She opened her notebook. She jotted down a couple of ideas for the next story. Maybe this act would keep her imagination at bay. Somewhere, her critic whispered something about getting a cat to compliment her spinster outlook. After all, here she was hiding out alone.
She stopped writing. Alone. The word dropped like boulder.
Hiding. Another equally weighted word that she wanted to hurl and hear crash.
She began to shake. Uncontrollably. Something torrid crept up along her spine, scorching her neck, and warming her face. Anger fueled by her recent frustration. Each heartbeat squeezed out and released more and more foul emotions that had festered too long. She dug her feet into the floor, fighting for control.
Being alone was her choice. She’d lived with her own version of the truth for so long, it was easy to believe there was no other way.
She hated to admit, but Fran was partly correct. She couldn’t expect to be able to snap her fingers and have Prince Charming show up if she continued to hide away. And she couldn’t argue with the truth about how she dealt with her writing. Romance was a top selling category in the world of fiction. She wasn’t an author of depravity. Goodness, it was only sex. Nothing to be ashamed of, Claire Robertson. The critic was red faced and out of breath.
Analysis paralysis. She was making this too difficult. Overthinking, as usual. Would she ever have the courage to share these stories?
This wasn’t an ascent up Mount Everest.
She wavered in her wish for feedback. She was accustomed to people reading her writing, but the thought of sharing these stories knotted her insides.
“I write erotica.” She said the words as if trying on a new hat. Even her own eyebrows shot up with the announcement.
“¡Ay, caramba!”
She stretched her arms overhead. What would her professors at Berkeley think of Claire Robertson as an undercover writer of erotica? Might they not enjoy her stories too?
She rolled her eyes and yawned. It was past midnight in Mill Spring, barely nine back in Seattle. She was spent from traveling and the stress of coming home. She closed her laptop and sat for a moment cradling her head in her hands. Tears stung her eyes thinking about all the Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas mornings that had come and gone.
Her parents had been simple, quiet people. They never asked much of those around them except to try to maintain an atmosphere of tranquility.
Claire rubbed her eyes and pushed the chair away from the table. She traipsed upstairs and dropped into her bed, giving in to exhaustion. The pillows still smelled of jasmine, reminding her of the fragrance she’d worn as a teenager.
She started to drift off to sleep. Groggy, she opened her eyes, suddenly remembering where Dustin had gone off to school. He’d gone to MIT to study something to do with computer engineering. She settled back into the pillows and uncovered her leg, wiggling her toes in the cool nighttime breeze coming through the open window.
Without warning, a wave of sadness rushed over her. She swallowed a sob, shuddering, but it was no use. Tears welled and spilled, scalding her face, a river of sadness running in torrents that she’d held back for days. Sobs broke free of her chest, and she cried and cried into her pillow.
Never would she have her parents or a home here to come back to, and never would she be able to pick up the phone and hear her father call out to her mom that Claire was on the line. Whenever she had called home, her mom and dad would pick up separate, cordless phones and they all conversed, laughed, and reminisced together. She wasn’t ready to let go, never again to hear her father’s funny comments about something she’d written. It wasn’t possible this was the end.
No longer did she fight the hollow feelings of loss and regret. The emotions poured over her. The memory of a deep laugh and bright green eyes came out of nowhere, adding to the loneliness. Dustin, another memory haunting her. All of a sudden the past swam around her and was gone. Pressure banding her chest tightened and broke under a new round of tears.
Chapter Four
Claire woke to the sound of a dog barking. It took her a moment in the darkness of her old room to decide if the dog was real or a dream. Bleary eyed she searched for a clock. She groped for her cell phone along the top of the nightstand. She squinted at the screen. Seven-fifteen in the morning, still early back in Seattle. Wednesday morning and she needed to get that copy to Mike.
She pushed off the covers. Out of habit, she tiptoed down the hall toward the bathroom. She turned on the water in the sink then gazed at her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. She rubbed the swollen skin, puffy from crying, and splashed cold water over her face. After brushing her teeth, she returned to her room.
Jeez, it was early, but she still had to get her story emailed. Claire pulled on the dress she’d worn on the plane and went downstairs. The only sound came from tick of the mantle clock. The clock hadn’t chimed the hour or half-hour for years.