My Casey

“Okay, thank you,” she said.

He took the bag from her. “It’s not much. You’ve got coffee in the corner. I’ll go out and get us lunch.”

“My mom packed me something.” She had also been told about being a vegetarian, so she had cucumber sandwiches for lunch.

Her mother said she was going to have to look up the new diet, and Casey hadn’t been in the mood to argue.

It wasn’t that big of a deal, and yet people kept on making it like it was. It wasn’t.

“What are you doing today?” she asked.

“Nope. I’m not going to be answering any of your questions. You, missy, will set your laptop up, sit down, and start writing, or doing a plan, or whatever it is you have to do.”

“I could help you,” she said.

“Why are you so afraid to start writing?” he asked.

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re not avoiding?”

“I’m not avoiding.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t understand it myself.” She shrugged. “I will get started.”

She opened up her bag and pulled out her laptop, setting it up ready. She’d even brought the power cord in case she ran out of batteries.

She could do this.

One day at a time.

Or at this rate, one hour at a time.

It wasn’t a problem.

This was easy.

Easy-peasy.

She liked peas.

Get a grip, Casey.

“I’ll leave you to it.” He left the office, and she watched him go.

Sitting at her desk, she stretched out her fingers, giving them a little click and stretch. This was easy.

Really easy.

So all she had to do was think of a story, and it would come.

She began to feel sick.

It wasn’t that easy.

She pulled out a notebook, a pristine one she hadn’t touched or written in yet. She’d bought it especially for coming back home. No words, no ideas, nothing.

It was fine though.

One day at a time.

No, one hour at a time.

With a pen in hand, she held it poised over the page.

Nothing.

This was crazy. Growing up, she could just look out of the window and a story would come to her. Even when she arrived at the city with her dreams all there to be chased, she’d spent hours people-watching, seeing the world go by, and she’d written out outlines, characters, details. Everything she could think of, and now, she had nothing. Not even a tiny speck of anything.

“Okay, let’s do this,” she said.

Pen to the page.

She waited.

Nothing.

Staring out of the office window, she caught sight of Rusty. Daniel.

He was a nice guy.

She’d loved the way he held her last night. It had been so magical, sweet, charming. She had adored every single second of it.

He was a good guy.

She watched as he stepped away from the car and stared at it. He had some tool in his hand, which she couldn’t make out. Perspiration dotted his brow, and he ran a hand over his face as he contemplated what to do next.

She didn’t write anything, just watched him as he moved around the car, and touched some of the odd damages. It wasn’t lost on her that he still wasn’t working on her car, but she didn’t mind. The more time he took, meant the more time she could come around here and watch him. The walk this morning wasn’t so bad either.

He hadn’t really kissed her last night. It had been a chaste peck on the lips.

Why hadn’t he kissed her?

Didn’t she look like she wanted a kiss and not just some chaste peck?

She’d wanted a whole lot more, and yes, even that thought was a little scary. She never kissed a guy on the first date. Sure, she had a peck on the cheek, but that wasn’t a full-blown kiss. It was a peck. Nothing too serious. Was he playing with her? Did he want her to do the chasing?

Never in all of her life had she chased after a guy.

Rusty wasn’t just any guy though; he was the guy.

Was he the guy?

She’d been back in town for, like, two minutes, and she was already thinking of guys, and other things.

“Focus, just write.” She pulled her gaze away and went back to the notebook in front of her.

She could do this.

Story one.

She wrote it down as the heading of the page.

The lined, blank page.

The notebook wasn’t designed for this. It was designed for a real writer. She had sat and read so many different stories during her time in editing. She’d read so much that reading had lost its love.

She’d also seen the way some of her colleagues had criticized stories, tearing them apart as if they meant nothing. During high school, she had written a bunch of short stories, and they had all come from the heart. They had all meant a great deal to her for so many different reasons.

Now though, she was starting to wonder if she should just quit.

What if someone tore her heart out with hating it?