And somehow I'm sitting on the floor of a bar. It's all torn paper napkins and little plastic straws and sticky puddles and shoes ankles gum cup discarded vape pen. I suddenly feel my scalp, my hair's all tied back and it itches and I think I might cry or at least just go to sleep.

Red high heels. White tennis shoes, but they're grimy. Black loafers.

"Hey, you ok?" A voice from a million miles away, like a sea monster shouting through water and I can't hear it amongst the clanging inside my tiny submarine. Write that down, probably, I think.

Lipstick rolls next to me, touching my hand. Fallen out of a purse, probably.

Then there are brown eyes and black loafers and these high heels are blue, and I don't know what color I'm wearing. Somebody's arguing and somebody has their sea monster hands wrapped around my forearm.

Upright, face. Faces. Right, a question from a million miles away. I feel fantastic, I say but I probably don't. And there are eyelashes on someone and pink sequins and someone else, so many people, all the people. All the people in the world all here all talking in the same place.

On Tuesday morning, I'm sitting on the beach, wearing a $200 bikini and a wide-brimmed sun hat and bejeweled sunglasses. I hate the sunglasses, a gift from my mother, more than I hate her terrible new boyfriend, but they're very shiny and expensive. Two things that I like to be. Or that I pretend to like to be, anyway.

I don't know how I got back to my flat from the bar, but I wasn't killed. I still smell sticky, even after a shower. I can't remember much from last night except that I had some idea about submarines. I think I slept for three hours, my head's pounding in time with the ocean waves, and I'm planning on sitting still until absolutely necessary because I still feel unsteady on my feet.

I've got a notebook open on one of my tan thighs, and I squint down at the word 'submarine' written in handwriting that's less legible than a kindergartner's. I give up, close my eyes, and wonder why my bed smelled like someone else's perfume.

"Macie, it's so good to meet you," the woman says as she shakes my hand firmly. I give her a smile and try to make sure I'm not making a bitchy face, because that's usually how people see my smile. I don't know if it's my smile, really, or just everything else about my that comes across that way. I'm already regretting wearing my low-cut white jumpsuit. I'd stood in front of my closet for two hours before arriving at this dinner, wondering if it was going to be fancy or formal or business casual. I'd gone with formal sexy, with an open back. This woman's gone with a turtleneck blouse and pencil skirt. Just differences in personality, maybe?

"I am so sorry, remind me of your name?" I ask as she seats herself.

Bram gives me a look over the top of his menu. I'm sure he disapproves that I don't already know who I'm meeting. I'm tempted to make a face back at him, or snap it's your fault for not briefing me on this. He may be my agent, but often he feels like my surly personal assistant. I decide to not say anything, because I'm an adult and I can tell when my irritation is the result of a hangover.

"Tessa Livingston," she says, glancing at Bram.

He gives her his 'sorry' eyebrows, which are always directed at other people and never at me. I decide now is a good time to narrow my eyes at him. "Thanks for coming, Tessa, Macie's been working tirelessly on her new novel. I think she only got, what, three hours of sleep last night?"

His blue eyes meet mine and I wish he wasn't so goddamn handsome, with his tousled golden curls and nice eyelashes. I wish I had a glass of wine, because I've got nothing to do with my hands but consider strangling him.

I laugh, like we're all in on the same joke. Like I'm not trying to do the mental math to figure out whether Bram might've dragged me home from the bar yesterday night--this morning. "I can't help it, you know, when inspiration strikes," I tell Tessa with a shrug.

She gives a moderate smile, which I'll take as a win. I don't really need her approval. Once she'd said her name I remembered Bram telling me over the phone last week that she's the producer's assistant. I want the producer to like me, not her. Now I'm just racking my brain trying to remember the producer's name. Russell, I think. Derrick, or Daryl. Damien?

"Ah, Darian! Mr. Russell, a pleasure, as always," Bram says, spotting someone and standing from his seat to greet him. Tessa's eyes flick to me, which means she's not an idiot, points to her. I'll be having words with Bram after this dinner. I easily could've remembered Darian Russell's full name without his help.

Darian, who's the big-shot TV producer that Bram has been so adamant that I meet, is not exactly as I'd pictured. I'd sort of just assumed he'd be some large middle-aged white man. I, after all, am the stereotypical thin white woman, and all thin white women need the approval of larger and older white men.

But Darian is a young, fairly small black man. He smiles wide at the sight of Bram and they shake hands, then do that thing where they pull each other in for a bro-hug. Tessa twists in her seat to give Darian a wave, and then I find myself standing, because that's most polite. Also because a little part of me wants him to see my jumpsuit in its full glory. Take that, Tessa.

He raises an eyebrow. "This is the Macie Clements I've heard so much about?" For a moment we consider each other, him in his perfectly fitted plaid suit, and I in a stupidly expensive, very revealing jumpsuit and big, shiny, dangly earrings. I'm towering over him in my heels, and I'm itching to sit. He's made no move to shake my hand.

"Great to meet you, Mr. Russell," I thrust out a hand, eyes bouncing from his warm eyes to the shiny watch on his wrist as he takes my hand.

"Let's all agree on first names, yeah, Bram?" Darian's still holding my hand and Bram's standing behind his chair, waiting to sit, and Tessa's staring at her menu. I nod. Darian pulls out his seat and sits in one graceful movement. "Mr. Russell. Honestly, Bram. I've known you for, what, six years?" Darian laughs and unbuttons his suit jacket, and I relax and laugh too, because it finally feels casual.

Bram purses his lips and I give him a very, very wide smile even though he's refusing to look at me, and both of us sit. Darian smiles charmingly at me. I can't confirm it, but for the first time I'm thinking maybe I will get a TV deal. In fact, I'm suddenly in such a good mood I think my headache's fading. That's right, no more bar-floor Macie. From now on it's Hollywood Macie.

Or something like that.

--

pt 2: https://theprose.com/post/708516/darian-tv-producer-russel

It’s approximately twenty-four hours since the best mistake I’ve ever made. I’m holding out hope that it wasn’t a mistake, and everything will turn out fine, but that would be uncharacteristically optimistic for me. Now I can only hope that it doesn’t turn everything I’ve ever worked for into dust.

Darian Russell is a charming man, and I’m an even more charming woman. Not to flatter myself, but we all know it’s true. So put two and two together. He texts me, we have wine, we end up sprawled across his hotel bed, all clothing and dignity long forgotten. I can only hope that, despite this, he still agrees to turn my book into a movie, what with him being a producer and all.

God, I hope this deal still goes through.

The waiter puts my salad in front of me, which I’m not very keen on eating, but I’m meant to look like some kind of polite, regular, not-falling-apart woman, and those kinds of women eat salads.

The two men across from me have finally moved on to talking to someone further down the table, alternating who asks the questions. Both journalists; I’d accepted business cards from them both earlier, with plans to recycle because I may be a bitch but I do have a green thumb. They had asked me questions about my upcoming novel, as if I know any better than them.

It’s a work-not-work happy hour, meaning I get told it’s not work but I get yelled at if I drink too many margaritas. It’s actually a networking event, and I’m stuck at the end of a long table full of potentially important contacts, as Bram put it, trying to make charming conversation.

Bram, always sticking his nose into my business, leans sideways into my personal bubble. His pasta dish has just arrived. “Macie, what’s going on?”

I sip my margarita, smiling pleasantly over the rim at nothing in particular. “Whatever do you mean?” Sometimes in my attempts to stay civil I begin to talk like a Dickens character. Or something. I haven’t read Dickens since high school.

“You’re checking your phone obsessively,” he hisses, flattening his napkin against his thigh.

I turn in my seat, accidentally bumping his knee. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mother. Is it no phones at the table?” I ask, setting down my glass and giving him a pointed look.

Bram purses his lips and breathes out through his nose. “It’s just that you’ve been making a face like you’re about to pass out for the last half hour.”

I face forward again, accidentally catching the eye of one of the journalists–either Houston or Riley, I can’t remember because they both had such awful names. He smiles and lifts his glass, holding eye contact. I quickly look down at my salad, which has not gotten more appealing.

“I’m waiting for someone to text me back,” I mutter to Bram, looking up just as Houston and Riley lean together, one of them whispering a word that sounds horrifyingly close to ‘smash’, as their eyes dart back to me.

“Can it wait?” Bram asks, stabbing at his pasta. They’re the bow-tie ones, all dressed up just to get eaten. Me too, I think.

“Hey, I wanted to ask, what inspired the The Lakeside Haunt?” asks one of the journalists suddenly. He’s got a little slug-like mustache, makes him look more like a Houston than a Riley. “It’s my favorite of your books,” he adds, leaning in.

I nod and take a dainty bite of salad, making him wait. Then I smile placidly and say, “Oh, you know. I think trips to the seaside as a kid was a big inspiration.” I twirl my fork in my salad. “What kind of writing was it that you said you did?”

I could hear Bram sigh next to me. Luckily most men don’t expect us pea-brained women to retain much. Houston says, “Gossip column. Fanfare Today Magazine.” This is new to me, actually. He hadn’t admitted that before, and that’s a fact.

“How fun! The gossip column, why that’s fantastic.” I smile stiffly as I turn to Bram. I cannot believe he thought a gossip columnist could be an ‘important contact’. I’m about to get a movie deal, for god’s sake.

Bram raises his eyebrows at me, which usually means behave. Instead, I lay a hand on Bram’s arm, which makes his body freeze up and his mouth twitch down. “Actually, Bram was just telling me an amusing story. Probably nothing as good as what you write, of course, but surely he’d love to tell it.”

Bram’s jaw is tightening, which means I’m breaking him out of his professional nonchalance. A personal victory to me. “I don’t think–”

“Oh, you know,” I goad in a sultry voice. “The one about the fisherman. It’s hilarious.” I turn back to Houston and Riley. “You’ll both love it. I’m just going to go to the ladies’ room real quick.” I wink at them, then pat Bram on the hand.

He glares at me as I stand, and I smile back.

The harsh light in the restaurant bathroom makes me look pale. Which should be impossible due to all my hours on the beach. I’m nothing if not tan. I check my phone again, swiping away notifications from my sister, who wants money again, missed calls from my friend Jamie, who probably has dating drama, and reminders for me to do thinks like laundry and buy shampoo because I keep putting them off. No messages from Darian TV Producer Russell. Not a single word from him since we’d slept together, which I don’t know how to interpret. Good thing? Bad thing?

The bathroom door opens, and a woman in a leopard-print jacket gives me a once-over, one white tennis shoe holding the door open. She looks out into the hallway and says, “Yeah, she’s in here.”

“Tell her to come out. Please.” Bram’s voice. My whole stomach feels empty, and not just because all I had was a single bite of a shitty salad.

The woman raises her eyebrows at me and holds the door wider. I close my eyes because my head is churning like a washing machine. I double check my phone. The woman shakes her head and enters, the door swinging behind her, and locks herself in a stall.

“He seems worried,” she says to me through the stall.

I sigh. “Sorry. Thanks,” I tell her, trying to sound sincere because I mean it. It’s not her fault tonight is shitty. Why is it so shitty? Not enough alcohol, maybe? “I like your lipstick,” I tell her as I’m leaving, because nothing says thank you like a compliment in a public restroom.

Bram’s got his arms folded, trying to make himself smaller in the space of the tiny, tiny restaurant hallway. He’s not doing a good job of it because when I come to stand next to him I’m close enough to smell the pasta sauce on his breath.

“You done hiding?” His eyebrows are lowered, and his hair is in wisps across his forehead. He’s exactly the kind of person that writers love to describe, because he’s got all the right features for it. Golden blonde hair and piercing eyes and cheekbones, yada yada yada. I’m annoyed with him.

I adjust my crossbody bag across my chest, but his eyes don’t leave my face. “Why are they here? Is there anyone out there that’s worth my time? Why am I here?”

Bram shakes his head. His posture is stiff but his voice is surprisingly gentle. “Do you have better things to do? What’s going on, who are you texting?”

“More like who am I not texting,” I reply bitterly, checking my phone one last time. Another text from my sister, and an email from my credit card company.

Bram straightens to his full height, which is about equal to mine because of my excessively tall heels. He’s very much in my personal space now, but I’m not backing down. “Well?”

The space in my head shrinks until there are no more thoughts, and I choke out a laugh. “Darian,” I tell him.

“What?”

I jut my chin out so our faces are inches apart. I make sure to enunciate every syllable. “I fucked Darian Russel, and now I’m waiting for the consequences.”

For a moment I think Bram’s eyes are going to fall out of his head. He’s looking at me but not seeing me. He recoils. “What?”

The women’s bathroom door opens, and Miss Leopard Print walks out, stopping to eye us both. Bram and I press ourselves against opposite walls so that she can squeeze through the space between us. She gives me a single eyebrow quirk as she passes, which I think is supposed to be reassuring, but really I’m not sure.

“You didn’t.” Bram’s turned back into Professional Bram. His words aren’t even clipped; he doesn’t sound angry or disappointed. He’s just stating words. Like facts.

I hate to talk to him like this. Like there’s no reason or emotion to any of this, like following a specific path–shake that hand, say this, smile for the camera–and everything will fall into place. Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with Darian, but I don’t regret it. It was amazing and I’d do it again, theoretically. And I don’t have time to listen to Bram tell me that this isn’t the ‘right way’ to do things. Or that it’s ‘unprofessional’.

I give Bram one last look, chin still raised. “I did. But don’t worry, I won’t be taking any of the losers here today home, you can be damn sure about that.” And then, like a badass who just delivered a clever line, I walk away.

When I get home I stare at my computer screen until I can’t see anything, then crawl into bed and dream about sea monsters dragging me underwater and watching me choke.

--

(next chapter)

pt 3: https://www.theprose.com/post/759007/coffee-stained-egos

--

(previous chapters)

pt 1: https://theprose.com/post/642933/living-in-the-moment

There aren’t too many things I seriously regret. This is really only because once I start, how do I stop? But right now, half-in and half-out of bed, only a large t-shirt on, my hair sliding out of my bun, I feel something worse than regret. Shame.

It’s like snakes on my skin, my hand beginning to shake as I clutch my phone and reread the email. And reread it again. And again.

We regret to inform you. We will not be moving forward with the screen adaptation of The Lakeside Haunt. Luck on future endeavors. Thank you.

What a load of bullshit.

I cannot believe this. Darian and I got on so well! Too well? Is that possible? Is the book not good enough? Was it that damn Tessa lady? Were they ever even considering me in the first place? Was I doomed to fail?

It’s barely nine a.m. and my life is crashing down around me, and I haven’t even put on clothes yet.

“You’re the one who told me we have this in the bag,” I bark into my phone, which is propped up against my face with one shoulder. Both my hands are occupied holding up expensive ballgowns to my body that I would never have an occasion to wear. Other than a movie premiere, perhaps. Oh wait.

Bram’s voice is aggressively calm. “I told you, Masie, that you had a good shot. It was never a guarantee. And listen, there will be more people and better deals down the road, we both know that.”

“Oh, we both know?” I snap, setting down a silver-sequin number that has a price tag almost as long as my credit card number. I wave over the saleswoman and ask her to grab me a medium. I’m pissed that the small is visibly too small. “Bram, I believe it’s your job to set this shit up, and now I don’t even know what I did wrong? They barely even gave me a chance.”

I can hear him exhaling through his nose, and picture for a brief moment his lovely nose, and punching it squarely. Not that I’m very handy with my fists, but a girl can daydream. “I set it up, yes. But you’re not free of responsibility. Maybe a more businesslike attitude will–”

“Will what?” I cut him off. The saleswoman is back, and I grab the dress and shuffle into a changing room with it and three others, putting Bram on speaker phone. “Are you saying if I knew everyone’s name and regurgitated business jargon it would be a done deal?”

I strip and put the sequin dress over my head, struggling with the scratchy and unforgiving fabric. “No, Masie. I think we both know that I’m saying maybe you shouldn’t have slept with the representative we were talking to.”

I yank the dress down and squint into the mirror: sparkly, but god is the bust loose. It looks like a paper bag. Good lord, it’s terrible. I let out a pained wail, and Bram has raised his voice but I can’t hear him, and the saleswoman knocks and knocks on the door. She finds me in a ball on the floor, one hand still punching at the hang up button on my phone screen even though the call is long since over, and my other hand wrapped around my skull to keep it in place.

There’s a horrible high-pitched whining noise, and it’s me, so I stop. My back is cold and bare, and I move my shoulder and hear another seam rip. The entire back of the dress is torn.

The saleswoman looks down at me, not a hair out of place, and informs me that she’ll be charging it to my card. She turns on her heel and leaves, shutting the changing room door behind me.

I don’t normally do this, but I cry. Because if ever you’re going to cry, you should do it alone, while sitting on the floor, wearing a medium-sized disco ball.

Bram has invited me to a local coffee shop, which is always a bad sign. It's the equivalent of meeting on neutral ground; we both know it's wrong to have a screaming match in the middle of someone enjoying their latte macchiato. I'm usually willing to forgo manners, when it suits me, but I need respect in this particular coffee shop or this one hot barista named Enrique might stop giving me the extra scones. And Bram wouldn't willingly come here because he is, like a freak of nature, not a fan of coffee.

I'm here early, which means I'm here half an hour early. Bram arrives everywhere fifteen minutes before the scheduled time, and today I was determined to beat him. I think I know what this is about. I haven't turned in any progress on Great Perfect Tides. I'm supposed to be writing it, I know, but I can't find the energy. Every time I have something else to do it's an excuse not to write, and every time I don't have anything to do I stare at a blank page until my eyes blur.

If Bram is surprised to see me here before he was, his face doesn't show it. His mouth is in a neutral line, and his sea-blue eyes briefly take me in before he sits down across from me. I push a blood-orange tea towards him, one hand still curled around my coffee.

"Thanks," he says, accepting the drink. I wait for him to continue, but he clams up and stares at his fingers, splayed out on the tabletop. He looks braced for something, which either means there's bad news for both of us, or the news for me is so bad that he's steeling himself for my reaction. Unfortunately, I expect the latter.

I cross one leg over the other, wondering if I should've worn something more loud. The plaid palazzo pants haven't gotten any attention yet. "Well?" I prompt.

"Maisie," Bram starts, like this is a business letter. He's staring me right in the eye, but he's got that blank gaze on his face. The one that makes me think maybe he's a robot. My mouth twitches into a frown.

“Bram,” I say back in a fake-serious voice.

Suddenly, his face softens, and I get the feeling he’s saying something other than what he’d meant to. “Are you ok?”

I laugh and raise my coffee to my lips, briefly thinking about the dream I had last night. I don’t remember much, but there had been this monstrous dog with no eyes that kept biting my arm and my sister was there but wouldn’t help me and she just kept grinning. “Is it the outfit? Too boring? I don’t usually try to impress you, but I’ll try harder next time,” I say from behind my coffee.

Bram looks away from me and his shoulders drop a little. I’m mad at myself that he’s so clearly disappointed in me, but what the hell kind of a question is that?

“You’re going on a trip,” he tells me evenly. He hasn’t looked back at me, and instead is pulling out a slip of paper from his messenger bag. I realize as he puts it on the table between us that it’s a plane ticket.

I put my coffee down, intrigued. Good lord, he’s such a downer. He makes vacation sound like a prison sentence. “Excellent! When are we going? What are we doing?” I do usually hate business but if it’s New York or somewhere equally as glamorous I’m down. And I love to do vacation shopping.

“It’s just you.”

I pick up the ticket slowly. “Ok? Who am I meeting?” This is both unusual and mysterious. I kinda like it. Then I squint at the ticket. “Illinois? Windthrow Point, Illinois? That’s not even a real place.” I glance at Bram, who’s fixing the button on his shirt sleeve. “This is a joke, right?”

“It’s not a joke.” His grim face, also, makes it clear that this is not a joke.

I give an incredulous laugh. “Ok, well I’m not going to the middle of nowhere.” I push the ticket back across the table.

Bram sets a hand over the slip of paper. “You need to take a break, Masie. It’s already set up. You’re going.”

I lean back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Yeah, ok. Whatever you say. Oh wait, you’re not in charge of my personal life.” I let out a soft chuckle. “No thank you.”

“You’re leaving in two days.” He’s so fucking monotone.

I stand, and I'll have to apologize to Enrique, because I actually laugh and take the lid off my coffee, ever so careful so as not to drip any from the lid. Then. Then I chuck the cup upside-down onto the ticket, and Bram doesn’t have enough time to move his hand, and he yells “shit!” and everyone’s looking at my plaid palazzo pants now as I strut out of the shop.

I’m shouldering my way down the sidewalk, breathing heavily. Probably from the exercise, god, I should exercise more.

“Masie! Damn it, slow down!” There’s footsteps and I bump into an old man who has big glasses and glares at me, and then Bram’s got a hand on my forearm. When I stop, he lets go of me like I’m poisonous.

I want to apologize about burning his hand, but then he says, “I just want you to get out of California for a while. I don’t need to know everything that’s going on in your life, but you can’t go on like this.” His eyes are searching mine. He–he pities me.

I recoil from him and keep walking. I’m not going anywhere in particular. He keeps up. “Like this? Like what, Bram? I have money, and a house, and a career. I’m hot and single and desirable. I don’t really see what the problem is.” I make sure to sound just a twinge irritated, but not too bothered. That’s right, I’m Masie Clements and nothing bothers me. I’m un-botherable.

“Masie. Masie, you used to drunk call me once a month–which, let’s be honest, is already too often–and you’ve drunk called me twelve times in the last week.” I’m not looking at him, but he sounds earnest. He’s so snivelly and annoying.

“I’m not an alcoholic, if that's what you're implying. I just go to a lot of fun parties,” I tell him coolly. “If you need me to define fun party for you, since you’ve probably never–” I realize he’s no longer beside me, and I look behind me. Bram’s got his arms folded, which is irritating because he’s got nice arms that look extra nice like this: shirt fabric stretched over the muscle. His mouth’s in a tight line. I backtrack and stare at him like he’s the dramatic one.

“I won’t force you. But you should think about it.” His voice is rough, and I realize he’s angry. Well and truly. He pulls a coffee-stained plane ticket out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Don’t call me,” is all he says when he leaves.

I clutch the ticket and look up at the sun, resisting the urge to curse out loud and desperately fighting the tears trying to well in my eyes.

--

(next chapter)

https://www.theprose.com/post/759869/hangovers-and-ashes

--

(previous chapters)

pt 1: https://www.theprose.com/post/642933/living-in-the-moment

pt 2: https://www.theprose.com/post/708516/darian-tv-producer-russel

The doorbell wakes me up. Sun is filtering through my windows like pointed claws, and I get a splitting headache as soon as I’m conscious enough to feel it.

Something about last night… Confetti. No, plastic straws? Definitely champagne. And something smells like strawberry. Arm. Not my arm.

I sit up, startled suddenly by the realization that someone else is in my bed. I look down at the fair-skinned arm slung over my midsection, then at the mess of short black hair and glittery eyeshadow on closed eyelids. It’s just Jamie.

Jamie’s one of those types of friends that you just acquire. He’s great for livening up an otherwise sub-par party, and decent at listening to laundry-list complaints about my family and work. Plus, he’s gay, so he’s the best to talk about guys with.

I throw his arm off me, and he groans, and I note that a clothing tornado has flown through my room. A wave of nausea hits me, and I stumble to the bathroom, trying to recall the details of yesterday. The bathroom clock says it’s 3:44 pm.

Yesterday, I went to the coffee shop with Bram. Bram. Bram phone. That’s right. He’d called me, and I hadn’t answered, since the last thing he’d said yesterday was “Don’t call me,” and I love being petty. And then he texted me, and I’d ignored it, and I recall hazily that I’d almost called him last night, later, and Jamie had taken my phone and blocked his number. It’s for the best. He’s trying to put me on a plane to freaking Illinois, after all.

He says I’m not ok. On the contrary, I had one hell of a time last night. Granted I’m only remembering bits and pieces: flashing lights, lips, jean shorts, alcohol. Hula hoop? And music. I do know how to throw a party.

Speaking of throwing, I do throw up. And then I hear the doorbell again, and I’d forgotten that it had woken me up in the first place, and I glance at myself in the mirror and… Not good. My hair’s stuck to itself in weird places, and when did I dye a pink streak in my hair? My makeup is still on but smudged everywhere, except for my eyeliner, which actually looks fantastic. I don’t recognize the t-shirt I’m wearing.

Quickly, I clean my face and fix my hair (kind of), and the doorbell is still going off--is it legal to have it removed? I put on a lime green exercise set and pull my hair into a ponytail.

Downstairs looks like a scene from an apocalypse movie in terms of destruction, but at least there are no people. Visibly. They could be underneath the half-empty bottles of alcohol. There is confetti, I was right about that. And a lot of starlight mints. I can’t explain why. I glance into the living room and see the furniture all rearranged, with the couch pushed back against the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the onyx coffee table in the far corner. It brings back a memory of last night.

“Get down, you brute!” Jamie’s shouting at a large man standing on the coffee table. It has the same effect as a cat bristling its fur at an elephant. “That’s expensive,” Jamie slurs at him.

The man is hollering, and the music is loud. I need more alcohol, and I tell someone I don’t know that they should invite their friends over.

Jamie’s yanking the man’s arm, and I realize that if he falls he’ll flatten Jamie, who’s built like a twig. I make my way over. “It’s fine! I’ll buy a new one!”

“All this is yours? Or you have a rich husband?” The man asks me. He’d be more attractive without the stubble and the glasses, but he’s not too bad. He’s clutching a bottle like he’s going to christen a ship with it.

“Mine,” I confirm. “Mine, mine, mine.”

Jamie throws his arm over my shoulder and hangs off me. “Rich mother.”

I shove him, and he loses his balance and falls onto the pink shag carpet. “I’m successful! I'm an author!” Jamie laughs uncontrollably, and the man does too.

“Nepo baby. So many nice things to play with,” the man coos. His glasses swim into my vision, then his nose, very close.

I spin away, shouting into the room, “WHO WANTS SHOTS?”

The doorbell’s still going off like the world’s most insistent metronome, so I trudge over and fling the front door open. A swirl of black-and-white striped fabric proceeds my mother as she whisks past me. I expect her to comment on the mess or the smells, or at the very least my appearance, but she doesn’t. Shocking.

It takes me a moment to realize someone is still standing on the doorstep. It’s Graham, my mother’s current empty-headed boyfriend. He steps into the foyer and holds out a golden cat statue that’s about a foot tall. “Masie. This is for you.”

I pointedly don’t take it, and grudgingly let him in. The three of us stand in the foyer, which is an architectural beauty. It’s two stories tall, with a spiral staircase that I custom-ordered on the far end, and a geometric light fixture that’s about as big as my body directly overhead. It’s securely suspended from the ceiling, but right now I’m wondering what it would feel like if it fell down and crushed me. It can’t be anything worse than my current headache.

My mother, in all her bleach-blonde glory, is touching up her red lipstick in the foyer mirror. I catch another glimpse of my own face and cringe. Graham is holding the cat statue in two meaty hands, making it look smaller than it is. He’s a huge person in general, which isn’t surprising, considering my mom’s current type is ex-pro-football players.

“Why are you here?” I ask the room. My voice echoes. I hear Mom smack her lips.

“Coco died,” Graham supplies, lifting the cat statue like a shrug.

I blink at him. Coco is--was--Mom’s cat. Then I hold up both hands in front of me to ward him off. “Oh god, don’t tell me there are ashes in there.”

I hear a sniffle from Mom’s direction, and I turn to see her patting the skin under her eyes. It’s hard to tell whether she’s actually crying or not.

“She wants you to spread them on the beach,” Graham says.

“No, why would I--Mom didn’t even like that cat!”

Mom’s red lipstick starts to tremble. “My poor Coco,” she says waveringly, throwing her hands into the air. It’s then that I realize that the black and white smock she’s wearing has some kind of wing-like feature that connects the arms and torso. She runs off to the kitchen, and I glare at Graham.

“Don’t you dare leave that cursed thing here,” I tell him, pointing at the golden cat. Its painted-on eyes pin me with a soulless look.

I find Mom deftly making two sangrias, completely ignoring the mess this is my kitchen. At least the ingredients were already out. “Seriously, Mom, what are you doing here?”

She hands me a small round glass of reddish liquid. “This will help with the hangover.” I roll my eyes and accept the glass, taking a sip. She’s very good at mixing drinks; I think she used to be a bartender in a former life. “I think we should have a farewell ceremony for Coco. Before you go.”

“You don’t even like Coco, you only have him because--” I stop. “Before I go? Before I go where?”

She sips her drink with a dainty pink straw. There are a bunch of bags of plastic straws on the counter. Why? “On your quaint little trip, darling. Bram told me about it.” She fluffs her bangs and looks at me like I’ve got half a brain.

I set my drink down on the counter with a loud clack. “Bram? He’s my agent. Why on earth are you talking to him?”

“Let’s not get jealous, Masie. You know--”

“Jealousy adds wrinkles to the brow. Yeah, I know, Mom. You say that all the time.”

She purses her lips into a smile. “Now, honestly, fix yourself up for the beach. You look like you’ve been dragged to hell and back. We need to spread Coco’s ashes before the sunset. You know he never liked the dark.”

I’m momentarily speechless, which only happens when Mom is around. “I--First of all, I don’t think the ashes will know the difference. Second of all, I barely ever knew Coco. He was Rach--”

“Graham! Graham, get in here!” Mom hollers over me. “Where on earth is that man?” she says, rolling her eyes and giving me a look while absentmindedly stirring her drink. On the surface level, the look means ‘aren’t men idiots?’, but because I know her, I know it really means ‘we don’t talk about Rachael’. Rachael, my sister Rachael.

My mother was blessed with two children before her husband left her, had an affair with her best friend, left her too, and then tragically drowned on the set of a reality TV show. I only remember him as a tall, loud-mouthed man who smelled like cologne, cigarette smoke, and other women’s perfume. He died when I was three and Rachael was seven. I don’t miss him.

Rachael, on the other hand, was something of a prodigy, having been a child actor on Broadway for many years of her life. And then she grew up and they stopped casting her. By then she was too big to be a child, too much of a heavy smoker to be a good singer, too heavy-handed in her acting to be cast on-screen. Mom was disappointed, and I was pleased that I wasn’t going to be the only one at home anymore. But Rachael never moved home. At the age of fifteen she took everything she had and moved in with some guy she’d met. For years I didn’t know where she was or what she was doing.

Then, three years ago, she’d appeared on Mom’s doorstep with nothing but the clothes on her back. She was in and out of rehab for months before Mom couldn’t take it any longer and kicked her out. It was during one of her more stable periods that Rachael had brought a cat home with her one day. She’d named it Coco.

If anyone wanted a farewell ceremony, it would be Rachael. Not me, and not Mom either. But Mom and Rachael don’t talk. Rachael and I don’t talk either, though she does beg me for money. Every once in a while I transfer a small sum into her empty account, but who knows what she does with it.

Graham materializes next to me, and I snap back into the real world. Jamie is here too, with a freshly-made sangria in his hand. “--but all he ever wants to do is go to the movies, and I just wish he actually wanted to go on a date where we could talk, you know?”

My mother, who is a full head shorter than Jamie, pats him on the head like he's a stray dog. “Yes. These are all very good points.” Her eyes, brown, the same as mine, dart to me. “Are you going to get changed for the beach or not?”

I’m tempted to say something to her about Rachael. We’ve never discussed her. I used to try and ask questions, but nowadays Mom pretends she doesn’t exist. So instead, I grumble something and take my sangria with me upstairs.

--

(next chapter)

pt 5: https://www.theprose.com/post/760230/wrecking-a-funeral

--

(previous chapters)

pt 1: https://www.theprose.com/post/642933/living-in-the-moment

pt 2: https://www.theprose.com/post/708516/darian-tv-producer-russel

pt 3: https://www.theprose.com/post/759007/coffee-stained-egos

We walk to the beach for the funeral.

There are five of us now, inexplicably. I walk beside Mom, which makes me feel like a child again. Not in a bad way, just in a weird way. I’m still too hungover to be properly processing anything. Graham walks behind us, still holding the golden cat statue--urn, I suppose, actually. Jamie didn’t want to be left out, so he’s here too. And there was a petite woman who had never left the party last night, having accidentally locked herself in the downstairs bathroom. Surprisingly, despite the fact that I don’t recall seeing her ever in my life, she wanted to come to the beach with us too.

Mom looks over at me and plucks a stray thread off my pink denim jacket. “Masie.” I eye her suspiciously, noting her patronizing tone. “About your trip to… wherever it is.” She flicks a hand through the air as if shooing away the idea of the place.

“Honestly, it’s nothing. Bram--I don’t know what Bram told you, but I’m fine. I’m completely fine.” I kind of sound convincing.

“I’m glad you have so much faith in yourself, darling, but you’re not really one to travel. Think of how lonely you’d be, with all the dirt and sheep and things around.”

“Sheep? Where do you think I’d be going?” Are there sheep in Illinois? Never mind, it doesn’t matter because I won't be going anyway.

“I mean, seriously, when you were a little girl you wouldn’t imagine the trouble I had trying to get you to school, or a theater, or, god forbid, the lake house. Remember how you used to shout? And that’s just a few hours’ drive.”

I’m almost swallowed by the memories of the lake house, and I mentally rear back. The lake house with Rachael, and the lake house without Rachael. I feel my headache like a sucker-punch between the eyes. “Mom, yeah, ok. Don’t even worry about it. I’m not going.”

Mom’s shoulders visibly loosen, and she nods her head. “Oh, thank goodness. You wouldn’t survive out there,” she laughs. “You’ve always been my little homey artist with big, wild dreams.”

I scoff. I’d learned a long time ago that it’s best to let things that Mom says slide off me. But I don’t always care what’s best. “Little homey artist with big, wild dreams?” I repeat at her. “And what does that mean?”

Mom’s smile quirks. “Well, your nice little books and everything.” She says it like it’s obvious.

“Little books? I’m a New York Times bestseller!” I’ve raised my voice, and now Jamie and that random girl is looking back at us, and I don’t care at all.

Mom takes one of my hands in both of hers. “Everyone who writes a book is, darling.”

“No, actually.” I’ve stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and I can see the beach but I’m suddenly determined not to so much as touch the sand. “I have a career! It’s a real thing. What do you want me to do, stumble into a million-dollar business, like you? Get famous acting, like Dad?” Mom is frowning at me, her eyes shaded under her blonde fringe, so I spit, “Run off to Broadway? Like Rachael?”

In that moment, I hadn’t realized that Graham had been standing right behind me, stunned into silence, and he’d been holding the golden cat precisely within arm-flailing range. Which is how, in an unfortunate turn of events, I knock it out of his hands, and it cracks on the sidewalk, sending golden cat shards skittering across the ground. The ashes almost immediately get taken up by the wind, and now there’s just a little pile left. Didn’t even make it onto the sand.

“How could you?” Mom is furious, suddenly. With her hands on her hips and the wing/cape-like construction of her dress, she looks like a black-and-white impenetrable wall. “My poor Coco!” She stares down at the small ash pile, not making any effort to get closer. Graham hesitantly tries to scoop it up in one hand. Jamie and many strangers nearby look on, aghast.

“Rachael should have been here,” I tell her, tears already forming.

“Look at what you did to Coco,” is all she says, looking me square in the eye.

I can barely contain myself, and I take off running in the direction of home.

I wait for someone to show up at my house. To yell at me or apologize, I don’t care. But no one comes.

I’m not surprised Mom hasn’t appeared. She’s probably preoccupied with something else by now, knowing her busy schedule, and she’s no good at talking anyway. All Jamie does is send me a text: “lol what got into your mom today??”. I wait for him to call, and he doesn’t. I acknowledge that I could call him, if I really wanted to talk about it, but the ‘dial’ button feels too far away and I’m too tired.

In the end, I crawl back into bed, my home still a confetti-y mess and the sheets still smelling like Jamie’s hair gel. I suddenly feel guilty for not working on my novel at all. I am a crap writer, aren’t I? A little girl with fantastical dreams.

I know these thoughts will lead to an ugly downward spiral. I know I’m not ok. But I also know that I’m not allowed to admit it. To my mother, I’m the daughter that got everything she asked for. To Jamie, I’m the fun-but-crazy friend that’s too ditsy to feel any real emotions. To strangers, I’m the spoiled brat that they envy. To Bram, I’m… probably a menace. And? And what am I supposed to do about any of that?

It’s not like I can just magically become a different person. It’s not like I’ve hit any particular rock bottom that I haven’t already become well-acquainted with. I’m practically a deep-sea diver in terms of rock-bottoms.

So. Maybe it’s time to do something spontaneous. Something big. Something that no one expects me to do. Maybe I do go to Middle of Nowhere, Illinois.

--

(next chapter)

pt 6: https://www.theprose.com/post/761464/violet-surprise

--

(previous chapter)

pt 4: https://www.theprose.com/post/759869/hangovers-and-ashes

My Uber drops me off in front of a two-story building that I’m ninety percent sure used to be a barn. It’s a large rectangle with brown siding and neutral-colored detailing around the windows and a similarly colored pointed roof. The only time I’ve seen anything similar is in historical exhibits or in Christmas movies that take place in small towns. ‘Honorary Inn’ is etched on the small sign out front, which is hanging off of a post emerging from the fence that surrounds the property. I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that I’m here.

So far, Illinois has consisted of stout buildings, trees and fields, and more empty space than I’d know what to do with. I’m used to every inch of space containing either a man-made structure or an actual human being. The only untouched plantlife I know remains in tact solely due to preservation laws. Around here, it’s something entirely different. It’s so green. And brown.

Inside the inn, a large black woman greets me from behind the counter. She’s wearing a white top with ruffled shoulders, and has her hair up in a frazzled bun. She pauses packing a bunch of books into a cardboard box and smiles at me, and I guess her to be around my mom’s age. “Hello there! Checking in?”

I drag my two suitcases and one duffel bag into the tiny, tiny room and glance around. Everything inside appears to be the same old, brown wood as outside, and the whole place even has a sort of musty smell--unless that’s just the books. There are some small photos hanging on the wall behind the woman, as well as a corkboard with advertisements: Hot Coffee & Wifi at the Briarstone Café, Gregson’s Stop: Fishing Supplies, Annual Windthrow Fête - August 3rd. I don’t know what a fête is, but it’s two weeks away, so I’ll be gone by then.

“Um, yes,” I tell the woman. I never um. What’s wrong with me? “Clements,” I say, in a normal and confident way. She smiles and checks a paper ledger. Paper? Maybe I’ve traveled back in time.

“Ah. You’ll be in the Violet Room,” she says, pulling a key out of a drawer and handing it to me. “And I’m Mariana, by the way. I own this place, so just let me know if you need anything. Your room is just upstairs.”

I thank her, and she returns to her book-packing. I hesitate, wanting to ask if there’s anyone to take my bags up, but it’s pretty obvious there’s not. I’m not going to be able to carry them all in one go, so I glance around and finally decide to leave them in this room, which I'm generously calling the lobby. Benefits of a deserted town, I guess, are that thievery is unlikely when there’s no one around to do it.

The staircase is extremely narrow, so I have to drag the suitcase behind me and hold my duffel bag in front, with no room to either side. I’m close enough to the wall to see the maroon paint peeling off the planks of wood.

The Violet room is conveniently labeled with a hand-painted sign of a violet flower, and inside, unsurprisingly, the whole room is decorated in dusty purples. It even smells floral. The room is sparse, but not in a modern way like a hotel. It looks more like someone thrifted some furniture and then barfed a grandma onto all of it. Everything is patterned: various faded flowers on the wallpaper and bedspread, a zig-zag-patterned crochet blanket over one of the chairs, doilies on the nightstand and dresser. There’s even a little flower-shaped rug under the window, and when I stand on it and glance out I have a surprisingly nice view of the street below. Not that there’s anything to see. It’s just tree branches shifting in the breeze. Everything’s so still.

The stillness is unsettling, but from what I hear about writers retreats, which is what I’m assuming this is meant to be, I know that they thrive in stillness and silence. Though I will not be confined to this room, that’s for damn sure. I’m already choking on the smell of lavender.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out my phone. I only have missed texts from Bram, which I’m honestly insulted about. No one else has tried to reach me? This whole time? Maybe the messages just haven’t come through yet. I open my conversation with Bram. I’d unblocked his number yesterday, and I’d seen this: I know you’re not going. It was a bad idea anyway. I shouldn’t have interfered.

I’d been irritated about his use of formal punctuation and clipped sentences, but pleased that he thought I wasn’t going anywhere. It would just make telling him that I am in Windthrow Point, Illinois more fun.

He’d also sent: PS please tell your mom to stop texting me or I will have to change my number. I find this amusing as well as concerning. I still don't know how or why my mother got a hold of Bram.

The new messages are these: Where are you?

If you’re in a bar I’m coming to pick you up

Masie where are you?

are you ok?

Masie

call me when you get this

I stare at my phone, suddenly getting that feeling I get when I drink too much--a familiar feeling. It’s like I’m drowning but it’s all air. It’s like someone’s squeezing my heart and too tight and squeezing it until it oozes black ichor or whatever else is in there. It feels like burning in the back of my throat. That he thinks I’m missing and he wants to help. It’s almost enough to feel guilty about.

I want to call, but I remember my second suitcase downstairs. I decide to shoot over a text, and I'll call him when I get back up here. I send: Bram I’m ok. I look at the message and then add, Thanks.

I’m kind of smiling, and tuck my phone into my pocket. One more trip down the world’s narrowest staircase later, I’m standing in the tiny lobby about to grab my suitcase, which no one has stolen, when I notice someone else in the room. My eyes land on the inn lady--Mariana--and then on the person standing in the doorway, halfway in and halfway out of the inn. He’s holding the freshly-packed cardboard box of books, his head peeking out from above the box.

We make eye contact. It’s the slowest couple of seconds of my life, watching recognition flash across his eyes, then surprise, then confusion.

Shit.

Darian TV Producer Russel is… here.

--

(next chapter)

pt 7: https://www.theprose.com/post/762227/scrambled-and-cracked-open

--

(previous chapter)

pt 5: https://www.theprose.com/post/760230/wrecking-a-funeral

Like any rational adult who sees someone who'd ghosted them after a one-night stand, I freeze and feel my muscles tighten up. Ready to run.

"Masie?" Honestly Darian sounds more surprised than I feel. I still can’t move. He looks like he’s lost for words, shifting the box in his arms, then finally says, “Your hair is different.”

I’d almost forgotten about the pink streak of hair at the front of my head. It hadn’t returned to its regular blonde after a wash–I know I’d thought it was temporary dye that night I’d been drunk, but clearly it’s not. I’m immediately conscious of my physical state. I’ve recently gotten off a plane, which always leaves me kind of dirty-feeling, I’m wearing a matching gray set from Lululemon, which is both basic and drab, and my hair is in a braid that’s probably pretty messy, not that I’ve had time to check. I know he’s seen, well, all of me already, but still. This is not what I’d pictured when I’d imagined seeing him again.

The only person in the room who isn't shocked is Mariana, who comes out from behind her desk. “Darian?”

Darian comes back into the inn’s lobby, despite the fact that a moment ago he’d clearly been heading out. Before he has a chance to do anything like, say, set down the box he’s holding, my hand snaps out and grabs my suitcase, and I practically fly up the inn's stairs, accidentally banging my knee on the wall on the way up. I crash into the Violet room and shut the door, turning the lock for good measure.

There’s no way this is a coincidence.

I slide to the floor, my back against the door, because that's what dramatic people do after slamming a door shut. I pull out my phone. Bram picks up on the first ring. “Masie--god, are you ok? Your mom said you’re not at home, no one has seen you, we--”

“Did you know?” He sounds so sincere, but this feels like an elaborate prank. My eyes are squeezed shut. I can only see the blacks of my eyelids and echoes of color.

“About what? Masie, are you drunk right now?” He has so little faith in me.

I want to be angry--I am angry, but I feel like a blackhole. I can’t talk too loud, it all just gets swallowed back up. “No, Bram. Why is Darian here?” I’m so pitiful; I sound like a child.

There’s hesitation. Rustling. I picture Bram in his office, hair all perfect, standing up and taking a lap around his room. “You're actually in Windthrow Point?” He says the words slowly, like he doesn’t believe they’re coming out of his mouth.

I grab a fistful of my own hair, still in a fetal position, suddenly breathing hard. I’m in Windthrow Point. I’m in a small town I don’t know for no fucking reason at all. I’m a fool. Darian is here. And Mom was right, I can’t do this.

Bram’s repeating himself, asking where I am. “Yes!” I dig my fingers into my scalp. I’m out of the blackhole, clawing and loud. “Yes, and why did you send me here? It’s all a funny little joke to you? Huh? You knew Darian would be here, didn’t you?” When Bram doesn’t immediately answer, I shout, “Didn’t you?!”

“Yes!” he says back at me, barely raising his own voice, sounding defensive. “Yes, ok? I’m sorry, I didn’t--I would have told you, but I didn’t think you were going. And you ran out on me when I gave you the ticket.” I breathe into the phone, not sure whether I want to yell at him more. Not sure if it will make me feel any better. Bram continues, “It’s a nice town, Darian talks about it all the time. I thought you’d like it, what with the river and all. I thought… I was going to tell you that maybe you two could talk or--”

“It was never about me having a vacation.” My voice is flat. Usually that’s his thing.

I can feel Bram’s frustration. “No, that’s not true. I wanted you to get out of California for a while, and I thought--”

“You thought I’d like to see a guy that I royally messed things up with? Yeah, that’s a stroke of genius.” I barely sound like myself. My nails are still in my scalp. I think it hurts. “Fuck you,” I tell Bram. And I hang up.

I don’t know what to do next. I can’t think rationally, I can barely even breathe. Like I’m underwater and I don’t know which way is up. I count the seconds and push my fists against my eyes. At some point I can breathe again.

I know what I need to do next. Darian is, presumably, still downstairs. And I can't reasonably escape this room without going down there, though escaping through the window does sound tempting. I stand and riffle through my suitcase, and pull out a gold patterned bandana-style top and jean shorts. Simple. Beachy. I throw them on, then yank out my braid and restyle my hair into a slicked-back high ponytail. Intentional. Sexy. I wish I didn’t have the pink streak in my hair, but I’ve got to work with it. I grab my phone, which I’d left on the ground, apply mascara, and collect myself. Then, I step out of my room.

This time when I come downstairs, Mariana and Darian are talking lowly to each other, both standing in the center of the room. The conversation dies when I step off the last step. I glance at Mariana first, who looks a little concerned, and Darian next. He looks a little on edge, and his eyes skirt away from mine.

I smile pleasantly at both of them. “Oh, hi Darian. Lovely to see you again.” He does look lovely, in fact, with his wide nose and warm eyes and simple t-shirt and perfectly-fitting jacket.

He looks back at me, a crease now between his brows. “I–”

I’ve moved on to Mariana. “And thank you for the room, it’s perfect. I’ll see you again in the evening, presumably?” I’m already heading for the door, giving a charming smile and wave to both of them. Mariana looks at Darian, and Darian looks at me. And I walk out, nearly tripping on the box of books Darian now has sitting just outside the inn, and walk with very long strides in a direction I’m calling ‘away’.

The surrounding buildings are all businesses, and there’s no one around, at least not visibly. I check my phone, swipe away a missed call from Bram, and note that the time is 2:38 PM. There’s a lot of day left.

I wander down the street, focusing on the fact that all the buildings look different, like they weren’t even all added in the same time period. I'm only a few buildings down when I feel something whiz past my ear and then crack in the ground. I'm looking down at the broken egg, slowly oozing onto the sidewalk next to my Jimmy Choo sandals, when something hits me. A cold, wet feeling spreads from the back of my skull down to behind my left ear.

My head snaps up--up to the second story window of the closest building, where I can see a head of red hair disappearing back inside. I touch the back of my head slowly and look down at my fingers, smeared with egg. I feel a heaviness in the back of my throat, and I can't believe my body's first response to being pelted with a raw egg is to cry. This is disgusting. Fuck this town.

A heat building in my skull, I clench my fists and storm into the building, throwing open the door with enough force that the entry bell makes a cracking noise instead of a ding. "Who the fuck threw a fucking egg--" I start loudly, then suddenly stop.

There are three people staring at me, all wide-eyed. An elderly lady with curly hair, sitting at a table with a half-eaten sandwich, a middle-aged balding man standing at the counter holding a coffee, and a girl in an apron behind the counter, probably college age. This is a café, and I’ve just barged in covered in egg.

I’m saved from trying to come up with something else to say because a door behind the counter opens and a figure runs by me in a flash of red hair, a teenage boy if I saw him right. All the people in the café, me included, turn to watch him run full-force down the street. A crash turns everyone’s attention back to the behind-the-counter door, as yet another person arrives to the scene.

The door flings open, and a man flies out, an apron tied around his waist and his black hair in an aesthetic mess where it falls in waves around his temples. He skirts around the edge of the counter and then skids to a stop in the center of the café, eyes fixed out the front windows. His skin is tanned, his eyes are dark and squinted in frustration, and the muscles in his arms are clearly visible as he flexes his hands. “Goddamn that kid…” he says lowly, but all of us can hear. Everyone is silent.

The man holding a coffee clears his throat and mutters, “I’ll get him,” and then slinks past the tan apron man and out of the café.

“Walker?” hedges the girl behind the counter, clearly addressed to the man still standing in the middle of the room.

The man, Walker, purses his lips but turns. “Sorry, Mrs. Fairfield,” he grunts to the old lady, and she just shakes her head. Then his dark eyes turn to me, his expression still one of pure irritation. I watch his lips part as he takes me in, and then he sighs. “Well. Looks like the kid’s aim isn’t too bad.”

(next chapter)

pt 8: https://www.theprose.com/post/764086/a-lack-of-apology

--

(previous chapter)

pt 6: https://www.theprose.com/post/761464/violet-surprise

Wordlessly, I reach up a hand and pull eggshell out of my hair. I’m too angry to even find words at this point. Which is impressive, because my career is built on words, and I’m usually pretty freaking angry.

Walker, the café guy, is still standing right in front of me, making no effort at all to assist or avenge me. His dark eyes meet mine. “Who are you?”

Making an effort not to let out the scream that’s been building in my throat since, let’s be honest, this morning when I got on that plane, I clench my teeth together. “Do you know,” I grind out, leaning towards him, “how expensive this shirt is?” There’s a bit of egg on my left boob area, dripped down off my shoulder, and I wipe at it with the back of my hand.

He raises one eyebrow, and I try and ignore the fact that he’s now looking at my left boob. “I don’t. Do you want a change of clothes?” His dark eyes swipe over the rest of my body, catching on the bare section of my midriff. “Not that there’s much to change,” he adds.

I throw up my hands. “Yeah! Actually, I would! I’m sorry, but some kid just threw raw eggs at me.”

Walker turns his body away, saying nothing but “Follow me.” He takes me through the door behind the counter, past the kitchen, into a small stairwell, and then into an even smaller side room. It appears to be both storage and laundry, with lots of boxes and hangers sitting in precarious ways on the overhead shelves. The room’s barely big enough for the washer and dryer, let alone both of us. He smells like coffee and sandalwood. Probably. I don't actually think I could identify sandalwood in a line up.

“This room is ant-sized. Why is there a laundry room in a café? Do food-related crimes happen a lot around here?” I ask, tucking my shoulders up to my ears and crossing my arms. My head still feels eerily cold from the wet egg, and I shudder.

Walker breathes sharply out of his nose, which is as close to a laugh as I think he’s capable. He reaches up above me, his untucked t-shirt riding up and revealing a strip of tanned stomach. So now we’re even. Who’s not wearing enough clothes now, misogynist?

“Food-related? No. The most rampant crime around here is what the raccoons do to anything you leave outside. But Buck is known for causing trouble.” He pulls down a basket of folded clothes and puts it on top of the dryer, and I watch his profile. All sharp angles and shadows. Suddenly I’m itching to write, and I haven’t had that feeling in ages. “And I live here, above the Briarstone. So. Laundry.”

He lives here? No wonder he's got such a sour countenance.

He unfolds a plain white undershirt and holds it out. “Does this work?”

I meet his eye, eyebrows raised in challenge. “If you’re trying to put me in something see-through, yes. But I’m not wearing a bra, so something thicker would be preferred.”

Something akin to a smile raises one side of his mouth, and he looks down, his dark wavy hair falling across his face. “Right.”

Walker shows me to a bathroom upstairs, presumably his, if he really does live here. It's very minimalist and kind of rustic. Nothing too nice, nothing expensive. Pretty much exactly what you'd expect from a nobody in a small town. The most notable item in the room is a wooden caddy of hair products, engraved with the letters DWS.

After washing my head in the sink, an exercise that feels dehumanizing but isn't that unusual for me, I remove my top and put on the shirt he lent me. It's a gray T-shirt with a faded graphic of a truck on the front, and I really only agreed to it because it looked soft. And it is.

I spend a moment squinting at myself in the mirror, checking instinctively for bags under my eyes. Still concealed with makeup, so that's a win. My overall appearance, however, gives away what a wreck this day has been. My hair, out of its ponytail again, is wavy instead of straight and still dripping water. And Walker's shirt, significantly too big for me since he's pretty tall and wide-shouldered, hangs loosely. The crew neckline shows my collarbones, and even tucked into my shorts it looks a little like I'm not wearing pants. It's the kind of thing you wear to bed, or the kind of thing you throw on just after you've been in bed.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I find Walker leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded. I don't like to think of myself as self-conscious, but it's hard not to be when this man is looking at me like that. He smirks. "It looks good on you."

I'm pretty annoyed that my skin flushes when he says that.

"I'm Walker, by the way." He pushes off the wall, and I hand-tousle my hair, willing it to dry.

"Masie." I hold up my gloriously-ruined, previously-perfect gold top. "And I’m pissed about this.”

He stares me down, which I can already tell is basically one of his character traits, then tips his head in the direction of the stairs. “Do you want me to wash it?” He sounds resigned, as if he’s just given in to an argument. Saves me time.

“I want you to put that kid behind bars. But this will have to do instead,” I tell him, handing him the top. I swear he rolls his eyes as he walks away.

I find my way back down to the kitchen, and I pause to peek around at the trays of muffins and jars of flour and whatnot. It’s not hard to picture Walker in here, kneading dough or… I don’t know, what else do bakers do? Definitely kneading dough though.

I go back through the door into the main café space, dodging the questions from the girl behind the counter. She insists on giving me a free drink, so I agree to a coffee. Then I sulk in the far corner of the room, uncomfortable with how silent the building is. The old lady that had been sitting in here is gone, and now the only sounds are the girl brewing the coffee at the counter and my leg bouncing underneath the table.

I’m not staying here. I yank out my phone, and a few clicks later I’ve booked a plane ticket back to California, leaving tomorrow at 11 AM. I ignore the twitchiness in my fingers, which occurs as I debate whether to swipe away my notifications. Two messages from Rachael, one from Bram. After some hesitation, I Venmo Rachael some money without reading the texts and then open the one from Bram.

Hey, I’m sorry. It didn’t really occur to me that you might not want to see Darian, and I was going to tell you he’d be there but I didn’t get a chance. I get that you’re mad, just try not to take it out on him. I promise I’ll go back to being just your agent, not your trip-planner. We good?

“Am I interrupting?”

I jolt so much I almost drop my phone, so I play it off by waving my arms in the air and saying, "Have you come with more eggs?"

Walker is standing over the table holding a disposable coffee cup, and he sets it in front of me then places his hands on his hips. "You could have tried dodging.” His tone is serious, but his eyes are bemused.

“This has been, quite possibly, the worst day of my life. You know, I don’t think a single person has even said ‘I’m sorry.’ Seriously, this place is awful. It’s like in those horror movies where people get picked off one by one in a small, creepy town.” He looks like he’s about to speak, but I hold up a finger, mid-realization. “Oh my god, it is. I’m the hot blonde one that dies first. Wow.” I look off into the distance, wondering how plausible it is that I could incorporate that into my next book. Not the right genre, and very cliché, but a fun idea anyway.

The bell on the front door chimes, and I whip my head around, expecting the worst, but it’s just the barista girl leaving.

“Yeah, so, I hate to tell you this. But we’re closed.” Walker says, drawing my attention back to him. “And not because it’s a horror movie, but because it’s Monday.”

I glance at my phone. “It’s 3:13,” I tell him.

He just nods. “Yeah, and I would’ve closed thirteen minutes ago if I hadn’t had to deal with this egg emergency.”

I sip the coffee. It’s pretty good. “I’m glad we both agree that it was an emergency,” I mutter.

I look up and catch him staring at me, his dark hair falling across his face as he glances down. When he raises his head his mouth is shaped into a crooked smile. “If you really want the full Windthrow Point horror movie experience, you should come back here at ten.” He gestures to the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

I stand slowly, eyeing him the whole way as he follows me to the door. “Ten, like, at night? Are you going to kidnap me?”

Walker leans into my personal space to open the door, and he really does smell like coffee. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” he says, his breath tickling my hair.

I tighten my grip on my cup. “We’ll see.”

--

(next chapter)

pt 9: https://www.theprose.com/post/764864/pages-of-nostalgia

--

(previous chapter)

pt 7: https://www.theprose.com/post/762227/scrambled-and-cracked-open

Katerina Florence visited the sight of her mother's gravestone once every five years. On this day, it was her fifth.

The graveyard was small and provincial, much like Katerina's own childhood, and located on a plot of land wedged in between a rotting house built in the 1800s and a rocky cliff overlooking Lake Georgina. Katerina considered the grave sight from the opposite side of the road, considered the lake she could see through the trees, and then proceeded, as usual, into town. She would visit her mother tonight, when everyone else was in bed and the world would be silent except for the lapping waves. When she would be undisturbed.

Pepper's Town consisted of five buildings, a scattering of trees, and a central bungalow used for meetings, festivals, and (most commonly) late night rendezvous. Katerina knew each building intimately, as she had lived in one of them for the first eighteen years of her life.

There was the bank, first and foremost, which was the largest of the five and the only building which had gone through any significant renovations. A second story was added when the Toffee family converted it into a church ten years ago, deciding the town was in more need of salvation than financial aid.

Next to that sat Randall’s Car Garage, which had always been more of an excuse for Randall to show off his cars and vehicular skills than anything else. He’d always been a kind old man, though not quite right in the head. Randall was always telling ghost stories about the Emerson Estate, but as a kid Katerina had known it was just to keep the kids out of the graveyard. Nowadays, though, she wasn’t so sure.

Across the street was the Power Griddle, a diner that played exclusively 80s Rock ‘n’ roll, the Laundry family’s veterinarian’s office, which was often mistaken for a laundromat, and the Florence family bookshop, which constantly smelled like must and ancient ink. It was Katerina’s favorite smell.

And this place… This place was Katerina’s favorite place.

–Masie Clements, The Lakeside Haunt

I wander down the block, soaking in the sun like a flower. The town is prettier now that I have a plane ticket scheduled back to California.

I hadn’t been looking around properly before, but now, cradling my coffee, I start to feel a strange kind of déjà vu. I pass by a little tiny box of a building labeled ‘BANK’, then a thrift store advertising candy, of all things, then pause at a two-story brick bookshop. It’s got ivy crawling up the sides and those old-style multi-pane windows on both floors. The small square panes on the second floor are frosted, but I can still see the shadows of the books pressing against the glass, like they might tumble out at any second. There’s a stone slab being used as a step up to the shop’s door, which is propped open with an eight-inch bust of Shakespeare. A waft of air hits me, and it smells like musty old books.

And that’s when I realize why Windthrow Point feels strange to me. It’s kind of similar to how I envisioned Pepper’s Town in my novel The Lakeside Haunt. But what’s really strange is that this bookshop… it’s exactly how I pictured the Florence family bookshop, The Bookshade. Down to the smell, for Chrissake.

I’m standing in the doorway for a millisecond when my eyes land on a familiar figure. The box of books. Darian. Of course.

“Hey,” I say, raising a hand in a stunted wave. I’d like to say I did it because I’m friendly, but really it’s just because running off to avoid someone twice in one day is a little much, even for me. Not seeing much of a choice, I step inside the bookshop, pleased at how warm the air inside feels.

It’s exactly how you would picture an indie bookshop to be. Piles of books, possibly organized but who knows for sure, coat every surface. None of the tables or shelves match; they’re all varying shades of wood and metal. A tiny chandelier and a bunch of mini pride flags I can’t identify hang above the cash register. Fairy lights lead the way through the stacks to a barely-visible staircase.

And Darian. He’s on his tiptoes on a stool, shelving a thick red-covered book on the second-to-top shelf across from the register. He’s also ditched his jacket from earlier, presumably to show off his amazing biceps. Distantly, I try and decide whether they’re better than Walker’s, but it’s too close to call.

“Welcome!” There’s someone else here, apparently.

I turn and it takes me a moment to locate the man behind the counter, what with all the clutter. He’s got long blonde hair--not as nice as Bram’s--tied up into a knot, and a piercing through his upper lip. The tattoos on his arms disappear underneath his crochet vest, and he’s sitting with his nose, almost literally, in a book. Why is everyone here attractive? Also, Bram would really like this place.

“I’m Keigan. You new around here?”

So one person in this town is friendly. Well, Mariana from the inn was too. “Yeah…” I start, glancing at Darian, who has dismounted from his stool and is now staring intently at a stack of books.

Keigan notices, and looks between the two of us. He picks up his book and stands. “I’ve got to…” He makes no attempt to finish his sentence before disappearing.

Darian’s got his hands in his pockets now, his gaze on the ground. I try not to remember the feeling of my hands raking through his short curls. “What, um.” He clears his throat and then looks up. “What have you been up to?”

I cough a little, no sentence forming in my mind. Up to? Waiting for your call? Flying across the country on a whim? Ruining a cat’s funeral? Getting wasted? “Um.”

He gestures to his head. “I just mean--swimming? Your hair is wet.”

Right. I touch my hair briefly. I’ve somehow completely forgotten that not only am I wearing Walker’s t-shirt, something different than what he’d last seem me in, but my hair is also stuck in limp, wet, wavy, unattractive tendrils. “Oh, no. I had a run-in. At the café. I met Walker?” I’m going to stop talking now.

He nods stiffly. “Hey, I’m sorry for… Well, the deal fell through, you know, and it wasn’t just my decision. I would have gone through with it, if it were up to me.”

I can’t decide whether I’m mad at him or not. I was before, wasn’t I? I’ve been mad all day. But what I say is, “It happens. I get it.” I cross my arms, and I can’t stop thinking how much I wish I wasn’t in this dumb oversize t-shirt.

Darian puts out his hands, grasping at nothing. “I just want you to know that… it’s not because of anything you--we--did.” His brown eyes find mine, then drift across the room in the direction Keigan had gone. “You know, we were drunk. It was nothing.”

I laugh, like I knew that all along. I mean, I knew we were drunk, and it was great but also probably nothing, but the deal… If the deal fell through not because we had sex, then it fell through because my book wasn’t good enough. That’s worse.

“So.” He gives me a half-smile. “What brings you to Windthrow Point? We don’t get a lot of visitors.”

I run a finger over the spine of the nearest book. Heart of Darkness. “Aren’t you visiting?”

My head snaps up when he laughs. His whole face lights up, and how I see him now is the same way I saw him at that first dinner we had. He’d been very charming. “I grew up here. I come back to visit whenever I can, mostly to help Mom out.”

I breathe out a single laugh, surprised, and cock my head. This man in front of me, dressed in tailored pants and still sporting that shiny watch around his wrist, grew up here? A town with population of, so far, about ten? “No way,” I scoff.

Darian turns his smile to the shop as a whole, and I do think he could seduce it if he tried. That’s just the kind of smile he has. Objectively. “That’s right. We’ve always run the inn, and met all kinds of people through it. My mom’s the one who always encouraged me to get out into the world. ‘So long as you come and visit,’ she always told me.” Now that I know what it is, I can hear the nostalgia in his voice.

I should’ve pieced that together, that Mariana must be related to Darian. They’d seemed close. “That’s nice,” I reply dispassionately. Not because I don’t care, but because I can’t really imagine what that’s like.

“And?” he presses. “What are you doing here, Masie Clements?”

Clearly Bram didn’t tell him anything either. Goddamn Bram. Squaring my shoulders, I give Darian a confident smile. “Writing, of course. Just thought I’d get out of the city for a while.”

He chuckles. “Yes, it’s nice. Funny coincidence you’re here, of all place, though? Still, I hope you like it. Windthrow is a great town once you get to know it.” His smile fades, and he puts out a hand. “I hope we can get on as friends?”

Friends? After all that? Hell no. “Absolutely,” I tell him breezily, shaking his hand.

Darian nods. “Ok. Great. I guess I’ll see you around?”

Already backing out the door, despite the fact I’d love to peak around the shop, I reply, “Of course!” Then I’m on the sidewalk, silently counting down the hours until my flight takes off.

--

(next chapter)

pt 10: https://www.theprose.com/post/766726/all-my-ghosts

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(previous chapter)

pt 8: https://www.theprose.com/post/764086/a-lack-of-apology

In the end, I decide not to meet up with a random man I just met in the middle of the night. It wouldn't really have been out of character for me, but I do have enough self-preservation to realize that in this small town it is probably not the best move.

However, I do not have enough self-preservation to resist the gravitational pull of finding a bar with alcohol and music and bright lights to get lost in.

I had spent the afternoon by the river, which isn't actually too far away from the inn. Mariana had pointed me in the right direction--down the road until you see the rusting pickup truck, past the house painted baby blue, and through an archway of trees to the dirt road. From there, it’s just a view of the indomitable water, unobstructed. Grass, trees, rocks, water, all of it. I’d found a bench and sat with my laptop, my fingers hitting keys even though the sun’s glare on my screen rendered my words unreadable. I still haven’t looked at any of it, but I’m sure none of it’s any good, or even comprehensible.

And now all of that is irrelevant, because I’m in some tiny, tiny little bar and everything is sticky and I’m glad I brought cute outfits (all of my outfits are cute) but they’re also totally wasted on this very lame, small bar. I wish Jamie was here, at least, to tell me my matching top and skirt look cute. I haven’t talked to Jamie, I bet he’s at a club that’s a thousand times more fun than this right now.

“Come here often?” When I blink the fluorescent sign I’d been staring at out of my vision, it’s none other than Walker standing beside me, one arm on the bar counter. He’s smirking.

“You wanna buy me a drink?” I ask, facing forward again.

He’s silent for a moment. “You didn’t want to see what I was going to show you?” he asks. Even a few drinks in I can decipher his tone: it’s I’m not disappointed because I’m a man and men don’t feel emotions.

I wave down the bartender and point at my empty glass. “Walker, if that is your real name, I’ma let you in on a secret…” I lean in nice and close, and my eyes flutter closed when our faces are only inches apart. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning and I’d rather not be chopped up and murdered before then.” Then I pull back, watching his face. His dark eyes don’t give much away, other than a faint amusement.

“I was going to take you on a ghost tour,” he tells me after ordering a beer. He still hasn’t sat down, and is just standing there with his probably nicely-toned chest beside me like a wall. Like a warm wall. I pull a piece of hair off the back of my neck; sweaty.

“Ghost tour?” I scoff, but that sounds very fun. It sounds like something Bram would like, too.

“Nyx owns the local paranormal museum-slash-shop. She gets decent business, but visitors love her ghost tours.” The bartender has gotten both of us our drinks, and Walker takes a long swig of his. “Sorry I thought you’d be interesting, I guess.”

His mess of dark hair is in his eyes, and I tip my drink down my throat. “It’s still a no.”

He shrugs. “Well, if you’re leaving tomorrow, I should at least give you your shirt back.” He pushes off the counter, and I look at him. “Coming?”

Headache not quite formed but definitely in the works, I slap some money on the counter--probably too much--and follow him. Outside, it’s cold, so cold I can feel it in my eyes. “You don’t want your shirt back do you?" I ask him. "Hey, maybe we can trade.” His legs aren’t that much longer than mine but he walks very fast.

Walker breathes out of his nose: a laugh, and slows down a little to keep pace with me. “You think I’d look good in your tiny golden crop top?”

“Depends what you have to show off,” I tell him, gesturing at his midsection.

He raises one eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” It makes me grin.

I’m kind of tipsy and would like to be more drunk, if I’m honest. I don’t want to have to think about tomorrow. I’m not thinking about tomorrow. I’m focusing on Walker, who’s handing me my shirt back.

“You should see the water at night,” Walker says. He’s leaning against the cafe’s doorframe, looking all mysterious. I love a mystery.

“Ok,” I put on my best I-challenge-you face. “Let’s see it.”

He laughs, and I’m learning the way that his mouth slants. “Ok,” he agrees, and again he’s leading me through the empty streets, stopping at the inn first to drop off my shirt and then off to the river.

It’s not the same spot that I’d been earlier. It’s further down, out where the sky is so black it’s heavy and the buildings across the way look like paper shadows. There’s a dock or a pier or whatever you call a wooden thing you stand on. I like the way the moon dances on the water, but I’m even more mesmerized by the stars. Fireballs in the sky.

“You’ll break your neck staring up at the sky for too long,” Walker tells me.

“What did you want me to look at?” I pull my chin down, and find him looking at me, dark eyes intense. He’s closer than I’d thought.

“Me,” he breathes, and his hand comes up and wraps a finger around a piece of my hair. My heart goes all haywire, I mean my body, I mean does it matter? He’s very distracting. “I don’t want you to go, not yet.” Walker says this very quietly, his gaze on my lips the whole time.

I’d been waiting for him to kiss me, but now I put a hand on his chest to keep him away. “You’re supposed to be the mysterious brooding guy who never ever reveals his feelings unless it’s raining or it’s too late,” I inform him.

He glances at the sky, and the skin on his neck is stubbly and nice looking. “Not raining." His voice is low. "Is it too late?”

“For what?”

“For this,” he says, and suddenly he’s holding up two phones: one of them mine and the other must be his. My brain’s slow to process, and I watch him set them both down on the dock. When he straightens up again, he steps closer, and my body buzzes as his arms close around me, it’s that fear plus excitement that makes your vision go blurry.

Then: cold. I’m frozen, my ears feel funny and my mouth’s full of water.

Everything is dark, and Walker is gone, and flies are buzzing in my head, and cold, cold, ocean.

My head surfaces, my gasping just as loud as his laughter. My feet kick underwater, trying to launch myself out, the fuzzy warm drunk feeling gone. My vision is dark, all I can do is focus on air, not water. Burning nose.

“I got you.” Laughing. Arms locking against my body, cage. Black water, night sky. Breathe. “Masie?”

“Get me out!” Words barely make it out of my lips, teeth chattering. Flies buzzing. Sea monsters grabbing at my legs somewhere.

Something drags me out of the water, and I am too weak to resist. I am screaming in my brain, and I find my feet but they’re unsteady.

“Masie? You ok?”

It’s not Bram’s voice, it’s not anyone’s. I remember to reach down and snatch up my phone. Water everywhere. And I run, even though I don’t know the way.

--

(next chapter)

pt 11: https://www.theprose.com/post/767501/dragged-back

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(previous chapter)

pt 9: https://www.theprose.com/post/764864/pages-of-nostalgia