Page 54 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

I cringe, leaning against my kitchen counter and staring blankly at my refrigerator as I remember the way I lost my mind completely. I would love for that part to have been a dream.

I pull out my phone and check the call log, before I can convince myself I’m being ridiculous. I want to see one more time, for myself, the proof that we really did talk on the phone yesterday—that she really did say those things.

I don’t want you to write anywhere else but at my shop, okay? You’re mine, all right? Don’t go to a different café.

She called mehers.

And I know—Iknow—that she was just saying things. I think her thoughts and feelings were coming faster than she could process them, and she was spitting out the first things that popped into her head.

But it doesn’t change the fact that there appears to be some part of Heidi that feels very possessive over me.

I’m aware, too, that she reads my books, and that she likes them. I’ve seen little hints here and there. She knew when my first book was published; she knows the names of my books, even though I never mentioned them to her. Plus she has that t-shirt—the one she told me not to read into.

The one I definitely read into.

So I guess it’s possible that she wantsS. Mackenzieto write at her shop instead of somewhere else. Maybe she views me the same way she views Jojo—as the shop pet.

I snort, running my hand over my beard. I’m thinking too much.

I fling the refrigerator door open, grabbing my bottle of water. Then I head to the space that’s technically labeleddining roomon the floor plans, even though that’s not how I use it. I have a little table in my kitchen; that’s all I need. I put the treadmill and my weights here instead. When your job involves lots of sitting, it’s important to get up and move every now and then.

I tie my hair in a tighter bun than usual so that it won’t fall out, and then I hop on the treadmill. I do my best not to think about Heidi as I run, trying to give my brain a break from the agonizing and the wondering and the longing. I blast my workout playlist instead and think through my current work in progress, trying to figure out where to take it from here.

I have a plot. It’s all mapped out. But I’m second guessing everything. Every character, every word, every turn of events. I look at my writing, and I’m convinced it sucks.

I finish up the day in a flurry of pacing and waiting and generally wasting time, and when night comes, I sleep horribly.

I arrive at Paper Patisserie thirty minutes after it opens the next morning.

“Hi,” I say as I spot Gemma, who’s on her way to the kitchen. I can hear Calvin chattering away from over by the book desk, though the shelves block my view of him. There’s the usual clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen, the opening and closing of cupboards.

“Hi,” Gemma says, giving me a little wave. The bracelets on her wrist jingle slightly.

I’m not an expert in women’s fashion, but Gemma is usually fancier than Heidi; she seems to prefer fitted clothing and nicer shoes, where Heidi often dons t-shirts and jeans. Gemma wears a lot of jewelry, too; she looks nice, and she is beautiful, but it’s not my style.

“How’s it going?” I say, a reflexive question rather than genuine curiosity. My eyes are darting all over, looking around before I even notice what I’m doing. It takes me a second to realize I’m searching for Heidi; my gaze lingers on the bookshelves, waiting for her to appear.

“Going fine,” Gemma says, looking amused. Then she jerks her chin toward the shelves. “She’s in the back.”

“Ah,” I say, and I can feel my ears turning red. “Right.” There’s no point in denying anything; I’ll give Heidi however much time she needs, but if I had my way, we’d be dating by this time tomorrow. I would love nothing more than to hold her hand in public and send her giant bouquets of flowers for everyone to see.

My lips curl as I smirk; she would absolutely hate that. I might have to try it.

“Oh,” I say as Gemma resumes her path to the kitchen. “Sorry. But just letting someone know—I’m meeting a couple people here in”—I check my watch—“twenty minutes. We’ll use one of the tables.”

“Oh, Heidi said something about that,” Gemma says, standing up straighter. “But I thought it was tonight. Book club?”

“Writing critique group,” I correct her. “And no, they’ll be here in a little bit. They’re coming from Autumn Grove.”

“How many people?” she says, turning to look at the tables. “Do you need to scoot two tables together?”

“I think three of us,” I say. “We should all fit around one table.”

I head over to the armchair next to the display windows—since she died I haven’t been able to make myself sit in the chair Carmina and I always fought over, ironically enough—and collapse into it. I might be able to get in a few words before my writing group shows up. In fact, I have enough time to hammer out two hundred words, hate every one of them, and then delete them all.

In the end, I do about three hundred words. As predicted, I hate all of them. I don’t delete them immediately, though, even if that’s my first instinct. At some point I have to stop deleting things. My first draft might be rubbish, but you can’t edit a blank page. I know this.

I know this. So why is my mind fighting so hard against my imperfections?

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