I type the fifth sentence I’ve managed to come up with this morning. I then delete that sentence and rewrite it, changing one word.
Ugh.
I hate it.
Delete.
Again.
Shoving my laptop aside, I move off the couch and stretch. I’ve been sitting here for two hours today trying to increase my word count on the novel I’m writing. I should have just stayed at the yoga class I did this morning. It would have been far more productive. I mean, hell, four lousy sentences to show for two hours work. It seems to be my new standard, though, and the reason why I’m not writing as much these days. I wish Avery hadn’t postponed our eBay shop work this morning. That would have kept my mind off how dejected I am over my writer’s block.
I switch on some music and blast it from my speakers. My closest neighbour is practically deaf; she won’t be bothered by the noise. Taylor Swift fills my living room, and I smile. Taylor offers me a happy place.
Heading to the front door, I decide to do something useful and check on my cats. Well, they’re not technically my cats, but I look after them. Strays always tug on my heartstrings.
Stepping outside, I call their names—the names I’ve given them. These two kitties have been with me for three months now. I’d move them inside, but my boy, Jasper, would have a fit. And I’m not sure how many survivors there would be.
“Callie.”
I turn at the sound of my name and smile as I see Mrs Harper approach. My almost-deaf neighbour has gotta be easily ninety. I’ve never asked her because that’s just bad manners. Mrs Harper made me feel welcome from the very first day I started living in this apartment complex three years ago. She turned up a few hours after I moved in and delivered two casseroles. ‘Because you won’t want to cook for a couple of days.’ She’s since learnt Mac and cheese is my go-to meal if I ever have to cook. Mostly I exist on salads and vegetables that don’t require much more than steaming, and meat that I can grill on my George Foreman. Mrs Harper takes pity on me some days and invites me over for dinner. It amazes me she cooks as well as she does, but she’s still smart as a whip.
“Hi, Mrs Harper,” I reply while filling the cat food bowls.
“I was just wondering if you’d be able to fill my prescription this afternoon, dear?” She has high blood pressure, which always worries me after my grandfather died of a stroke.
“Absolutely. I’ve gotta go out and grab some more cat food. Do you need anything at the supermarket?”
She shakes her head. “No, thank you. Also, I know you were having some trouble with getting work at the cafe, and I just saw an ad in the local paper for a job there that you might be interested in.” She hands me a paper clipping.
“Thank you.” I look down at the clipping and note the job is for a journalist. Looking back up at her, I say, “I’m not qualified for this kind of work, unfortunately.”
She shrugs. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, dear. There’s no harm putting a resume in.”
“So true.”
She gives me her prescription and some money. “I’ve got a roast on. Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?” She eyes my body. “You could do with some fattening up, Callie. What have you been eating?”
She hasn’t seen my thighs.
They’ve been inhaling fat from the air. I’m sure of it.
“I’ve been eating well, Mrs Harper. I’d love to come over for a roast, thank you. What time?”
“Five sharp.”
I give her a smile. “I won’t be late.”
“You never are, dear. Your parents taught you well.”
She turns and makes the short journey to her apartment while I bend to pat one of the strays that’s turned up for food. “Hey, Mariah. Eat up, baby, before Cyrus comes and steals all the food.” She rubs against my leg before taking my advice.
I shower love on her for a good ten minutes, while also waiting for Cyrus, but when I hear my phone ringing, I say goodbye and head inside.
Swiping the phone off the kitchen counter, I check who it is.
Luke.
Butterflies instantly crowd my tummy.