Page 12 of Not a Strong Enough Word

A grumble starts low in my throat. “I don’t feel like being therapist-ized today.”

She laughs. “I’m not, I swear. I’m trying to point out that mistakes are often a matter of perception. If you perceive this as a mistake, then it likely is, and vice versa. If you think you’re not doing the right thing for your book—and, more importantly, for you—then you’ll never be able to get past that to a place where you are happy with your decision.”

I wrinkle my nose and pull at a loose thread on the pillow in my lap. “That actually makes sense.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” she responds quickly. One of the things I love about Dianne is that she’s not all gentle and kind with me. She’ll put me in my place when I need it. And I often need it.

“It feels like it should feel like a mistake,” I say eventually. It’s the only way I can describe what’s going through my head. “Working with Ryan is the right thing for this book. I feel it in my bones. But my brain disagrees. It’s still connecting him with everything that happened outside of the last book.”

“He is connected to more than work for you,” Dianne says gently. I don’t miss how she says “work” and not “books.” This has always been her subtle reminder to me that writing is a job, and it doesn’t have to infiltrate my entire life. Clearly, she’s not a writer. “Have you had a chance to talk to him personally? Have you opened up about your—”

“No,” I interrupt her before she can go any further. “There wasn’t time. We negotiated, set up a few initial deadlines, and they were off to another meeting.” I don’t mention that I flew out of there before Ryan could even say goodbye. “Besides, this is about the book. Not me. It’s not personal this time.”

Dianne tilts her head to the side. “Isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Art is intensely personal. Your art, especially. Are you really going to tell me that you have grown a sudden ability to completely divorce the past from the present? The personal from the art? Because if so, that’s wonderful news.” She doesn’t sound like she believes me.

I truly consider her question for a moment. She’s gotten to the heart of what has been bothering me about this for the past two days. Can I separate and compartmentalize enough to make this book into the best version of itself? In the end, that’s what really matters.

“I don’t think it’s about completely divorcing myself from anything,” I finally say. “It’s about moving on. Accepting what happened and coming to a place where I can work again. Working with him…I don’t know. It feels like it might be healing in a way.” I’m tempted to tip my voice upward at the end like a question, but I force myself not to. It’s not a question. This is going to be good, for the book and for me.

It has to be.

Dianne’s answering smile is wide and genuine. “Oh, Scarlett. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come. I hope you’re proud of it, too.”

“I am.” I smile back.

After a moment, she gets serious again. “Lucky for you, we’re out of time, so I can’t bug you about talking to him about what happened five years ago, but I think you should. Soon.”

I stand quickly, not wanting to go any further with that for now. I came a long way today. Let’s not ruin it.

“Maybe next time.” Even I can hear how uncommitted I am to that.

She laughs again. “Definitely next time.”

There’s only one thing that I can ever do after therapy, and that is watch baking competitions. Since my holiday baking marathon was so rudely interrupted last time, I’m itching to get back to it. I change into my pajamas, toss my hair up into a bun, make myself some tea because coffee this late in the day would be bad for my circadian rhythms, and snuggle in.

No sooner do I start the first episode of a new season than there is a knock at the door.

“Dammit, Trina,” I curse loudly as I stand to answer it. Probably loud enough for her to hear me through the thin door. “You scheduled that appointment and texted me no less than eight times to make sure I went. You should know—”

I’m cut short when I pull the door open, because it’s not Trina standing there. It’s Ryan.

He’s more casual today in dark jeans and a forest-green hoodie, but his hair is still done. There’s a portfolio tucked under one arm, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, and a question in his gaze that I can’t quite decipher.

“I’m not Trina.” His voice is laced with humor, though he doesn’t let his face show it.

“I can see that.”

His eyes flick over my shoulder, and then he gives a little half smile when he sees what’s on the television. “You still love baking shows.”

“Some things never change,” I singsong in a desperate attempt to break some of the tension Ryan his decidedly brought with him.

That backfires, because his gaze slides over me as if he remembers every curve and dip and surface of my body. “Some things never do,” he says softly as his eyes meet mine again.

It doesn’t take much to remind me what I loved about Ryan all those years ago. In fact, I was reminded of it throughout my entire time at the Anastasios offices while he sat across from me, larger than life and overtaking my senses. He’s still so confident. So unabashedly emotional. If I had to venture a guess, he’s probably still so damn good at what he does, turning raw words into sentences that leap off the page.