TWENTY

Harper

It felt like I was walking through life with a weight chained to my heart. Dragging me down. My mood. My body.

I couldn’t sleep when I laid down at night. And I couldn’t get myself out of bed in the morning.

I should have been half-way through buying my Christmas gifts by this time, but I hadn’t even started yet. I usually loved shopping. Not this year.

Marketing didn’t even excite me the way it used to. I’d let my social media pages wallow.

I didn’t want to write. Even the fun of killing off the townspeople in my book had lost its allure.

My lack of enthusiasm for all the rest I could probably get away with, but not for writing.

I could buy gift certificates for everyone on Christmas Eve and call it a day.

My social media would survive on just the recurring posts that automatically went out on a preset schedule.

But not wanting to work on the book was a problem—for multiple reasons. I had commitments. Contracts. A release schedule to maintain.

I would have searched online for the symptoms of depression if I wasn’t too listless to open the computer. I did manage to find the remote control and turn on the television. That was enough.

I’d told Stone I was tired last night and asked if he’d mind sleeping at home instead of with me. It was one more thing adding to the distance between us. The distance I knew he’d never meant to create but had none-the-less.

All because of that stupid forum.

I’d hated Anonymous before I knew the truth. I hadn’t realized then exactly how much I should have hated that stupid account. Never realized it would get between us.

I loved him. Loved him with all my heart. And yet, right now a small part of me couldn’t help but resent him, just a little bit. 

That wasn’t healthy in a relationship but I couldn’t help it. I was the professional writer. Yet without even trying, Stone had been offered a column in the newspaper and earned himself a strong online following.

Just like how I’d wanted to be mayor, but because of circumstances beyond his control that position too had gone to him.

I knew to my core he’d been happy with his life before all this happened. That he’d been content being a farmer and my boyfriend. That he didn't want or ask for any of what he’d been given, yet he’d still gotten it.

Gotten exactly the things I’d wanted.

A column. Jeez. I would have loved that offer. But they hadn’t given it to me. I was going to have to learn to be okay with the fact they’d offered it to him and he’d said no.

I would have said yes. I would have jumped at the chance that he didn’t even want.

That I was drinking two-day old water I’d found in a cup on the nightstand rather than walking downstairs to face the world and quench my thirst didn’t bode well for my coming to terms with the current situation anytime soon.

When I could push aside the dark veil of my mood and try to see the situation objectively, I knew I couldn’t blame Stone, or the forum, or even the local newspaper for how dejected I felt now.

Before I ever saw a post by Anonymous on the forum, long before Stone had confessed to being behind the posts, I’d been struggling. Grasping for motivation to start my next book. Procrastinating. Focusing on doing anything else besides writing. 

This—what I was feeling now—originated from within me. My insecurities. My tenuous sense of identity. My self-doubt.

What if I couldn’t sustain this as a career any longer? More importantly, if I weren’t a writer, who would I be? 

What would I do? With my time. For money. I suppose I could get a real job. But where? Doing what? I guess I could ask Brandon if I could work at the hotel answering phones and checking people in or something.

I glanced down at the glass of room temperature water, then at myself still in yesterday’s clothes. The one’s I’d slept in. I really needed to get it together.

Fighting the gravity that seemed to have doubled in the past day, I pushed myself off the bed and shuffled across the room. 

Stone had built me a walk-in cedar-lined closet when he’d converted the attic to be my bedroom.

It was beautiful. A masterpiece with open shelves, drawers and rods for both long and short clothes to hang. He’d even put a chair inside so I could sit to put on my shoes.

He was great. Perfect. Except that I wasn’t sure he wanted anything more between us than what we had.

And then there was that whole thing about him being a better writer than me. I knew in my head that was an exaggeration, but at the moment, it didn’t feel like it.

Whether my career was finished or not, whether Stone and I would be okay or not, I still had to finish this book. It was due to my publisher on January first.

If I were going to get to work, I needed fuel and to stop moping around.

I glanced outside and saw the frost on the windows. It was a perfect day to bundle up in something soft and cozy. I dug out my favorite oversized cashmere sweater and pulled it on over leggings.

After tugging on my furry boots, I was done. Ready for the world. Or at least dressed. I’d work on being ready once I got outside among the public. One thing at a time.

There was a note in the kitchen from Aunt Agnes saying that she was having breakfast out with friends. That meant I was on my own.

The idea of cooking for myself alone left me feeling colder than the temperature outdoors.

Funny. I used to be good at being on my own when I lived alone. A couple of years ago, I’d preferred solitude to being around people. Mudville had changed me and I hadn’t even noticed it happening.

In any case, getting coffee and something to eat at Bethany’s seemed much better than staying here, so I grabbed my wallet and headed for the door.

The overcast sky matched my mood perfectly and there was enough of a nip in the air that I’d be happy to get home later. It was a good day to turn on the heater and hibernate in my bedroom.

Hopefully I’d be able to get some writing done.

God, I hoped so, because I really needed to get words on the page and knock myself out of this writer’s block I’d fallen into.

Bethany was working, of course. I should take a lesson from her. It didn’t matter if she was tired or sick or depressed. The bakery had to open every day.

There was no using baker’s block as an excuse for her. She couldn’t lay around in bed all morning watching television like I had.

Ashamed of myself and my shoddy work ethic, I tried to paste on a happy face and walked up to the counter. 

“Hey. How are you?” she asked.

“Fine,” I lied and focused on the selection in the glass case. “Um, banana nut muffin please.”

I figured I could pretend I was having a healthy breakfast if there were fruit and nuts inside.

“You got it.” She smiled. “And coffee?”

“Yes, please.” I pushed money across the counter and sighed.

When I glanced up again it was to see Bethany watching me closely, the plate with the muffin poised in one hand.

“What’s up with you?” she asked casually, though I could tell she suspected all was not well.

“I’m not sure I can keep writing.” It came out in a whoosh, surprising even me and by the looks of her, Bethany too.

“What? No.” Frowning, she shook her head.

“Yes.” I nodded, fighting tears.

“You’re just tired. And frustrated. You get like this every book when you get closer to your deadline. You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think so. Not this time. This feels different." It felt like the end.

Looking up again I could see the deep concern in Bethany’s expression.

I drew in a breath and forced a smile. “No, you’re probably right. It’s just the deadline. An extra-large coffee and maybe one of your cupcakes to go for later and I’ll be fine.”

She watched me for a moment longer before setting down the plate and nodding. “Okay. I’ll get it for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, with another smile I hoped looked genuine.

It was going to take a hell of a lot more than sugar and caffeine to get me out of this rut. But since those were the only tools I had at the moment, I might as well double down.