Page 76 of The Write Midlife

She swallowed, nodding, before turning and nearly running out of the room.

Nate watched her, taking note of every step.

That’s it. He’d done it. Put his whole professional career on the line for the personal one he’d been wanting for too long with Mel.

And it blew up in his face.

So much for happily-ever-afters.

Grabbing his phone, he sent a text out to Alex.

Looks like it’s going to be a triple whiskey sort of night.

FORTY-ONE

Four daysafter the book launch, Melody arrived at Cucina Bella ten minutes late, hoping to slip into her usual station without drawing attention. Her hands hadn't stopped shaking since Nate's declaration of love, and the last thing she needed was Marco critiquing her knife skills in this state.

But as she pushed through the door, the familiar scent of garlic and herbs didn't bring its usual comfort.

Instead, she froze, staring at her cooking station—or rather, at the women surrounding it.

Hannah occupied her usual spot, but beside her stood Zoe, who Melody hadn't seen since the writer's workshop. And there, donning a crisp white apron over her designer suit, was Carmen.

"Surprise!" Hannah called out, way too cheerfully. "Look who decided to join our Thursday night therapy session!"

Melody's stomach dropped. "Carmen? What are you doing here?"

Her agent adjusted her perfectly styled dark hair beneath her hairnet. "Marco and I went to the same yoga class back in the day. Amazing what a few bottles of aged Barolo can do to secure a last-minute spot."

"And I," Zoe chimed in, "have been dying to tell Marco how his carbonara could benefit from a more contemporary approach. My readers at the Times would love a story about modernizing classic recipes."

Marco appeared behind them, wooden spoon in hand. "Absolutely not, Ms. Restaurant Critic. Some traditions are sacred." He turned to Melody. "You're late. The sauce waits for no one."

But as he passed her, he squeezed her shoulder, his eyes knowing. Melody had a sinking feeling everyone here knew exactly why she'd been avoiding calls and dodging texts since the launch.

"Well?" Hannah gestured to the empty spot at their shared station. "Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to help us make Marco's grandmother's lasagna?"

Melody moved to her station like a woman walking to the gallows, hyperaware of the concerned glances being exchanged over her head. She tied her apron mechanically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed her.

"First," Marco announced to the class, "we prepare the ragù. Like regret, it must simmer slowly to reach its full potential."

Melody nearly sliced her finger at the word 'regret.' Images from the launch flooded her mind: Nate's voice steady and sure declaring his love, her own cowardly retreat to the stage, the hurt in his eyes as she walked away. Four days of ignored calls, of staring at blank manuscript pages.

“Easy there, Mel," Hannah murmured, catching her hand before she could mutilate another innocent onion. "Want to talk about why you're trying to dice your fingers instead of the vegetables?"

"Not particularly." Melody switched to crushing garlic, probably with more force than necessary. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are," Carmen said, somehow managing to chop vegetables without compromising her manicure. "That's why you haven't answered any of my calls about the Hollywood deal. Or why you've been ignoring your editor's—sorry, your love interest's—messages about the new imprint launch."

"He's not my—" Melody started, then stopped, the lie sticking in her throat like undercooked pasta.

"Not your what?" Hannah asked, stirring her sauce with deliberate care. "Not your editor? Because he pretty much torched that bridge when he declared his undying love in front of half the publishing industry. Not your love interest? Because honey, I've only known you for a week and even I can see you're head over heels."

Melody dumped her garlic into the pot with enough force to make Marco wince from across the room. "Can we not do this? Please?"

"No," all three women replied in unison.

"You want to know what I think?" Carmen asked, her tone deceptively casual as she diced tomatoes with surgical precision. "I think you're doing exactly what you did after your first book deal fell through. Running before anyone can disappoint you."