My boat had sunk to the bottom of the lake.

I put my head down, my forehead against my notebook.

I thought about all the stories I wanted to write. I thought about Jeremy and his book deal. I thought about my student loans.

I thought that I might just take that second burger to go because who knew when I’d be getting another job.

Suddenly my ankle was wet.

I looked down through the glass of the table to find the puppy licking the exposed skin between my shoe and my jeans. Lifting my head, I discovered that Gabe was sitting across from me, his expression neutral. He had another beer in front of him. One that was already half gone.

“Well?” he asked. “Shall we continue?”

THE_JAM_DOT_COM.BLOGSPOT.COM

BREAK UP/BREAKDOWN

IT’S OVER. THE NOVELIST PACKED up his drawer last night, and this time I didn’t cry.

He’s going to move to New York where people are creative and wild and interesting. Not like the people here who only care about smoothies, exercising, and watching bad TV.

I’m pretty sure people in New York watch bad TV. They just do it in smaller apartments.

I told him I’d never move to New York. He said that was the problem. That because I wasn’t the kind of person who would move to New York with him, then I just wasn’t the kind of person he could be with.

Depending on who you ask, we’ve done this dance half a dozen times since we’ve been together, but this time I’m certain it’s going to stick.

Mostly because that’s what the Novelist said when he slammed his car door, right before he drove off.

I’m single again.

I didn’t cry but I did eat a lot of ice cream.

Heartbreak is supposed to be good for inspiration, but besides this post, I’ve managed to write absolutely nothing. All my plans, all my goals, have been swept away by this latest personal riptide.

The Novelist always said I had trouble with focus. No doubt he is sitting in front of his typewriter with his glass of gin, typing furiously away, turning this matter of personal growth (his words) into creative fertilizer (mine).

I’ll be deeply resentful if he turns this experience into a book and it becomes a bestseller.

xoChani

PS: Before all this, I wrote a piece on up-and-coming starlet Jennifer Evans. You can read it in this month’s Broad Sheets.

Chapter 3

Chapter
3

“YOU KNOW, YOU HAVE SOMETHING here…” Gabe said, gesturing toward his own face. “I think it’s ink.”

My skin was hot against my hand as I looked down to find that the words written on my notebook were smudged. Of course. Knowing my luck, I probably had “Bond” imprinted on my forehead.

I gave it a furious scrub.

“Jesus,” Gabe said. “Hold on.”