Page 58 of Story of My Life
“Zoey!”I burst through the library’s doors.
“What?” came her disembodied voice.
“Where are you?”
“Over here.”
I ducked my head into the kitchen and found it empty. “This place is too big for ‘over here’!”
“I’m in the sitting room or the parlor. I don’t remember which one is which,” she yelled back.
I found her performing body weight squats in the parlor while answering emails on her phone.
“Here,” I said smugly, slapping a sticky note to her forehead.
Zoey finished her email and squats before peeling it off and reading it. “Two hundred and fifty-seven what? Reasons whyraccoons are evil? Holy shit! Words? You wrote actual book words?”
“Actual book words. I’m rusty as hell and thirty of them are notes like ‘insert something better or smarter here,’ but the rest aren’t awful.”
She grabbed me by the forearms. “I love not awful words!”
“Me too,” I sang, and we started to jump up and down.
Zoey stopped abruptly. “Now get back in there and do it again.”
“But—”
“No buts. Unless they’re of the grumpy hero in blue jeans variety.”
“I don’t want to overdo it. I mean. If I push too hard, I might burn myself out,” I said cagily.
“Five hundred words won’t burn you out. You’re already halfway there.”
“When did you get so good at math?”
“When I started calculating how much we’re both going to need the money from this book.”
“Don’t tell me you blew your life savings on shoes and dinners out.”
Zoey cupped my cheeks and squished them together. “I only have enough money to barely scrape by on until this book gets an advance. By the time you get this place fixed up and furnished, you’ll practically be destitute. We need this book, Hazel.”
“I can’t tell if you’re motivating me through fear again or telling the truth,” I admitted through smushed cheeks.
“Get back in there and give me more words, or I’m going to have to look into selling my Jimmy Choo collection so we can afford more cups of crappy oatmeal.”
“You suck.”
“You suck more. Go write so you can afford to dress in clothes that don’t have words on the ass.”
“I think I used up all my creativity. I probably can’t write another word without seeing some snarly blue-collar hottie. I should probably take a walk around the block and keep my eyes peeled for inspiration.”
The doorbell chose that exact moment to ring, and I jumped at the interruption.
“Maybe it’s a snarly blue-collar hottie,” Zoey called as I headed for the door.
“Maybe it’s your raccoon friend,” I shot back.
The humidity had made the door extra swollen, and I couldn’t wrench it open, not even with Zoey’s help.
