Page 11 of The Writer

This is all my fault…

SEVEN

I’ve returned toThe Mistakestory several times, adding to it and re-reading it, ensuring it’s the high quality I believed it was when I woke up, frightened and afraid. I even teared up a few times: Layla’s fear becoming my own, hoping against hope her pain was preventable.

My writing rarely provokes an emotional reaction, and yet, I don’t feel overly enthusiastic about the progress I’ve made. It took a night terror to renew my creative spark, and the connection between what I’m feeling inside and what ends up on the page is frightening.The Mistakeis different, darker. Part of me wonders if this newest story is testing my limits.

Once I arrive at McCallie’s, I make my way to the back booth, happy to be a customer instead of a server after several shifts in a row. I take in the crowd, making mental comparisons between this place and Mario’s. I wonder if I’d make more money in fewer shifts working at a bar as opposed to a restaurant, but then I think of all the chances Mario has given me. I’m lucky to have a boss who cuts me slack when I need it.

To my surprise, April is the only one here. A platter of cheese fries and ranch dressing sits in front of her.

“You’re early,” I say, sitting across from her. It’s no secret April is always the last to arrive, usually due to some unforeseen crisis concerning her kids. “Already ordered, I see.”

“Don’t judge me.” She pops another cheese fry in her mouth, licking her finger. “My husband showed up an hour earlier than expected, and I couldn’t help myself. It’s not every day I get a whole hour to kill.”

The server arrives, leaving a glass of wine in front of her. “Is that your first?”

“Nope.” She gives me a greedy smile. “Let’s just say I’ll be taking an Uber home.”

“Let loose while you can,” I say, unpacking my messenger bag. “Do you have anything to share this week?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been working nonstop,” she says. “It’s like I’ve had an explosion of creativity since our last meeting.”

I relate to how she feels. I’ve felt the same, but it isn’t our meeting that sparked my inspiration; it was the dream. Or, maybe more than that, it’s the reemergence of the black hearts and all the emotions they conjure inside me.

Danielle is the next to arrive, looking chic in a blazer and khaki chinos. “I hope your week has been more productive than mine,” she says, sitting beside me.

“Are you talking about writing or life in general?” I ask.

“Both, I guess. Work is shit, and when that’s a struggle, it feels like everything else is.”

“That’s usually what I say about my kids,” April says. “At least I’ve got some help this week from the hubs.”

“And you’re taking full advantage of it,” I say, clinking my glass against hers. I look at Danielle. “What did you work on this week, writing-wise?”

“I’ll wait for Victoria to get here,” she says, caving and stealing a fry. “After all, she’s the professional. If anyone can help me, it’ll be her.”

The bar gets more and more crowded. It’s soon a struggle to see the front door. The waitress revisits our table, and Danielle and I order a second round—I’m not sure what round it is for April. The three of us dive into the enormous platter of cheese fries, and Victoria finally arrives.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, “but I promise I have a good excuse.”

I turn to face her and see that she’s not alone. There’s another woman standing next to her. A much younger woman. She must be in her early twenties, almost a decade younger than the rest of us.

“Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of the Mystery Maidens,” Victoria says. “This is Marley.”

“Nice to meet you, Marley,” Danielle says, holding her drink in the air.

“It’s a pleasure,” April adds.

“I’m Becca,” I say, smiling. It strikes me that, being the newest member of the group, this is my first time welcoming a new person. And I didn’t expect her to be so young. I scan the rest of her appearance. She’s wearing a thick cowlneck sweater and maxi skirt covered in flowers. Several scarves are draped over her ensemble, and a lightweight bag dangles from her right shoulder. Her hair comes down to her waist, tiny braids mingling with the untamed curls. A style that strikes me as unique and familiar all at once.

“How do the two of you know one another?” Danielle asks.

“Marley is the most promising student in this semester’s creative writing class,” Victoria says. “And she cares so much about her craft, she’s agreed to join the Maidens.”

“The more the merrier,” April says.

“So, Marley, what do you write?” I ask.

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