Page 3 of Knot My Type

She peels off her oversized faux-fur coat, revealing a fitted burnt-orange turtleneck dress that clings to her curves with black heeled boots that click sharply on the tiled floor. Her deep wine lipstick amplifies her dramatic look.

When I was a USA bestselling author and I won award for my series, I used to get my nails and eyebrows done professionally, hit the gym religiously, and buy new clothes every year. Now I paint my own nails—badly—and I can't afford a gym membership. My right hand always looks like a toddler did it since I'm right-handed, and after one eyebrow-shaping disaster, I've sworn off DIY grooming forever. My old clothes are like Christmas decorations that never come out of storage.

It’s hard to believe I participated in the marathon—not just once, but twice—because now, I don’t run at all. These days, my daily walk consists of coming to The Spring Perk, since I can’t afford the Spring Brew Café, which charges twice as much as this place.

“I didn’t meant to just show up like this,” she says, her grin unapologetic as she slides into the seat across from me. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

I glance at it, face-down on the table. Twenty-seven missed calls. I don’t want to know who’s been trying to reach me.

“You’ve been dodging me,” she says, her voice low and tinged with concern. “They pulled your contract.”

Wow, that’s exactly why I’ve been avoiding phone calls, I thought this news was coming, and I had a feeling that day would be today. I was right.

My stomach drops like a lead weight. “What?”

“Midnight Finch. Gone. Poof. Your agent tried calling you, too,” she says.

I rub my brow, trying to make sense of the two things she just said: that they'd dropped me when I'd hoped and prayed they wouldn't. I really need to improve my manifestation techniques—and the other thing about an agent.

“I thought you were my agent.”

“I am,” she replies, jaw tense. “And I begged them not to do it. But your last book flopped. You’ve ghosted your deadlines for eight months. They said, and I quote, ‘It’s best for both parties to move on.’”

I let out a laugh, dry and brittle. “Of course they did.”

do when you feel as if your world is falling apart? Run around the coffee shop, screaming and tearing your hair out like a crazy person? Head to the nearest cocktail bar you used to visit every three months with your BFF to celebrate your latest book hitting number one on The New York Times list? Or head to The Spring Tap to drown your sorrows? I don’t know what to do because I can’t afford any of those things. But running around the coffee shop?I could do that for free.

“That’s it? No breakdown? No throwing coffee in my face?” She asks.

Hmm, I never considered throwing coffee in her face. But that would mean hurting her, which wouldn’t be fair—and buying another coffee? I really can’t afford that, especially since I’ve lost my publishing deal. The one for the book I can’t write.

I blink back at her. “Do you want me to throw coffee in your face?”

“Might feel more normal than this,” she says.

I rub my fingers along the rim of my cup, pretending the rough ceramic is a comfort. “What do they want from me, Rebecca? More books about sunshine and small towns with perfect love stories? I’m done with that.”

“You used to believe in that stuff,”she confesses.

“I used to believe in a lot of things, but let’s face it—after the last four interviews, the stories started to die. The fifth book hit number twenty on the charts, and the last one didn’t even reach the top 100. I’ve lasted a lot longer than I should have,” I mutter, looking out the window. My world is painted in the cold palette of early winter. I’m a writer, yes, but what if the stories I should be telling are about my past—the painful past I keep hidden not so well.

“Write what you’re passionate about,” she urges. “Don’t you remember what you wanted?”

“I can’t.”

She tilts her head, studying me with those penetrating eyes that seem to see right through me. “Try thrillers. You always wanted to write those.”

I recall Stephen Alpha, the renowned thriller and horror author, writing a book about the necessity of reading to be a successful writer. So, I've always read—not only to write, but because it's one of my favorite pastimes. I love reading thrillers; I can finish a book in a day. But when it comes to romance, I struggle. I used to think it was because I don't have my own happily-ever-after, so how could I write about it? But now, I realize it's much deeper than that. Perhaps I've never been able to write romance because thrillers have always been my true calling.

“I can’t write thrillers, Rebecca. I am the thriller.”

She frowns, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

I can’t spill my past to her—the reason I ended up in this village in the first place. My thoughts drift back to the past and how the betrayal led to my pack’s downfall, and how I lost it all.

“Talk to me. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. We used to talk all the time. Go out and do things. And now nothing.You don’t even pick up my call. Maybe you need to go away,” she says.

I chuckle. “I can’t even afford a Happy Deal from Ronald’s.” It’s the local burger joint, and the kids love going there because they always put a toy in their Happy Deal box.

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