scalpel, not by shrinking heads, but I think that distraction is only going to help. Both your writing and the possibility of you contracting diabetes or scurvy from not ingesting any real nutrients.”
I squinted at the back of the chocolate bar. “There’s nutrients in here,” I muttered.
“Yeah, well, I have to go and scrub in. Wash your hair, put down the chips, and for the third time, get over yourself.” She hung up after that because she wasn’t really one for proper goodbyes. Or many social niceties.
Again, why we were friends.
I stared out at the deceiving sky, the glittering lake, and wondered whether I might survive this, and wondered what in the fuck was wrong with me, since I was somehow jealous of Emily for getting brutally murdered and no longer having to deal with the realities of life.
Because, despite the sun, the lake, and the cozy cottage, my demons crept in. Hungry. Usually fed by my stories. Usually sated by them. But they were hungry.
And hungry demons were never loyal.
I did decide to take Katy’s advice.
Sort of.
I wasn’t about to go hiking.
I wasn’t that desperate.
Yet.
Instead, I totally and completely unpacked my car. Then directed the moving van through my driveway, swearing at them in every variation of curse word I knew when they threatened to dump all my shit at the end of the driveway because they weren’t sure they would be able to turn around at the other end.
Luckily, I was almost as terrifying as my books, so the two burly men scratched the ever-loving fuck out of their moving truck, but got to the cabin, unpacked my crap, managed to get out of the driveway with their tips and their lives, intact.
After only unpacking a quarter of what I considered essential before leaving New York, I realized all of it was wrong. It was all expensive. Trendy. It looked ludicrous in this cozy little cabin.
Here I was, using that stupid fucking word again.
But I couldn’t think of another one.
Me.
International bestselling author.
I called one of the numbers the realtor had left for a pick up to a local charity. I was surprised a town this small had something like that. But I was also happy. I needed all this New York shit out of here. It was darkening and polluting the space I so thought I’d hate.
I wasn’t an earth tone and bohemian pillow kind of girl.
I was a black paint, harsh angles, and expensive throws kind of woman.
But it turned out this version of myself, the cracked and really close to falling apart version of myself, it needed the cozy sofa, the small space, the vintage touches.
I did keep all of my books though, and stuffed them amongst Emily’s things. The only thing I think that would’ve matched between our two lives. We both beat up our books, devoured them. Loved them enough to ruin them.
Yeah, that was the only similarity we had.
I couldn’t stay in the house with my poisoned New York things. So, I decided to head back into town now I’d downloaded myself a recipe book and had a list of things I should be able to find in the grocery store that didn’t contain high fructose corn syrup.
There were more people on the streets today; maybe because the sun was shining and a rare thing in this state. People were basking in it, apparently. I wore head-to-toe black, the biggest sunglasses I could find, and a faux leather baseball cap with my hair billowing out from underneath.
I did not like the sunshine.
Not just because I was pale and burned in mere minutes. Not even because it aged you quicker than almost anything. Drinking as much booze as I did already aged me enough. And if I had to choose between quitting drinking and going outside when the sun was shining, it was bye-bye UV rays.
Maybe that’s why everyone tried to sneak completely obvious glances at me. I was a black hole wandering around their little town. I would admit it looked infinitely more picturesque with the ocean glittering in the light, rays showing the town was unique and well-loved and not yet fallen victim to having to bastardize itself after tourists discovered it.
I liked it more when it was moody, almost abandoned-looking and depressing.
But whatever.
After I’d subjected myself to more talk with the lovely checkout woman—older, chubby, too much makeup, smiled too often—who couldn’t hold me hostage since there were actually other people in the store, I left. She tried to pack in