Page 2 of Tinsel & Tools
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” she explained.
“No?” I snapped. “How was this supposed to go? You come home and confess, or keep lying and hope I never caught on?”
Her eyes filled with tears and I forced myself not to look at her, because if I did, I’d see every memory of our life together twisted into a lie. My gaze snapped back to Oliver instead, and I took a step closer to the ladder so he had no choice but to meet my stare. “You think this ends well? You think she won’t do the same to you when she gets bored?”
He didn’t say a word.
I turned and walked back down the dock. Every step against the weathered wood felt like walking away from the life I thought I had. My wife’s voice carried after me, but I didn’t turn. She’d already said enough.
By the time I reached my truck, my hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the door handle on the first try, and when I slammed the door, it rattled on its hinges. The image of Whitney wrapped around Oliver was branded behind my eyes; it was all I could see. I started the engine and pulled away, gravel spitting under my tires as I put as much distance as I could between me and that lake.
I couldn’t bring myself to head back to our house. The thought of walking in, setting the steaks on the counter, and waiting for her to stroll through the door with another excuse, made my stomach knot. So, I kept driving, not caring where the road took me.
The miles slid by in silence, my mind caught between anger and disbelief, between the life I thought we were building together and the wreckage I’d just seen. I didn’t plan it, didn’t decide, but when the green highway marker for my hometown appeared three hours later, I knew exactly where I was going.
Brookhaven.
2
Gavin
Six Months Ago
I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen.
Every time I tried to start my next book, my brain shut down. The ache in my chest reminded me why sentences fizzled and disappeared before I could type them.
Nearly four months earlier, a car accident took the lives of my parents—the only family I had. Since then, I hadn’t managed to write a single page.
The royalties from my previous books had been modest, and the money I’d inherited from my parents meant I was able to live comfortably for the time being, but rent in New York City was expensive, and I knew my funds wouldn’t last forever. At some point, I needed to release a new book, yet I worried I didn’t have it in me to write anymore.
Dragging my hands down my face, I leaned back in my chair and tried to imagine a specific scene. This book was supposed to be about two strangers who fell in love after a chance meeting at a grocery store, but every time I closed my eyes, I couldn’t see anything. It was as though the characters were purposely hiding from me, not wanting their story told. Out of desperation, I’d even tried to write something completely different with shifters and vampires, only to hit the same mental blocks.
As I pondered what I should do, the apartment door swung open, and I got a whiff of coffee. My roommate, Allie, stumbled in juggling two paper cups, a binder of what appeared to be fabric samples, and her purse.
She dropped her stuff by the door and crossed the small living room. “Here’s your triple shot espresso with sugar.” She handed me one of the cups marked with the logo of the coffeehouse she worked at. “I know I make coffee for a living, but that much caffeine and sugar can’t be healthy for you.”
“But it tastes damn good.” I smiled and took a satisfying sip.
She sat on the couch and kicked off her shoes. “So, how many words did you write today?”
I turned my laptop so she could see the blank page. “Same as every other day.”
Allie and I had met in a creative writing class at NYU at the beginning of our junior year and became instant BFFs. After we graduated three years ago, we tried to write a book together, but that experiment lasted all of a month before we realized our writing styles didn’t complement each other. It wasn’t a total loss, though. She continued to support me by acting as an alpha reader while I worked on my manuscript. She was also my biggest hype person when I got cold feet right before self-publishing my first novel.
As for what she wanted to do post-graduation, that had changed as often as the weather in New York. She’d dabbled in photography, then tried her hand at event planning. Her latest obsession was interior design, which explained the binder of fabric swatches she had left on the table in the entryway. Through it all, she continued to work at the coffeehouse to help pay for her living expenses and whatever startup costs her new ventures required.
“Maybe you need a change of scenery.”
“Perhaps,” I replied, but if the city that never slept couldn’t awaken my creativity, I doubted anywhere else could.
A few days later, I was looking online at some writing prompts, trying to find any bit of inspiration I could, when my phone rang. An unfamiliar number flashed across the screen, and I hit ignore. If it was important, they could leave a message.
A minute later, a voicemail notification popped up. Curiosity got the better of me, and I pressed play.
“Mr. Price, my name is Norman Glynn. I’m an attorney calling regarding an important legal matter. Please return my call at your earliest convenience.”
My brows drew together. It was quite possible the call was a scam. However, something had me tapping the call button.
