I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie and sit on them as I narrow my eyes at the hot garbage in front of me. It would feel so good to just hit that Delete button. So easy…

“Bad Scarlett,” I mumble as I move my hand from under my ass long enough to toss my laptop onto the couch cushion next to me. Step one: Remove the temptation. Step two… What is step two? Walk away? Have a snack? Call a friend?

The problem is I don’t want to do any of these things. I want to delete the fucking words and start over because I know they’re terrible, and it would be a waste of my time to try to fix them. Not even Ryan can fix this nonsense. He might still think he’s some wise and witty syntax sorcerer, but he can’t really do magic. Not this kind anyway.

The back of my head meets the back of my couch as I stare up at the ceiling and snort at the memory of the nickname he gave himself. That one popped up frequently over the years we were together, mostly when I wanted to give him shit for how good he thought he was at his job.

Never mind that he’s the best editor I’ve ever worked with. Even before he was my actual editor, his feedback was always more useful than what I got from the people on my team.

I ball my hands into fists inside my sweatshirt sleeves, holding them tight against the desire to save him the trouble of trying to find something salvageable in this wasteland of prose. A growl of frustration starts deep in my chest and builds to a crescendo as I jump up off the couch and bury my fingers in my already-tangled hair.

This shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t be this emotional. Leave it and move on.

Why is this so hard? Why is my kitchen a mess again? Why has it been so difficult to get out of bed? Even brushing my teeth has started to feel like a huge accomplishment. Anything that stands between me and working on the manuscript is something I can do later…and then something I don’t do later. And right now, the manuscript itself is somehow standing in its own way.

I grab my phone from the kitchen counter and hover my finger over Ryan’s name. He always knew what to say when I started feeling like I was buried alive under pages and words and books and contracts.