Page 18 of The Writer

“Of course!” she says. “This was my dream agent, and all the others had been rejections.”

“What did your husband say?” Danielle asks.

April blushes. “He was ecstatic. Sent me flowers the next day. And we’re making plans to go out this weekend and celebrate.”

“That’s what you deserve,” Marley says, waving her hand to get the waitress’ attention. “Round of drinks on me.”

The others hoot and holler, continuing to praise April and her achievements. My focus is set on Marley. Why is she the one buying a round of drinks? She’s the newest member of this group. Hardly knows April or the rest of us. She didn’t even understand the importance of receiving an offer of representation. She only picked up writing as a hobby. She can’t possibly understand what it’s like to pine after something for years, to wonder if it will ever happen.

“Are you okay?” April asks, squeezing my hand. Her voice is soft, so the others can’t hear.

“Fine. My head’s all over the place.” I smile tightly. “I’m so happy for you.”

“It’s only a matter of time until it’s your turn,” she says. “If I can land an agent, I knowNight Beatwill, too.”

I smile again, but this time I can’t meet her eyes. April’s kindness is appreciated. Unlike Marley, she understands that sometimes one person’s success can only highlight another’s failure. My happiness for April is genuine, and she’s right. If she can make it, maybe one day I will, too.

“To April,” Marley says, raising one of the champagne flutes the waitress brought to our table, her sparrow tattoo on full display. Her eyes are gleaming, waiting as each of us joins in on the celebration.

Reluctantly, I reach for a glass and repeat, along with the others, “To April.”

The fizzy liquid slides down my throat, delivering a near-instant heady high. And yet, cutting through the fog of alcohol and celebration, I can’t stop staring at Marley.

Wondering who she really is and why she’s really here.

ELEVEN

Good thing my car is out of commission. I consumed more alcohol than I’d intended. The short walk home is more of a stumble, but it is early enough that there are still several pedestrians on the sidewalk, and the alcohol thrumming in my bloodstream keeps me warm.

I glide farther away from downtown, until the lights and sounds are distant. The streets here are dark, tranquil, and it’s only now that the images of the black hearts return, carrying with them the unknown intentions of whoever is sending them. I should know better than to walk home alone at night, my head swimming with alcohol, my chest filling with fear. This is the exact type of situation that leads to danger—the exact type of situation I write about—and I’m in no position to be so risky. When my complex comes into view, relief washes over me, and I hurriedly type in the security code to the front door.

Inside, the apartment is a cluttered mess, and quiet.

“Crystal?” I call out, but there’s no answer. As expected, she’s probably out with co-workers, likely celebrating the achievements of someone else, same as me.

I could have stayed longer at McCallie’s, but my head was beginning to swim, and I wasn’t sure I could stand anotherminute around Marley. Maybe it’s the newness of her, her youth, but something about her gets under my skin, makes me feel like I’m longing to break free.

I slump onto the sofa, retrieving the remote to aimlessly scroll through what’s on television. Finding nothing of interest, I turn it off. This overwhelming feeling of emptiness has plagued me ever since April shared her news. Perhaps even longer than that, if I’m being honest. I’m lonely, and the fact I’ve just left a gathering of people does little to ease that sense of loss.

I raise my phone, wishing there was someone I could call. But who?

When I dropped out of college, an immovable distance appeared between me and every other person I know. My mother is disappointed in my failures. Crystal is still in my life, but I assume it’s because of pity more than anything. I don’t have any real friends, only acquaintances I’ve met in my various jobs before moving on to the next. Nothing real, nothing important.

There’s only been one serious boyfriend in the past decade. Without meaning to, my thumb finds his contact information in my phone, hovers over his name. Jasper. The alcohol coursing through my body dares me to call him. Maybe we could just catch up. Maybe he could come over so I wouldn’t feel so alone.

You’ll regret it, a voice from inside warns. A sober voice. Just as quickly, warring thoughts appear in my mind, reliving the good times in our relationship. We were together for nearly two years, my longest relationship by far. More than that, Jasper was my first adult relationship. We met on my twenty-seventh birthday, when I was having a miserable celebration dinner by myself at my favorite Chinese restaurant.

He appeared at my table wearing a plaid button-down tucked into jeans, dark-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

“Did you order egg rolls?” he asked, holding a plate in front of me.

“Yes,” I said, confused, looking around the near-empty restaurant for my server.

“I think they brought them to my table by mistake.” His gaze followed mine. “There aren’t many people here besides us.”

“Eating alone, too?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s not as pathetic as it sounds, I promise.”

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