to-face with a raccoon or three, but I squinched my eyes shut tighter whenever I heard what I presumed to be scampering claws. I’m all about the great outdoors, but that’s pushing it.
The sunrise is staggeringly beautiful as I sit with the blanket draped around my shoulders, appreciating every moment of it. Yesterday was rough. From start to finish—aside from my encounter with Erin—it was very, very rough. But today is a new day. Today, I will slay my dragons and conquer yesterday’s demons. This day might not be perfect, but I will put one proverbial foot in front of the other and make it be better than yesterday.
All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) Page 20
