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Chapter 7

Lily

I f I’ve learned one thing since becoming an author, it’s that there is no one way or right day to do this job. I don’t know why, but until I actually became one, I always thought that writers sat down at their computers and just started writing. Their fingers would fly over the keyboard as ideas flowed, and page one eventually turned into page three hundred. Now I’m sure plenty of authors have this magical ability to write this way, but I am not one of them.

I’ve tried software programs, I’ve tried to follow a beat sheet, I’ve tried plotting from beginning to end, and I even tried something called the snowflake method, only to realize my brain works in scenes and has to be color-coded. Hence, the large assortment of different colored Post-it Notes on my bed.

The idea of this came to me before my last series. I had been using my phone to jot down ideas, but the more I added to the list, the more jumbled and out of sequence it became. I needed a way to organize my thoughts in a way that made sense to me. Randomly, I picked up a pack of colored Post-its, and my world changed. I use a color for my hero’s arc growth, my heroine’s arc growth, and another for scene ideas. I use the sticky strip on the back to attach pictures, postcards, or whatever I find relevant, and as the pieces come together, the wall I use in my office at Dean’s became a vision board.

That’s right, wall. Not a hidden notebook or journal. Not a document I created on my laptop, but an actual physical outline that Dean not once ever saw. He had his office, and I had mine. When we first moved into the condo, he directed the movers where to place my new desk, but after that, I don’t think he ever entered the space. I’m not sure what he thought I was doing in there, but he never asked. I would tell him I was off to do some work, and he would smile and say, “Okay.” Looking back, this definitely should have been another red flag. He never took interest in me. He never asked.

I pull out the pale pink and light blue ones for obvious reasons, and then the yellow for the scenes. I’ve started lining them up on the wall, one row next to another, each representing a chapter, and slowly but surely, I’m working my way toward thirty-something chapters. There’s something so satisfying about seeing the completed vision at the end. It fills me with joy and also sorrow when I take it down.

I’m writing heartbroken and trust issues on a light blue sticky when Morgan calls and says, “So since I haven’t heard from you since North Carolina, and you’re ghosting me like a bad friend and business partner, I checked your location. You’ve moved from the mountains and now you’re in Florida?”

While Morgan and I have texted a few times over the past week, I haven’t taken any of her calls. She threatened and told me if I didn’t pick up today, I’d have to find a new assistant, and well, I don’t want that, but I also don’t want to upset her.

“I am,” I tell her, glancing at my laptop document I started about this series. I’m ready to match the ideas I’ve had about this series with their respective colors and begin building the wall. I’ve started this story, but up until today, I didn’t feel I had enough of act one of the story to begin the wall layout.

“Why? Don’t you remember summers there are brutal.”

I do remember sort of, but quite frankly, I feel like DC got just as hot. Maybe not for as long, but it’s still hot, and those times Morgan did come to visit me in Miami, I don’t remember her complaining about the heat as we posted up on the beach to get a tan and watch for cute guys. I may have been dating Dean, but there’s nothing wrong with appreciating the South Beach scenery.

Looking at the colors, I grab the green pack because I’ve started having ideas about the other books in this series too. Green holds main tropes for me to build off.

“They’re not that bad. It’s not like I’m spending all day outside. Besides, I was offered a free place to stay.”

“Really? With who?”

Morgan and I have been friends since middle school. She’s the only person I have in my life, outside of my family, who was never wowed by who my boyfriend was. It’s been hard to make friends, and even the ones who’ve been around longer than others were girlfriends of other players. They understood the lifestyle, and in this weird way, we bonded together.

Now, because Morgan has known me for so long, before Dean, I’m certain the minute she hears his name, she’s going to flip.

“About that. Lance arranged this for me.”

“Lance,” she says slowly. Morgan is a bright person. I’m certain she’s putting one and one together. “And you’re in Tampa?”

“Yes.”

She gasps. “Please, please, please tell me you are where I think you are.”

“And where do you think I am?” I smile, imagining her face.

“Staying in the home of a six-foot-seven god on earth, with thick dark hair and smoldering dark eyes that could eat my soul?”

I laugh. She’s so dramatic.

And you can tell I wasn’t the only one who had a crush on my brother’s best friend.

“Maybe.”

“I’m at a complete loss for words, and I’m never at a loss. I’m shocked that he agreed to this. Does he walk around shirtless? What does he smell like? What does his house look like? You have to send me pictures. Do you talk? What do you talk about?" She fires off one question after another, and with each one, she’s talking faster and faster. “This is amazing. This is almost unbelievable. I can’t believe you are staying in Tyler Quinn’s home,” she squeals. “Never in a million years would I have come up with this scenario. The perfect scenario. You know what they say, ‘To get over one horse, climb on another!’ Are you going to ride him like he’s a horse? Please tell me you will. Or are you, and that’s why I haven’t heard from you? Tell me something, I’m dying here,” she drags out in an exasperated way.

“First off, slow down.” I lean back on my pillow and adjust my legs, as one of them has fallen asleep.

“I can’t. This is like a fantasy come true,” she whispers.

“Stop. It’s really not. He’s doing Lance a favor, and this isn’t forever. No, he doesn’t walk around shirtless; other than his laundry detergent, I haven’t been close enough to smell him; his house is normal like anyone’s; I can’t send you any pictures—that’s part of the rules; we talk a little, but not a whole lot as he’s super busy and I’m working; and well, for the most part when our paths do cross, our conversations are pretty casual.”

A ping of guilt hits me as I answer her questions. This feels a lot like breaking rule number two. Even though I’m not taking pictures, it’s still his home and his life she’s asking me about.

“Gah. Your answers are boring, and what do you mean by part of the rules?”

I stand from the bed and shake my leg to work the circulation back in. Needles are attacking my foot, and I now remember why I don’t sit cross-legged on the bed.

“Well, there’s not really much to tell, and he had a few requests of me if I was going to stay here. No pictures of him or any of his things at all. He values privacy, and I totally get it.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Right. I appreciate it and realize how much I was missing that with Dean.”

“It’s been two and a half months. You are over Dean, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And the farther away I get from him, the more I realize I was over him a long time ago.”

Over him, but trying so desperately to hang on to what I dreamed and thought our life was going to be like. Only, it turns out that I was the only one who was planning for a future. A future that lately I’ve been wondering if I was more worried about derailing than anything else. It’s hard for me to feel settled when things are unsettled, unknown, and walking away was just as scary as staying.

“I tried to tell you that last Christmas. Neither one of you was acting like a couple in love.”

I don’t think it’s that we weren’t acting like a couple in love; I think it’s more like we were hanging on to an important friendship that we’d had for so long. At least that’s what it was for me. It’s hard to let go of someone who’s been so important and such a big part of your life for so long. Yes, he changed, but I’m sure if you asked him, he’d say I’ve changed too.

“Yeah, you were right. We had become more friends then than we were anything else.”

Along with seeing those posts of my friends on social media, last Christmas I also watched Lance and Casey. I know I was making excuses for us when I told myself this was normal, that we were normal after eight years, but Lance and Casey never stopped touching each other. They laughed together, she sat on his lap, he was constantly coming up behind her and hugging her, and although they’ve been together just a little longer than Dean and I had, their relationship didn’t look like friendship. Theirs genuinely looked like love. Dean and I weren’t affectionate like them, and it had me wondering if we ever were.

“Well, enough about Dean. How’s the writing going?”

I turn and look at the bed. There are the Post-it Notes, and then the vision board items I got from Horizons Valley. A postcard of the town in the fall, a visitors map that highlights all of the shops on Main Street, a flyer for Red Barn Orchard and their amazing cider donuts, and a folder from the resort/ski lodge that talked about their history, year-round activities and events, wedding packages, and more.

“Slow. I have started. It’s like I know some of the beginning of the story and maybe some of the middle, but the end still isn’t clear.”

“Why? What do you think the problem is?”

“I’m trying to come up with a compelling black moment. I’m working on their character arcs, and I want their breakup to be realistic. Less about miscommunication and more about deep-rooted fears.”

“Do they have to have a black moment?”

“Well, I guess technically no, but it is part of the formula for a romance novel and kind of what happens in real life.”

“But is it, though? When Gage and I started dating, we both just knew.”

Morgan and Gage really are the cutest. They met in a country bar in Nashville, he asked her to dance, and now here they are two years later. I know they’re talking about getting married. Their happiness was another pile of dirt thrown onto my fire, dulling the flame.

“You and Gage are unicorns. You met at the perfect time. People have baggage, trust issues, mental barriers, and scars. Sometimes it’s just not that easy.”

“Do you think maybe you’re projecting your own life onto the characters?”

I look around the room, and my eyes fall on my suitcases in the closet. I’m twenty-six years old, living out of a suitcase, and trying to figure out the next chapter of my life. Of course I’m projecting. “Most likely, therapist Morgan,” I say, agreeing with her. There’s no reason to lie.

She chuckles.

“I have figured out the character layout of this series, and I’ve been very detailed on the new setting. This small town is the perfect backdrop, and I love how it’s coming together. I’ve been doing all the research on the different professions for my characters as I work out the kinks for book one.”

“I think next week we should schedule a call, one where you don’t avoid me, and we start building the series bible, plan on a release schedule for teasers, trope reveal, cover reveal, et cetera. It’s time to get moving.”

“I agree. You know I love a good plan.”

“You should also plan on spying on your roommate a little. You’ve got to give me something. I mean, come on, Lil. Tyler. Quinn.”

A smile breaks free, and my cheeks heat. There’s no reason for them to, but she’s not wrong, and I’ve pinched myself at least a dozen times thinking this can’t be real. Yet here I am and there he is each morning, looking kind of sleepy and warm, like he’s just crawled out of bed. Which he has, and I’m the one who gets to see him this way.

“ Roommates. Roommates. Roommates,” I chant to myself.

That and I keep reminding myself, no more athletes. If I messed this up, Lance would never forgive me.

“I know. I know. If something happens, I’ll let you know.”

“You’d better.”

“I’ll try.”