Page 27 of The Write Midlife

As she turned to leave, she heard her mother's laugh in her head—that warm, knowing chuckle she'd give when Melody was being particularly stubborn.

That's my girl, she'd say.Stand your ground, baby. The right people will understand.

With that, she wrenched open the door and strode out, ignoring Nate's calls behind her. As she marched through the office, past startled employees and gleaming corporate art, she felt a strange mix of emotions churning inside her.

Anger at Nate and Carlisle Publishing for trying to change her. Disappointment in herself for ever believing they truly understood her vision. And underneath it all, a tiny, traitorous spark of doubt. Was she making a mistake?

She pushed the thought away as she stepped into the elevator. No. She was standing up for her principles, for her art. And if that meant walking away from Carlisle Publishing and Nate Carlisle... so be it.

As the elevator doors closed, she caught a glimpse of Nate in the hallway, his expression a mix of frustration and something that looked almost like regret. But it was too late for regrets now.

She had made her choice. Now she just had to live with it.

FOURTEEN

Nate staredat the intimidating array of equipment at Seattle Elite CrossFit, already regretting his life choices.

It was 5:45 AM, and instead of nursing his wounded pride with whiskey like a normal person, he was about to voluntarily submit himself to what Alex called "therapy through controlled suffering."

"There's my favorite publishing prince," his oldest friend called out, already warming up with annoyingly perfect form on his air squats. At forty-three, Alex had managed to maintain the kind of fitness that made the rest of them question their life choices. Nate was no sloth when it came to fitness, but Alex was an absoluteunit. And he knew it. "Ready to sweat out your sorrows?"

"Remind me again why we're not at Blue Tap?” Nate grunted, dropping his gym bag and eyeing the workout posted on the whiteboard with growing dread.

"Because," Alex said, flicking a sweaty strand of hair off his head before transitioning smoothly into arm circles, "you sleep-texted me at midnight about how Melody wishes you would burst into flames and your life is fucked. This seemed like a more productive way to process your crisis than day drinking."

Nate started his own warm-up. "I did not sleep-text you."

"Want me to read it back? 'Alex, I've screwed it all. She thinks I'm just another soulless corporate drone. Maybe I should buy a motorcycle.'"

"Please tell me you're joking."

"The motorcycle part was actually from your follow-up text at 2 AM."

Their coach, Jake—who was probably half their age and twice as fit—called the class to order. The workout looked like something designed by a particularly sadistic personal trainer: burpees, kettlebell swings, rowing, wall balls, and something ominously called "death by air squats."

"Remember," Jake said, his enthusiasm offensive at this hour, "modify as needed. Listen to your bodies."

"My body's telling me to go back to bed," Nate muttered to Alex.

"Your body's not the one making bad decisions about beautiful authors," Alex shot back. "Now come on, old man. Time to earn your midlife crisis."

They started with a "quick" warm-up that felt more like a full workout. Between sets of jumping jacks and high knees, Alex got down to business.

"So, tell me what happened with Melody. The non-dramatic version."

Nate explained about the ghostwriting deal and their fight, pausing occasionally to catch his breath or curse whoever invented mountain climbers. Alex listened, only interrupting to correct Nate's form or offer the occasional grunt of understanding.

"The worst part," Nate said as they moved to the rowers for the actual workout, "is that she's not entirely wrong. The old me—the pre-Melody me—would have pushed this deal without a second thought."

"And now?" Alex set his damper to a reasonable resistance while Nate, like an idiot, cranked his up too high.

"Now I can't stop thinking about her face when she talked about her vision for the book. The passion in her voice, the fire in her eyes..." Nate trailed off, already regretting his damper setting.

"Sounds serious." Alex's rowing form was disgustingly perfect. "So you just played along with your dad’s backstabbing plan?”

“I had to. I can’t undermine him to our employees. No matter who they are.”

“Ah, I see. So, what are you going to do about it?"