“Mom asked about you the other day,” Gabriel said. “You only come home once a year, and she’s concerned about what you’re doing in Manhattan…”
I frowned at the half-empty page in front of me while my brother rambled on. I already regretted answering his call. It was only six a.m. in California, but he sounded alert and put together, as always. He was probably on his office treadmill, reading the news, replying to emails, and drinking one of his hideous antioxidant smoothies.
Meanwhile, I was proud of myself for rolling out of bed before nine. Sleep proved elusive after last night’s encounter with Kai, but I’d thought that maybe, just maybe, the strange experience would be enough to jar a few sentences loose for my manuscript.
It wasn’t.
My erotic thriller about the deadly relationship between a wealthy attorney and a naive waitress turned mistress formed vague shapes in my head. I had the plot, I had the characters, but dammit, I didn’t have the words.
To make matters worse, my brother was still talking.
“Are you listening to me?” His voice was laced with equal parts exasperation and disapproval.
The heat from my laptop seeped through my pants and into my skin, but I barely noticed. I was too busy devising ways to fill all that white space without writing more words.
“Yes.” I selected all the text and cranked the font size up to thirty-six. Much better. The page didn’t look so empty now. “You said you finally consulted a doctor about a sense of humor implant. It’s experimental technology, but the situation is dire.”
“Hilarious.” My oldest brother had never found a single thing hilarious in his life, hence the need for a sense of humor implant. “I’m serious, Isa. We’re worried about you. You moved to New York years ago, yet you’re still living in a rat-infested apartment and slinging drinks at some bar—”
“The Valhalla Club isn’t some bar,” I protested. I’d endured six rounds of interviews before landing a bartending gig there; I’d be damned if I let Gabriel diminish that accomplishment. “And my apartment is not rat- infested. I have a pet snake, remember?”
I cast a protective glance at Monty’s vivarium, where he was curled up and fast asleep. Of course he slept well; he didn’t have to worry about annoying siblings or failing at life.
Gabriel continued like I hadn’t spoken. “While working on the same book you’ve been stuck on forever. Look, we know you think you want to be an author, but maybe it’s time to reevaluate. Move home, figure out an alternate plan. We could always use your help in the office.”
Move home? Work in the office? Over my dead body.
Bitterness crawled up my throat at the thought of wasting my days away in some cubicle. I wasn’t making much progress on my manuscript, but caving to Gabriel’s “solution” meant throwing away my dreams for good.
I got the idea for the book two years ago while people watching in Washington Square Park. I’d overheard a heated argument between a man and someone who obviously wasn’t his wife, and my imagination took their fight and ran with it. The story had been so detailed and fleshed out in my mind that I’d confidently told everyone I knew about my plans to write and publish a thriller.
The day after I witnessed the argument, I bought a brand-new laptop and let the words pour out of me. Except what came out at the end wasn’t the shimmering diamond masterpiece I’d envisioned. What showed up were ugly lumps of coal, so I deleted them.
And the pages remained blank.
“I don’t think I want to be an author; I do want to be an author,” I said. “I’m just exploring the story.”
Despite my current frustrations with writing, there was something so special about creating and getting lost in new worlds. Books have been my escape for years, and I will publish one eventually. I wasn’t giving up that dream so I could become an office automaton.
“The same way you wanted to be a dancer, a travel agent, and a daytime talk show host?” The disapproval edged out Gabriel’s exasperation. “You’re not a fresh college grad anymore. You’re twenty-eight. You need direction.”
The bitterness thickened into a dry, sour sludge.
You need direction.
That was easy for Gabriel to say. He’d known what he wanted since high school. All my brothers had. I was the only Valencia bobbing aimlessly in the post-school waters while the rest of my family settled into their respective careers.
The businessman, the artist, the professor, the engineer, and me, the flake.
I was sick of being the failure, and I was especially sick of Gabriel being right.
“I have direction. In fact…” Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t—“I’m almost done with the book.” The lie darted out before I could snatch it back. “Really?” Only he could soak a word with so much skepticism it
morphed into something else.
Are you lying?
The real, unspoken question snaked over the line, poking and prodding for holes in my declaration.
There were plenty of them, of course. The entire freaking thing was one giant hole because I was closer to setting up a colony on Mars than finishing my book. But it was too late. I’d backed myself into a corner, and the only way out was through.
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “I had a big breakthrough at Vivian’s wedding. It’s the Italian air. It was so, um, inspiring.”
The only things it’d inspired were too many glasses of champagne and a massive hangover, but I kept that to myself.
“Wonderful,” Gabriel said. “In that case, we’d love to read it. Mom’s birthday is in four months. Why don’t you bring it when you’re home for the party?”
Rocks pitched off the side of a cliff and plummeted into my stomach. “Absolutely not. I’m writing an erotic thriller, Gabe. As in, there’s sex in
it.”
“I’m aware of what erotic thrillers entail. We’re your family. We want to support you.”
“But it’s—”
“Isabella.” Gabriel adopted the same tone he’d used to boss me around when we were younger. “I insist.”
I squeezed my phone so hard it cracked in protest.
This was a test. He knew it, I knew it, and neither of us was willing to back down.
“Fine.” I injected a dose of false pep into my voice. “Don’t blame me if you’re so traumatized you can’t look me in the eye for at least the next five years.”
“I’ll chance it.” A warning note slid into his voice. “But if, for some reason, you’re unable to produce the book by then, we’re going to sit down and have a serious chat.”
After our father died, Gabriel assumed unofficial head of household status next to our mother. He took care of my brothers and me while she worked—picking us up from school, making our doctor’s appointments, cooking us dinner. We were all adults now, but his bossy tendencies were getting worse as our mother entrusted more and more of the family responsibilities to him.
I gritted my teeth. “You can’t—”
“I have to go or I’ll be late for my meeting. We’ll talk soon. See you in February.” He hung up, leaving the echo of his thinly veiled threat behind.
Panic twisted my chest into a tight knot. I tossed my phone to the side and tried to breathe through the ballooning pressure.
Damn Gabriel. Knowing him, he was telling our entire family about the book right that second. If I showed up empty-handed, I’d have to face their collective displeasure. My mom’s dismay, my lola’s disapproval and, worst of all, Gabriel’s smug, know-it-all attitude.
I knew you couldn’t do it. You need direction.
When are you going to get it together, Isabella? You’re twenty-eight.
If the rest of us can do it, why can’t you?
The phantom accusations tumbled into my throat, blocking the flow of oxygen.
Four months. I had four months to finish my book while working full- time and battling a nasty case of writer’s block, or my family would know I was exactly the wishy-washy failure Gabriel thought I was.
I already hated going home every year with nothing to show for my time in New York; I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the same disappointment reflected on my family’s faces.
It’s fine. You’ll be fine.
Eighty thousand words by early February. Totally doable, right?
For a moment, I let myself hope and believe the new me could do this.
Then I groaned and pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. Even with them closed, all I could see were blank pages.
“I am so fucked.”
