Page 24 of Not a Strong Enough Word

I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie and sit on them as I narrow my eyes at the hot garbage in front of me. It would feel so good to just hit that Delete button. So easy…

“Bad Scarlett,” I mumble as I move my hand from under my ass long enough to toss my laptop onto the couch cushion next to me. Step one: Remove the temptation. Step two… What is step two? Walk away? Have a snack? Call a friend?

The problem is I don’t want to do any of these things. I want to delete the fucking words and start over because I know they’re terrible, and it would be a waste of my time to try to fix them. Not even Ryan can fix this nonsense. He might still think he’s some wise and witty syntax sorcerer, but he can’t really do magic. Not this kind anyway.

The back of my head meets the back of my couch as I stare up at the ceiling and snort at the memory of the nickname he gave himself. That one popped up frequently over the years we were together, mostly when I wanted to give him shit for how good he thought he was at his job.

Never mind that he’s the best editor I’ve ever worked with. Even before he was my actual editor, his feedback was always more useful than what I got from the people on my team.

I ball my hands into fists inside my sweatshirt sleeves, holding them tight against the desire to save him the trouble of trying to find something salvageable in this wasteland of prose. A growl of frustration starts deep in my chest and builds to a crescendo as I jump up off the couch and bury my fingers in my already-tangled hair.

This shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t be this emotional. Leave it and move on.

Why is this so hard? Why is my kitchen a mess again? Why has it been so difficult to get out of bed? Even brushing my teeth has started to feel like a huge accomplishment. Anything that stands between me and working on the manuscript is something I can do later…and then something I don’t do later. And right now, the manuscript itself is somehow standing in its own way.

I grab my phone from the kitchen counter and hover my finger over Ryan’s name. He always knew what to say when I started feeling like I was buried alive under pages and words and books and contracts.

This is ridiculous. I’m not working with JMP anymore; I’m not beholden to their insane deadlines and strict timeline. I’m no longer required to pump out two bestsellers in less than a year or answer to editors who believe that tearing me down is the best way to build me back up again. So why can’t I just enjoy it this time? Becoming flew out of me. There was none of this second-guessing myself. The last time I felt that good about a book was when I wrote my debut. When I was writing for the love of it, before the publishing industry decided my only worth was the money I made for them and disguised it as a boon for me in the form of a giant contract that essentially asked me to sign my life away on the dotted line. And smile while I did it.

The contract that had been Ryan’s idea. Because he thought more money would soothe these wounds, not cause a million more problems.

I can’t call him. I don’t want him to know I’m barely better off than when we were together. The last time we talked, when he was standing here with my handwritten notes, I was well adjusted and able to handle this job. I don’t want him to think otherwise. And I certainly don’t want him to think that offering me more money would fix anything. I can’t do that again.

My thumb drops a half inch to Trina’s name. I push hers instead and put her on speaker so I can stand over my counter with my back to my laptop and lodge my fingers in my hair.

“How’s my favorite writer doing today?” she answers cheerily.

“Tell me not to delete everything I’ve written.” My voice is weaker than I thought it would be. When was the last time I ate anything?

“Scarlett…” Trina’s tone immediately drops into worried territory. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I moan. “I was fine, Trina. I was doing fine.” With each sentence, I clutch at my hair a little more, letting the pain in my scalp bring me back to Earth. “What the fuck happened?”

“Is this about Ryan? Because I told him to keep it professional with you, but if he so much as said one word out of line—”

“No. God, Trina, what did you say to him?”

She groans, and I wince at how loud it is coming through my phone speaker. “He was all mopey. Totally distracted. I was trying to tell him about your idea for the new book, and he was barely even listening to me.”

That doesn’t sound like Ryan. There never used to be anything that could get in the way of him and his love of editing. Except me. My stomach clenches as a million reasons for that kind of distraction race through my mind. One, in particular, stands out, and I smack my forehead hard with my open palm. I can’t believe I haven’t thought about this before.

“Is he seeing someone?” I mutter. Then my eyes widen, and I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Shit, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Trina’s cackle is distorted by the speaker. Her mouth must be right on top of her microphone. “For a brilliant person, you are really dumb, you know that?”

“You’ve told me this before,” I intone drily.

“Someday you might even listen to me.”

Sighing heavily, I push off the counter and open my pantry. If Trina is going to razz me, I might as well put something in my stomach while she does it. There’s an open box of cereal at the back. I remember buying it, though I couldn’t tell anyone when that was, so it can’t be that old. I shove a handful of it into my mouth dry because I know without looking that there’s no milk in my fridge. It only tastes a little stale, so I grab another handful.

“He’s not the type to get distracted,” I say around my mouthful.

“I’m so glad you’re eating that I’m not even going to tell you not to talk with your mouth full.” Even though I know she’s giving me a hard time, I allow myself a pat on the back for at least having the presence of mind during my earlier spiral to call her. Her sarcasm has knocked enough sense into me to push me to put some food in my mouth.

Let it go, I tell myself. Don’t ask. The conversation has moved on. It’s only going to make you look desperate. “What’s going on with him, then?” I flatten my lips together as soon as I say it. Why do I never listen to my own advice?

Maybe Trina is right. Maybe I am really dumb.