Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
His words hit me hard.
I miss that version too. Not that I thought more of who I was as a writer, but I definitely hadn’t been jaded yet, or worn down.
I miss the passion I used to have. I miss the interaction with my readers. I miss the book releases, the signings, the trips to other countries. I used to have so much fun with it all. I used to wake up ready to see which of my friends were online. Or I’d wake up wanting nothing more than to dive back into whatever manuscript I was writing.
Now I just lie in bed, dreading what each workday will bring, what awful email will set the tone for that day, what nagging thought will prevent me from opening my manuscript.
“I wish I could find that again,” I say, more to myself than to Saint.
“I wish you could too. This kind of writing, what you do . . . it’s intensely personal, even when it’s fiction. You pour yourself onto the page. And the more famous you get, the more success you find, the more people think they own a piece of that. Of you. And they’re going to be louder, and it’s going to come from every angle, but what do you think happens to them when you disappear completely?”
“They get what they want?” I reply.
Saint shakes his head. “No. They get nothing. They just move on to the next book. The next author. The next movie. The next popular thing. Because hating you and loving you is a fad that they will move on from. Every single person will move on from this experience but you. You’re the one stuck in it forever, because it’s yours. It’s your life, it’s your name, it’s your passion. And you need to control what you allow in, because what you allow in will control what you’re able to put back out.”
He pauses, allowing his words to sink in. His thumb moves in circles over the back of my hand, a gentle, reassuring rhythm.
A strange calm settles over me. A feeling of being truly understood in a way Shephard rarely manages.
“Thank you,” I say. It’s all the words I can muster without tearing up.
Saint’s words aren’t just flattery; they resonate in a way I’ve always hoped to feel, but have never had articulated to me before. He validates what I’m feeling without dismissing it. Without telling me I should just be grateful to have a career. He makes me feel like my internal struggle is real, and that I’m actually strong enough to overcome it.
“You know you don’t need me, right?” He says the question like it’s a statement. “You wrote stacks of books before I showed up at your door. And I believe you’d still finish this book even if I didn’t show up at your door. If anything, I’m a distraction to your writing, not a muse.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to have to disagree with you on that.”
Saint pulls his hand from mine, a faint warmth lingering on my skin. He gestures to my plate again, a small, encouraging smile on his lips. “You need to eat. And then, we get you back to work.”
I pick up my fork, and this time, the scent of the food doesn’t feel jarring. It feels . . . grounding. I take a bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—rich, savory, deeply comforting. It’s perfect.
By the time dinner is over, the last of the surviving light of dusk has faded, and the cabin is bathed in the warm glow of the lamps. The half-empty lasagna dish sits between us, a testament to the meal. More importantly, the tension that tightened my shoulders for days has eased, replaced by a quiet sense of purpose, a strange, burgeoning lightness. He has made me feel incredibly good, incredibly valued. Not as a sexual conquest, but as an artist, as a person.
He stands up, collecting the plates.
“I’ll clean up,” I say, taking the dishes from him. When I reach the sink, I can hear him gathering his things behind me. I spin around, sad to see him preparing to leave.
He walks to the door while shoving his phone into his pocket. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, walking toward him.
He nods, but wraps an arm around my waist when I reach him. “I am. You’ve got a book to finish this week.” I don’t want him to leave. He leans in, and for a fleeting second, I brace myself for a passionate kiss. But it’s a soft, chaste, gentle press of his lips against my forehead.
“Sleep well, Petra,” he murmurs, his voice a low caress. “And write fiercely.”
When he opens the door to leave, the wind whips my hair around my face. The temperature has dropped several degrees, and the tops of the trees are swaying. I watch as he rushes to his car, the sky bursting with a bolt of lightning just as he opens the door.