Page 18 of Secrets That Bind Us

Verity

Present Day

I’m… stuck.

I won’t say I have writer’s block, because that’s a curse word. But I’m stuck, and Eli is on his way here to not only go over my manuscript with me, but to check out the book shop that’s now under construction.

It wasn't after a meeting in city hall when I met with every business owner on the block to talk about what was going to happen after I purchased the building. First, I sent out the fire chief for an inspection, then Will and Jay’s company to look for anything that needed fixing– from rewires to leaky faucets to tiles on the floors.

Second, I lowered their rent. To say I didn’t need their money was an understatement.

But it was also a bad move to say that when they were struggling to stay afloat.

If I kept their rents low, it could help Adelaide’s economy by allowing them to pay their employees better wages or even shop in our own town– which would also help my own business. And Zoey’s.

Once Chief Hicks gave the okay, and now that they’re semi-done here with only the basement to finish, Will sent six of his crew to get started on clearing out the spaces of the row building I purchased in town (which was easier when I added an extra fifty grand) to begin getting ready for partial demolition and renovations.

When I told the business owners we’d be upgrading space by space, and that their business could remain open with the plan Will wanted to set into motion, they seemed to breathe a little easier.

I hum in disapproval at the screen before me.

I have twelve chapters left to write– maybe ten.

Between finally moving into the house, registering the kids for school, shopping for back to school supplies and more essentials, plus putting a hand in helping Zoey with wedding invitations and decorations, my mind is totally and completely elsewhere.

Not on the lovers of this slow burn romance, who have just gotten to an inn in the middle of a cold, snowy night after having to walk because their car broke down– and there’s only one bed.

Frustrated, I grunt and pace back and forth in front of my desktop like a prowling animal.

Sav and Noah are upstairs sleeping. I should be sleeping, too.

I was in bed, eye-mask on and ready to sleep…

but the words and scenarios that were bouncing around in my head while we were out and about today were relentless– needing to be written, begging to be let out.

So now, close to one o’clock in the freaking morning, I’m going back and forth, mentally having an argument with myself about what my characters were going to say while staring at a fucking wall.

Did I build up the tension right? Was it enough?

I groan again in the dim lilac light of my desktop and stare.

When people think being an author is glamorous, they don’t think about this part at all – the part where you stand around, staring at a wall, having an imaginary altercation between your characters, silently agreeing that that is exactly what you would say if it were happening in real life and you weren’t a people-pleaser or had surrounded yourself with actual humans and not more books.

Fictional people are easy. Real people are scary.

I groan again, irritated with myself.

And needless to say, the comments on my last book had been…

well, not bad… but not great, either. It wasn’t necessarily a flop, but when the “She’s losing her touch” comments started rolling in, for the first time, I wanted to give up.

I really wanted to tell Eli that this was it for me.

So I disappeared from social media for the time being.

Write what you know. What you feel…

But that’s the thing.

My last book had been a flop because I didn’t know anything anymore.

I haven’t felt anything but numb since Micah died over a year ago.

At first, when the cops came and told me they found his car at the bottom of a fucking cliff off the coast of Cape Cod, and that the car was so decimated because it had burst into flames, I horribly felt…

free . A freedom I had never experienced before– not even when I left Adelaide behind.

We had the funeral, and then I packed us up and took us to Switzerland.

My ex-husband died, and I took my grieving children– a stoic Zoey and Evan– to fucking Switzerland . And what did we do in Switzerland? I let them grieve while I drank copious amounts of extremely expensive white wine, and I may have danced in my panties under the full moon to Fleetwood Mac.

And Zoey joined.

Until Evan came out with his eyes covered and told us we were scarring the children.

Later that night while everyone was asleep, I snuck back outside, turned on the fire pit and burned the cocktail dress I married him in.

Or I thought I was the only one awake. Evan joined me and we watched the flames dance in silence until nothing but the zipper was left.

When we came back to the States, I didn’t have my heart in writing anymore. I forced it out. So while the comments were right, it also felt terrible.

Which is why I have to make a comeback.

This book has to be my redemption arc. I worked too hard for this life- sacrificed too much for this life… but the haunting question still looms over me: Did I pour too much of my soul into each book that I’ve lost it?

I face my desktop like it’s my enemy, a worthy adversary with hands on my hips, inhale deeply and sigh, then bend at the waist and try.

“…Shivering, he felt her body begin to relax against his as he draped his arm over her middle and hauled her closer. He hadn’t meant to begin to grow hard against her backside, but now– nude under a flimsy blanket, the dying fire at their feet– he knew the best way to get her warm…

but he was afraid, for once, not of touching a woman, but of touching her. Of what it would mean to her. To him…”

I sigh.

What would it mean to him? And also, writing the spicy scenes always made me feel just a bit uncomfortable.

I mean, when was the last time I even had sex?

Micah and I were living in separate bedrooms toward the end.

Not to mention the dates I went on after our divorce never really caught my attention, or they caused tension after finding out I made way more than them.

Dating’s… weird . You try to put yourself out there and the more people you meet, the more you realize staying home is the better option.

Nobody can judge you for double-dipping your chips in queso and salsa if you’re alone.

So maybe I’d tell Jake and Eli I was going on a date so they’d take the kids, drive home and binge-watch a series I’d already watched to stuff my face in peace.

I hum at the monitor in disapproval.

I put my monitor to sleep, giving up for the night.

I could always call her, I guess, go over a few things with her. Mrs. B, I mean. My secret weapon. But it’s late, and I know she’s asleep. She’s older now, close to seventy. Maybe I’ll just visit, since I’m here now.

Slipping into my sheets, I can’t help but think of Dean. I’ve been trying so hard not to, but when I saw him at the furniture store for two seconds, I ran.

Thirty-two years old, and I run from boys . Well, men. Okay, one man. He’s a man now. A lot taller than when we were younger, and from what I could see, his freckles had faded entirely. Not to mention, he definitely filled out his Henley and jeans. Nicely, I might add.

I turn over and punch my pillow a few times, then flip it over and lean my face into it just to toss and turn over again on my back.

God, I left New Haven to come back for him, only to run away at first glance.

I groan and put my hands on my head.

I’m a fucking coward!

Does he know I’m a mom? I mean I’m sure the whole fucking town has talked to him.

And now I’m tearing down and renovating the place where we had our first date, to turn it into the bookstore of my dreams that we used to talk about?

I mean, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide from him forever– not here– but…

just a little longer? I’m so not ready yet.

Ughhhhh why is being an adult so hard? I know I can’t hide in my house forever. I-

“Mommy?”

I squeal, jumping out of my skin.

“Holy crap, Noah,” I say, putting a hand over my racing heart and look down at my son in his jammies, climbing up my bed like a cat. “You scared the bejeezus out of me. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, there’s a dead lady crying in my closet. Can I have a glass of water?”

Bewildered at how calm my son is, I have no idea how to tread this. Motherhood is so weird. “I… yeah buddy. Do you need to sleep with me?” I ask, grabbing the bottle of water on my nightstand and handing it to him.

“Mmhmm.” He says as he sips, rubbing one eye with his little hand.He hands it back to me and I put it back on my nightstand.

“Do you… need to talk about what you saw?”

“No. She was ugly and crying, and I just want you to hold me. We can talk about it in the morning.”

My belly swoops. Oh God, it’s the first day of school tomorrow. Anxiety for my kids starts eating at me. “Of course,” I say, pulling down the blanket enough for him to climb in and cuddle up.

He's softly snoring beside me in minutes, clutching to me while I play with his hair. I’m finally falling into a fitful sleep when I hear something crawl across the floor above me, like nails.

I make a mental note to get pest control out here in the morning.

Pest Control doesn’t find anything.

Not the first time.

Not the second time.

Especially not the third time.

Four weeks later

“I am so sorry, Maranda, really.”

“What’s the excuse this time?”