Page 8 of Only and Forever

“Sure you don’t,” he says, winking.

I want a button to deactivate his winking capacity. It drives me up the wall. “The class wasn’t entirely unmemorable, I’ll admit that. Some things I do recall quite clearly. Like the unreliable quality ofyour voice. Don’t know many eighteen-year-olds whose voices still crack.”

“Ouch.” He slaps a hand over his heart. “Harsh blow. Take it easy, Tallulahloo. I was on the cusp of adulthood. That’s a delicate time in a man’s life.”

“Tallulahloo?What the hell kind of name is that?”

Viggo shrugs, winking again. That damn wink. “A cute one.”

“I’m not cute.”

He clucks his tongue. “Sorry, Lula. You are the definition of cute: five foot nothing, bright blue hair, arriving here, all Reese Witherspoon inSweet Home Alabama, like you forgot spring in Washington State requires boots and a waterproof coat, not designer flats and a fancy jean jacket. If that’s not cute, I don’t know what is.”

I scowl. How does he know how deeply I loathe being called cute? This is infuriating. “There’s a reason I didn’t acknowledge your existence back then,” I tell him. “And it holds now. I knew you’d be a giant pain in the ass.”

“You are an excellent judge of character, then.” He folds his arms across his chest, staring down at me, his expression a bit more serious, settled in. “So, how’s the thriller-writing business?”

My stomach drops as I try to orient myself to the abrupt subject change, to figure out why he’s asked, what he knows, how to answer him. I use a pen name. I’m deeply private. The only way he must know what I write is because he’s all buddy-buddy with my sister.

“Charlie told you.”

He nods. “Not your pen name, just your genre. Your anonymity is protected. She did brag that it was a bestseller, and your debut novel, no less. Congratulations.”

I balk at the compliment. I don’t know what to do with it. I never know what to do with compliments.

My cheeks are hot. “Thank you,” I whisper.

Viggo smiles, tipping his head, shifting his weight onto one leg. “So. Why thrillers?”

I frown up at him. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Making up for lost time. I’ve got you talking. Can’t quit now.”

I stare longingly past him, where I see beers are now being passed around the deck, wine poured, shot glasses set out with a chilled bottle of what I think might be aquavit. Type 1 diabetes and drinking aren’t the best of friends, but straight liquor is manageable, and I have practice handling it; if there’s any time it’s worth the hassle, this is it.

I flick my gaze back to Viggo, who’s watching me, those pale eyes locked on my face. “If I’m going to be interrogated, I at least deserve a drink.”

Viggo smiles his widest smile yet. “You got yourself a deal, Tallulahloo.”

—

I made three big mistakes last night. I drank way too much aquavit; I looked up my ex-roommate and long-term fuck buddy on Instagram, only to see a photo of him with most of our friends from college—a visceral reminder that just a week ago he kicked me out and imploded every friendship I’d built with him; and I read my editorial letter. Of the three, the last hurt the worst:

So far, the “romantic” dynamic between your husband and wife characters, which is central to this book’s proposed conflict and resolution, lacks a stitch of soul or sensuality.

Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

That’s my internal refrain as I fumble around the Bergmans’ kitchen, desperate for signs of a coffee maker. It’s too early to be up,but I couldn’t sleep. My head hurts; my stomach aches; my ego is a bruised mess. And I really need coffee.

“Goddamn tree huggers,” I mutter at the sight of compostable coffee filters, a kettle on the stovetop emitting soft curls of steam from its open mouth, a glass pour-over carafe with used grounds perched inside. This perfect family in their perfect house in the woods would be hard-core environmentalists. Hipsters and their slow coffee-making methods. I’m going to die. I need a pod to insert, a button to push, and hot, liquid life poured into a mug fifteen seconds later.

That’s when I spot a tall thermos just a little farther down the counter, a hodgepodge of mugs gathered around it.

“Thank you, Jesus.” I rush toward it, twist off the lid, and nearly cry for joy. The scent of strong fresh-brewed coffee wafts from the thermos. Grabbing a mug, I greedily fill it to the brim, then take a tentative sip.

I burn my mouth, then swear under my breath.

Tears well in my eyes. From the pain of burning my mouth. The head-pounding misery of being hungover. The ache in my chest from Clint and his shitty Instagram post with all my old friends burrowing under my skin. The bitter, terrible panic knotting my stomach that I can’t write this book that I barely managed the first ten chapters of, that I’ll never get it right, never finish it.

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