Page 82 of Not a Strong Enough Word

“I know you’re well aware of this, but Scarlett is really special. And so fucking talented. This book…I get why you don’t want to let it go. But I have to believe that by supporting her now, you’ll see more from her later—you know what I mean?”

I’m starting to get it. Lightly running my fingers over the tattoo on my forearm, I say, “Yeah. I hope you’re right.”

But what I don’t say is that I also hope it doesn’t take another five years to get there.

Chapter 37

Scarlett

Ryan doesn’t want to be followed. I know because I’ve been there, and I recognized the look on his face when he left. So, I stay right where I am.

Left alone, I stare into space in silence for a while before ultimately turning on a baking show to at least try to quiet my racing thoughts. When it gets dark, I change into my satin pajamas, put my hair in a messy bun, and curl up under a blanket to watch some more.

I tell myself I’m not falling back into any kind of depressive episode. I’m just watching television like a normal person. Everyone binges shows, right? This is a totally mundane thing to do on a weekday evening when I don’t have work to do in the morning.

No work in the morning. I actually think, for normal people, that would be fun. A reprieve from the grind. But writing was never a grind, even if it was hard to shut it down at the end of the day. It was all the people-facing stuff—the travel, the interviews, the signings. Even those wouldn’t have been so bad if there weren’t so many of them.

Can I really walk away from the magic of bringing characters and scenes to life using only words on a page? That’s what it is—magic. A little kernel of an idea starts in my mind, all tiny and fuzzy at first. It grows bigger and bigger until it solidifies and intensifies to the point where if I don’t get it out, I start to feel like I might crawl out of my own skin. That’s when I pull out the laptop and type like a mad woman late into the night and early in the morning. And when I’m done, there it is—a living, breathing story on the page.

And then Ryan comes in. He tugs and tweaks and asks Why? and What if? He suggests stronger words. He makes it a stronger story. I take it back and respond. It’s a beautiful conversation where we weave thoughts and ideas, we give and take, we help it expand—and it wouldn’t happen if it weren’t for that little fuzzy kernel of an idea. If I never let it grow.

Words on paper. Ink on pages. A whole new world where there wasn’t one before.

Magic.

Always more magical because he was part of it. If I stop now, that piece of us will wither away. That piece of me will, too. There’s no way around it. Can I really let that happen?

We could replace it with a different kind of magic. I press a hand to my abdomen, remembering another tiny thing. It never got to grow, but we could try again. Maybe. If he wants to.

But not tonight. Tonight I’m pretending to be normal. I’m resting. No work in the morning. Ryan and I will talk eventually, when he’s ready. I don’t have to figure everything out today. Which was another one of Dianne’s mantras. I’m starting to realize I haven’t appreciated her enough. I should get her a gift or something.

For a few hours, I watch bakers create beautiful, intricate treats out of disparate ingredients, the flickering light of the screen the only brightness in the room, before my phone dings with an incoming message.

Trina: Thought you might find this interesting.

There’s a link included, so I click on it. When it loads, it’s a social media post about Charles Hall, which is strange. I didn’t mention anything about Charles when we were out for coffee. I had figured his role in this was ultimately unimportant. In the story of my life, he might be a catalyst, but he’s still always going to be just a side character. Nothing was going to change if she knew about it or not, so I didn’t bother bringing it up.

But she’s right. I am interested. Scrolling down a bit, I read the caption.

Charles Hall’s anticipated Midnight on Main Street will be delayed indefinitely. We know this is a hard blow for his fans, but after months of trying to find the right home for it, there doesn’t seem to be a publisher that is the right fit. Alas, we will not give up the fight, dear Charlatans. Onward and upward.

“Does this idiot write his own social media captions?” I mutter to myself as I type out a response to Trina.

Scarlett: He calls his fans “Charlatans”?

Trina: You read that whole post and that was your takeaway?

Scarlett: It means someone who deceives others.

Trina: Seems appropriate to me.

I pull the corners of my lips down and nod. She’s not wrong. But before I can tell her that, she messages again.

Trina: No one is publishing his book.

Scarlett: Yes, I can read.

Trina: That isn’t the least bit interesting to you?