She shifted her feet and put her hand on her hip. “THEN, instead of having her be found, loved by the handsome stranger from LA, you kill her. You. Kill. Her. And the screen goes black. What is it with this series? Either a woman is a whore or she broke the proverbial mirror when she was born, the doctors passed her under a ladder, and a black cat danced across her path, leaving her with a loveless life of pain and anguish.”
She took in a deep breath, relieving the anxiety I was having thinking she might just pass out. “Why is it so hard for authors to just have a happy ending? If you’re gonna make her the unluckiest person ever, and you’re going to give her a moral outlook on the world that, let’s face it, is not realistic in the least for someone with her past, you could at least give her something at the end of the series. Anything. A water free set of lungs. A new rug for her living room since you decided to throw in a completely unbelievable cat fight in her house three episodes before.”
There was a lot of passion behind what she was saying. I opened my mouth to talk but she continued. “And I just want to say, for a modern-day show, you would think they would take the whole concept of a strong woman and embrace it. Everyone knows the cat fight with Sasha in a mini skirt and six-inch heels was solely for the men being forced to watch the atrocities in front of them to make their wives happy.” As she went to turn away, she stopped again, pointing at me dramatically. “Oh, and when you killed her dog, every watcher in America wanted to kick you in the…”
“Banana nut bread is done,” her friend yelled from the back.
She glanced over her shoulder before stomping off. I sat there slightly in shock, unsure of whether it was over, or if she was going to come back at me with some sort of kitchen utensil. Actually, her passion was both irritating and cute at the same time. I didn’t even have time to explain to her that I wasn’t part of the show’s writing team for the last season, and not really for any of the seasons. The luck that my main character had, didn’t have, was spread out, and less dramatic in the book series, but television was all about shock and drama.
Initially, I had requested to be on the writing team, but after season one was filled with, “…sorry Christian we just have to go with something more made for television,” I gave up on it. I knew the series was going to only slightly resemble the series that I had put all of my energy in for years. The series I had written through ups, through downs, through break ups, through trauma. The stories I had pulled from the deepest part of my imagination and emotion. Those books were destined to be destroyed by Hollywood, and without fail, they did exactly that.
Swishing my finger over the mouse pad on my laptop, I tried not to make eye contact with the very passionate woman I could feel emotionally grieving the time she lost watching the show. Clicking open my email, there was a sales statement from my publisher. I grimaced as I opened it, seeing just how far my sales had plummeted. I needed the ending to the book to be amazing, to give people what they wanted, but at the same time, stay true to the emotion and ingenuity I had put into the books before it. The pressure was on, and it had sucked me dry.
Glancing over at the chat, I noticed I was still logged on. Hurriedly I tried to disconnect, but my editor had obviously been stalking me hard core. The chat screen popped up and I groaned, rubbing my face. “Hey, how’s small town life helping that creativity?”
I cracked my knuckles and wrote back. “I just got here last night. So far…I’ve been verbally accosted, rightfully so, treated a woman like a lonely peasant because I am trying to pry into the creative center of my mind after it has been welded shut, and now I just looked at the sales statement.”
I could see the little curser moving as Edward, my editor, typed back. “Good, then I don’t have to tell you how important this book is, and how it needs to come back to us…yesterday. Not trying to rush you, but hurry up. I don’t care what you have to do. Get it done.”
Knowing Edward, his words would have been spoken with a jovial tone, but on the computer, I felt like I was being led up to the chopping block, the wielder of the axe smirking at me from beneath his black hood. “I’m on it. That’s why I’m here. I’ll keep you updated.”
With that, I closed my laptop, leaning back in my chair. I stared out the large glass front of the store watching as a couple walked by, dressed in winter coats and hats, clinging to each other. My inspiration had never come from one person, it had come from a plethora of life experiences, stories, things I had witnessed friends go through, and the all about trauma of the world of love. I had to admit though, being one of the most hated authors in America at the moment was definitely taking its toll on me.
Groaning, my eyes fell on the cookie still sitting on the table in front of me. She must have accidently left it there when she stormed off, threatening to dismantle my banana nut bread. I glanced around but she was in the back, small cut off groans and curse words coming from the kitchen as a small leak of smoke drifted through the swinging doors.
Her friend stuck her head through the doors and chuckled nervously, putting her hand up to everyone. “Everything’s under control. No need to worry. Anybody need more coffee?”
Everyone shook their heads and she hurried back into the kitchen, a loud bang proceeding. I shrugged my shoulders and reached over, grabbing the cookie. I sniffed it at first, a fleeting thought that she might have poisoned it for me swirling through my mind. That was not the way my life was though, it would be far too brilliant of an ending for an author like me. But I had to say, it was the first real imaginative thought I had since about midway through the last season of the show.
I bit down into the cookie and my eyes went wide. It was delicious, probably the best cookie I had ever had. When the woman at the bed and breakfast suggested the place, I assumed her adjectives of “transcendent,” and “otherworldly,” were just poor attempts to impress me since she obviously recognized my name. Either that, or that small town bed and breakfast always had my book series laid out on every small side table through the entire house.
But there I was, feeling like she might just be right. Now all I needed was for the cookies to transcend me back into brilliance.
Chapter 3
Rory
“I’ve never seen you react to a guy like that before,” Tish said taking a bowl of popcorn from me. “I mean, seriously, I was afraid your head was gonna pop off your shoulders.”
I groaned as I crossed my legs and plopped down on the floor, leaning my back against the couch. “He was a jerk. Besides, he asked my opinion. He wanted to know what I felt about the show, so I told him.”
Tish raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, as you sucked the very life out of his artistic core. Everyone in the place could hear you.”
I gave a stout nod. “Good. They probably all thought the same thing. The show is terrible. I mean, it’s not terribly made, but it’s so cliché it makes my brain hurt. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was a ghost right now. That is how many times I rolled my eyes so hard I could see the back of my head. Dead.”
Tish giggled tossing a piece of popcorn at me. “I don’t know, I think you thought he was hot, mysterious and caught up in his own thing, and you did know how to handle it. I do have to say though, you probably could’ve smiled or put it in a different way. You didn’t have to completely crush his life’s work.”
I picked up the remote and pressed play. “I think you should watch for yourself and see just how bad I’m talking.”
Tish stared at me, blinking her eyes. “So, what you’re saying is you thought the TV series inspired by this guy’s books was so terrible that it killed you, I’m talking to your ghost right now, but you’re gonna sit here and make me watch the entire thing?”
I chewed my popcorn with my chin held high. “Who wants to be dead on their own?”
Tish snorted. “Great. We can haunt the afterlife together. Just what I always dreamed of when I died, being stuck with a bitter old maid.”
She was laughing and I shook my head as I stood up
, having forgotten my drink on the counter in the kitchen. I threw the piece of popcorn back at her as I skipped past, Tish vibrantly grinning at me. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the drink, glancing down at the trashcan. Shivers ran down my spine at the sight of the bakery graveyard that now filled the wastebasket. I stood there for a second, contemplating my downward spiral into culinary disaster.
Tish and I had made plans for some late-night TV binge watching, something we did a couple times a month to keep ourselves sane. She had several things to do before she came over so I figured I’d test out a new recipe that I thought I had gotten perfect when I wrote it down. I was excited, not having had any kind of lightbulb moment when it came to baking since before me and my ex unceremoniously broke up in a drama filled porch screaming match. When I had gotten home from work, stoked about my recipe, I tossed my things to the side and had come straight to the kitchen, opening up the cabinets and pulling out all the precious ingredients I would need. I meticulously measured out every single thing, placing it gently in the bowl as I hummed to myself with flour on my apron and a spatula in my hand.
Each and every scoop of dough I formed perfectly, placing them one by one on the cookie sheet and waiting for the perfect temperature, measured by my several hundred-dollar oven thermostat, before placing them on the middle rack as I always did. I had perfected the exact place and temperature that my at home oven needed to get precisely the result I desired, or so I thought. After closing the oven excitedly, I went into the bathroom to straighten myself up before Tish came. I had every intention of presenting my gooey, golden, pastry perfection as a showing that I wasn’t the bitter old hag that she apparently saw me as.
I could still smell the burnt sugar in my nose as I stood there staring at the trashcan. I had gotten three strokes through brushing my hair when the inevitable soul crushing scent of burning pastry wafted through the house. I had run back in the kitchen at full speed almost forgetting to put on my oven mitts before grabbing the pan, but it was too late. There was nothing to be done. Not only were the cookies burnt, but somehow, I had managed to burn them into a perfect shell that held still cool dough in the center.
I would’ve been lying if I said I didn’t shed a tear over it. In fact, if you moved several of the charred coal lumps to the side in the wastebasket, you probably would find my tissues. Those tissues carried the tears that were filled with my hopes and dreams crushed by the inevitable end of my romantic social life. I was distraught, but not distraught enough to let my best friend see the disaster that I’d become. So, in haste, I tossed them all in the trashcan, covered them up with a couple of paper towels, and sprayed the whole place down. I still wasn’t sure how she didn’t catch on though, instead of the air freshener covering it up, it smelled like lavender and cursed dreams throughout the entire apartment and probably down the hallway.
That event alone didn’t help my bitterness, or the fact that I knew that I had been a complete and total asshole to the author. There was no reason for me to flip out on him like that, but my mouth opened and the words just came vomiting out before I could stop myself. I blamed his species, the male species, because let’s be honest, there’s no way they’re human, for the inevitable downfall of my baking career, and for good measure, my ever-expanding hips as well.
With a groan, I shut the lid to the trashcan and headed back out to the living room. Tish put her hands in the air. “What took you so long? You didn’t get back into that habit of making your own soda, did you?”
I shivered. “God no! I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I don’t know either,” Tish replied wrinkling her nose. “All I know is that you made me try that one that you used vegetables to make, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to smell kale again. Or bananas. Everything tasted like bubbling soul food put through a blender.”
I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. Tish was always such a good sport, trying my many disastrous poorly thought out plan. I wasn’t afraid to try new things, that was for sure. The specific instance she was talking about though, was the time that I had also picked up attempting to make the bakery into one of those places you could get healthy smoothies. I thought why not attract the sugar lovers and the healthy people? Turned out, I didn’t have much talent in picking flavors that would go together when it came to smoothies. I knew sugar, and flour, and anything else that you could combine together and bake in the oven. And note that carbonation is not meant for smoothies.
We sat and watched the first few episodes of the show, which originally when I had originally watched, I had somewhat enjoyed them, but sitting there on the floor, still wincing at the words that I had vomited at the author earlier that day, it seemed even worse the second time around. Tish was pretty entertained, as were most people that watched it, but there was something about the main character that I just couldn’t get off my mind. During my entire rant at the café, not once did I mention the fact that I had read his entire book series, minus the last book because it hadn’t come out yet.
Truth be told, I couldn’t put it down, and waited with bated breath until the next one in the series had come out. The thing was, when I read them, I felt like I was reading about my life. The main character, she was just like me. So much in fact, I wondered if somehow, I knew him and he had written me into one of his stories. It was normal for a reader to connect with the character, but this wasn’t that. If anybody that knew me read those books, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they thought they were truly about me.
When Christian had walked into the Café, and Tish had hinted at the idea of me flirting with him, panic had immediately run through me. I could already see it, him getting to know me, me getting comfortable, and him realizing just how much I was like his main character. From the outside that sounded really romantic, but the reality of it was, the character was strong on the outside, but a weak and scared girl on the inside. She used her job, her friends, and all the work she did in the little town in the book to cover up her insecurities. Even her personality was just like mine.
Usually when I was uncomfortable in a situation, I used humor. But if I was really uncomfortable, I talked far too much. Just like I had done in the café, reaming him out for something he probably had nothing to do with in the first place. I didn’t know a lot about the television world, but I did know that authors didn’t always have a lot of say so in what happened in the TV or movie adaptation. Nonetheless, the network didn’t ask me for my opinion, he did. It just so happened that he caught me at a time in my life when the last thing I wanted was some hot shot handsome author figuring me out. Vulnerable was not in my vocabulary. I felt like I had just been vulnerable, and it had backfired in my face.
Tired of watching myself bubbling through life on the television in a five-foot six blonde package, I grabbed the remote and turned off the show. Turning to Tish, I gave her puppy dog eyes. “I think it’s time we made an emergency fro yo run.”
Tish’s eyes went big and she clapped her hands excitedly. “I’ll see you and raise you one. There’s a local wine shop right across the street from the ice cream place. We can grab our frozen delights and head over to the wine shop for a glass of prosecco.”
I wiggled by eyebrows and crawled over to her, lifting up and throwing my body on top of hers on the couch. “This is why you’re my best friend.”
She tapped me on the shoulder and I lifted my head looking at her. “You’re cutting off the blood supply to my spleen.”
I laughed and lifted myself up, straightening down my T-shirt and reindeer pajama pants. “I’ll go grab my jacket. And a sweatshirt.”
Tish gave me a look. “You’re going to go out in your reindeer pants?”
I looked down at myself, realizing I probably did look a little ridiculous. “What? Who’s gonna be out on a Thursday night getting frozen yogurt?”
Trish shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? The man of your dreams could be right there outside and you’ll ruin it because
he’ll think there’s something wrong with you for exiting the house in pajama pants made for a seven-year-old.”
I gave her a pouty look. “Hey, at least all the secrets will be out there and we won’t even have gone on a date yet.”
Tish rolled her eyes. “Go change your pants. You’re not embarrassing me.”
I gave her an exhaustive sigh and ran back into the bedroom to throw on a pair of jeans. Had she not been there, and I had been going out to grab something, I would have never even thought of it. I had gotten in a really bad habit of either being at home or at the café and that was it. It didn’t even cross my mind that I may meet someone while out running errands, nor did I care. Nonetheless, she was right, reindeer pants were a little bit much.
Since I only lived about three blocks from town, we decided to walk. It was probably better anyway if we planned on drinking. One glass of Prosecco was a pipe dream. Try one… or two…bottles of prosecco and a very tilted stumble back. We laughed and talked as we went, not having any real meaningful conversation, just being us. As we stepped up onto the curb a half a block from the wine shop, Christian came walking toward us. His head was down and he was obviously in deep thought just like he was at the café. When he looked up, he put his hands in the air with a grin. “I’m unarmed, and beg that you don’t torture me with any more terrible reviews of my show.”
It was actually kind of cute, and I let myself smile. “Don’t worry, I clocked out from my critiquing job a few hours ago.”
Promise Me Forever Page 2
