I’m about to start my period and must be PMSing. I promise not to let my mood interfere with our vacation, but it does anyway.
We video chat with the girls, and they are always so excited to see our smiling faces, to hear about our adventures, and to get the scoop on the souvenirs we’re buying them. What they don’t see is the unhappy woman inside me who’s slowing dying. A woman who’s ready to break down and leave her family. A woman who’d give anything to run away as long as it didn’t hurt her children.
This morning I cried in the shower. I don’t think it’s possible to hate myself more than I do. The misery I feel being with my husband every day on this trip is taking its toll on me. I should want to spend time with the man I’m married to. I should want to hold his hand. I should want to make love to him. But I don’t. There is no more connection between us, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going on like this.
I’m so grateful when we near the end of the trip and grow closer to the book signing. I need the distraction of other people. Brynn and Erin are the first of my author friends to arrive. Erin didn’t bring Gabe with her, so she’s sharing a room with Brynn. After Landon and I eat dinner, I ask if it’s okay to go to their room that’s two floors above ours, and he says yes.
I couldn’t have rushed out any faster. Thrilled to finally have space, I hurry to their room, and when Erin opens the door, we squeal and hug each other.
“You’re finally here!”
“How long have you been here?”
“A little over a week,” I tell her and then turn to give Brynn a hug.
Brynn is a hybrid author like I am, but she doesn’t do very many signings, so I’m thrilled to get to spend time with her.
“Where’s your husband?” Erin asks.
“He’s down in the room. He’s tired so he’s just watching TV and relaxing,” I explain. “We’ve been non-stop busy since we arrived.” I flop down onto the bed next to Brynn. “I haven’t seen you in almost a year. What have you been up to?”
“Just pumping out books for my publisher and trying to get something out on the indie market. It’s been over six months since my last self-pubbed book.”
“Well, that’s because of you-know-who,” Erin says as she lies on her bed.
“Don’t even get me started on that bitch.”
I look to Brynn and ask, “What am I missing? Who’s the bitch?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got the time,” I tell her.
“I’m gonna need a beverage,” Erin chimes in as she walks over to the mini fridge. She grabs a tiny bottle of vodka and a can of cranberry juice. “Want a drink?”
“No, thanks.” I turn my attention back to Brynn. “So, what’s the story?”
“You know Ashley, right? The blogger at All Spines?”
“Yeah. She reads and reviews all my books.”
“Well, she’s one of my beta readers,” she tells me before Erin hands her a drink. “She’s been reading for me for a couple years now, so there was no reason for me to not to trust her when she asked what my next project was about.” She takes a gulp of the vodka and cranberry. “Did you hear about the book called Pressing Stones?”
“I think so,” I lie so I don’t sound completely out of the loop. Let’s face it, my life in the book world has been nonexistent this past year because of Alec.
“Well, I decided to pick it up and read it when the blurb sounded close to one of my stories.”
“No way.”
“Someone needs to cunt punch that heifer,” Erin says with a sharp tongue.
“She stole your fucking story?” I exclaim.
“Uh huh. I knew it was no coincidence, so when I confronted her, she admitted to the pen name she wrote under but claimed she didn’t steal the story idea. She insisted she had been writing the book before I even told her about the story, but she’s full of shit.”
“Wait. How did she have the time to write and publish it before you?”
“Because I was still in the middle of working on my previous book when she asked about my next idea.”
“It’s such shitty writing,” Erin says. “I still think you could write it and nobody would know,” she tells Brynn.
“No way. I don’t want to be accused of copying since