Page 1 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

Chapter 1

Monty

September

The thing no one tells you about writing is that the smallest fact, especially when it eludes you, can become an obsession. And right now, I am a man obsessed.

Honey. Whiskey. The inner color of a flame where it hits the charred wood. Maybe the bark as it ignites?

Not quite. I click the top of the pen and run my tongue along the inside of my cheek.

Maple leaves beneath a warm October sun? No.

Rose gold?

I pull the black frames from my face and dig my fingers into my eye sockets. That’s not right, either.

Milk chocolate?

Frustrated, I slip my glasses back on and flop against my seat on the small plane I’m taking from New York to Hope Harbor. My restless hand clicks the end of the pen that’s yet to write a damn word.

It’s been months, but every time I settle in to write, this is what happens. If I could just figure out the damn color, I could move on.

“Sir, we’re about to land,” one of the air stewards says as she passes my seat. “Would you please put your tray table back into position?”

I offer her a perfunctory nod and do what she asks. It’s not like I’m going to write anything anyway.

That’s why I’m heading back home. Not because I want to see those eyes in person again. That would be ridiculous. Though I’m sure writers in my position have done crazier things to cure my current predicament.

I won’t say the actual word that some use to describe my inability to write—like most writers, I’m superstitious—but this certain blockage is causing me more stress than normal. I need this book to be the best I’ve ever written. I didn’t earn out my last advance, and even though I’ve pitched a completely different genre that excited my publisher in a way they haven’t been in a long time, if they don’t actually buy this book, I’m not sure anyone else is going to take a chance on me—not after the piss-poor numbers I’ve had. This is my last shot.

But that’s not even the worst of it. My roommate with the insane rent-controlled apartment in the West Village decided to propose to his girlfriend, which means she’s moved in and I need to find a new place to live. I can’t exactly afford New York prices on my bartending salary, and without a book to sell, I have no choice but to tuck my tail between my legs and move back home to New England. Back in with my father and my vovo.

Fuck, I need to sell this book. Which means I need to remember how to write again.

The wet rings around a whiskey barrel?

No. Her irises were definitely brighter than a whiskey barrel.

The plane lands and I head straight to baggage. Normally I travel with nothing more than a carry-on, but this trip is different; I’ve got everything I own with me. This time, I’m returning to Hope Harbor for the foreseeable future.

I grimace as I remember how my housemate told me about his impending nuptials. It was at that moment I realized that everything that had ever gone wrong in my life was because of love.

First, my parents’ divorce—they fell out of love.

Then there was the news that Penny was engaged—she was apparently in love.

And now I’m having to uproot my entire life in New York—all because of my roommate’s great love.

Love is the reason I’ve lost everything I ever wanted. Everything that’s ever truly mattered to me. I’m done with love. Or maybe love is done with me. Hopefully. I can’t risk losing anything else.

It therefore seems extremely ironic that, as I take the escalator down toward baggage, the first thing I hear is the deep timbre of a man’s voice singing Frank Sinatra’s classic “L.O.V.E.”

Seated at a black baby grand piano, an older gentleman with a white head of hair sways as he sings. His shoulders bounce and his eyes crinkle in delight as, one by one, people stop to listen. Couples sway along to the tune, and I watch as one woman glances up at the man who just arrived to pick her up. She presses a kiss to his jaw; it’s quick and thoughtless and the action makes my heart squeeze tight.

I hustle past the gathering crowd, searching for my flight number on the board so I can locate my bags.

I turn my phone off airplane mode and, as soon as I do, a slew of texts populate.