Page 214 of Story of My Life
I wanted to punch myself in the face to stop words from coming out of my mouth. Thankfully, Zoey kicked me under the desk instead.
“Ow—ls. Owls are…made of feathers,” I announced, trying—and failing—to cover as I rubbed my abused shin.
Sunita and Zoey looked at me like I’d lost my damn mind. “Uh, yes. Yes, they are,” Gage said uncertainly. He pointed at the ceiling. “If it’s okay with you, we’ll get started upstairs?”
“Yep. Sure. Absolutely. Coolio.” I flashed finger guns at them. “Pew. Pew.”
Nodding, the men backed away without taking their eyes off me like I was some kind of unpredictable wild animal.
“Watch out for Bertha,” I called after them.
“Thought we took care of the hole in the foundation where she was getting in,” Gage said.
“Obviously we thought wrong,” Levi reported, pointing at the raccoon in the hallway.
“Let’s follow her,” Gage suggested.
“Put those things away,” Zoey hissed, slapping my finger guns when the men disappeared after my furry roommate.
“Well, that could have gone worse,” Sunita said, as I dropped my head to the desk.
“I feel like we’reWeekend at Bernie-ing her,” Zoey muttered.
“She just needs more practice,” Sunita insisted brightly.
I groaned. “Owls are made of feathers?”
“A lot of practice,” Sunita added.
“Drink your Pepsi,” Zoey said, patting my shoulder.
“You need to write,”Zoey announced firmly after following me and my procrastination spree around for an hour.
I was so appalled by the suggestion that I dropped the dust rag I’d been using to give my sitting room baseboards a thorough cleaning. “I can’t write. The big stupid idiot was my inspiration.”
“Oh, so you never wrote a book before the big stupid idiot?” she asked innocently.
“You know I don’t write well during emotional upheaval. Besides, what’s the point? My publisher dumped me.” Just like Cam.
I suddenly didn’t even want to procrasti-dust anymore. I wanted to lie down on the couch and pretend the world didn’t exist.
“You take one step toward that couch, and I swear to God, I will invite Garland over for an exclusive interview.”
I gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would. You are Hazel Freaking Hart. You are the heroine of your own life.”
“I don’t feel very heroiney.”
“That’s because this isn’t the end of your story. This is the dark night of the soul. You know, the part in the book where everything falls apart and?—”
“I know what the dark night of the soul is. I got dumped, not…forgety.” Standing suddenly seemed like too much effort, so I slid down the wall and slumped on the floor.
“Then you know that this is the point where you have to decide if you’re going to rise to the challenge and kick some ass or if you’re going to just roll over and play dead.”
“I don’t like rising to challenges. I like coasting downhill.”
“Hazel.” Her voice held a warning note.
