Sam’s words seep through me, and a clash of emotions surges in my chest. I want to finish my book. I need to finish it—but the thought of seeking Ryan out to get it done feels highly twisted on so many toxic levels.

It means being physically near him, which will be a challenge in and of itself because a very real part of me wants to smash a bottle over his head. But then there’s another part of me that’s afraid I won’t be able to shake off the weird, unbreakable pull that he’s had on me since the day we met. The same pull I refused to acknowledge last night that left me feeling shaky and ashamed and like I was somehow betraying my dad all over again.

There must be a way I can see Ryan, get my book done, and make my way through this unscathed. Maybe I won’t have to see him on a consistent basis. Maybe seeing him once was enough and I can ride the ripples of last night all the way to the end of my novel. If I can get enough writing done today, it would prove I only need to be around him once in a while. I can handle sporadic interactions with him if I have to. This can all just be an unfortunate work scenario I have to endure and I will not let him get in my head.

I adjust my position on the couch, sitting up straight as I grip the phone tighter. “I promise you,” I say, my voice mirroring a determination I haven’t heard or felt in a very long time, “I am going to get this novel done.”

“Whatever it takes?” Sam asks.

“Whatever it takes.”

“That’s my girl! Give him hell, Kara.”

The call goes dead and I drop the phone to my side. I rub the inside corners of my eyes before I look back at my laptop, hoping against hope that I get out of this alive.

Ten hours later, my optimism is steadily deteriorating as I fidget around in the back seat of my cab. I know I need to rally. I have to play nice with Ryan, or at least pretend to, for the sake of my book. I spent hours trying to write again this morning, much to no avail. I ended up watching a mind-numbing amount of TikToks, reorganizing my bookcase by color and accomplishing absolutely nothing else.

One of the cruelest parts of all of this is that having a muse is supposed to be a cathartic experience—freeing, even. I imagined myself on an Irish cliff, breathing deep and feeling invigorated, inspired and alive. All I feel now is angry, tired and bloated.