Play Maker(75)

“Darling, how can I bring men home to my mother’s house? I cannot.” After I vomited at the idea, I realized it meant the house was all mine. Works for me, free rent and all, but it doesn’t come with a sweet wine cellar. Maybe when I make it big, I’ll renovate. A dream house for a dream life.

Again? comes Jane’s smartass response.

I don’t control the words. The words control me. So what if they have controlled me three times already this week? Judgey Jane can simmer down.

I poke around my kitchen while waiting, just in case, but find it depressingly empty of anything alcoholic. I’m going to have to make a run tomorrow, because writing fuel. And because tax write-offs. And because reasons, dammit.

I’m an author, not a miracle worker. At least I have ice cream.

Nothing gets a girl through a break-up like ice cream, even if it is a fictional break-up. A knock on my door interrupts my shoveling of Phish Food into my open mouth. I dump it back in the freezer and wipe my mouth on my shirtsleeve, clearing off the evidence. Can’t let her know how pathetic I am.

“As requested.” The saint produces a bottle of pinot grigio and a bottle of my favorite cabernet. “You’re lucky he never goes in there.”

“Let’s be real, he only uses it for show.” I take the bottles and head into the kitchen for the bottle opener. “Want a glass?”

“Sure.” She settles onto a barstool and watches me float around my kitchen as I look for the damn bottle opener. “You need a maid.”

“I need to sell another six books. And then maybe.” I find it under a takeout container. Okay, so maybe my kitchen is a little chaotic and maybe a maid would be super awesome, but again, I’m an author, not a miracle worker. I’m not freaking Bethany Bonafont with her copious bestsellers and millions tucked away in a giant ranch in the middle of nowhere.

At least, when I’m not dreaming, I’m not.

I pour us two glasses and settle across the island from her. “How’s the kid?”

“Sick. Again.” Jane sighs. She’s still in her scrubs, so she must have gotten off work recently. I don’t know how she does it, handling a family and a career and a house. I can barely handle myself. Oh, who am I kidding? I cannot handle myself, ever. “Hopefully it’s not strep. If I get sick again, so help me, I’m going to cry. Or kill someone. Daycare is such a bitch.”

“Always opt to kill someone.” I slurpity-slurp down half the glass and top it off. “Just don’t get caught. Actually, you could just give me a name and I can do it fictionally for you.”

“Got a long list for you,” Jane sighs. “So on that note, how’s the book coming?”

“Painful.” I drape myself dramatically across the island counter. “The best kind. Especially now that I have more wine to make it all dramatic and beautiful. I think this book will be The One. I can feel it.”

“You know, I’ve thought about writing a book before.”

“Really?” I top off her glass and smile. It’s a fake smile. Here’s another thing about being a writer: everyone thinks they can do it, like it’s using a Couch to 5k app or learning how to bake a pie. Here’s what you should know, though: writing a book takes guts and booze and talent and an eternity to get right. “What about?”

“Romance, like you. But the ridiculous ones, you know? Where people f*ck paperclips or Venus flytraps or dinosaurs or something. Those are hilarious.” Aw hell naw. I’m buzzed and she’s just said my trigger word—dinosaurs. I have a particular rage over their inclusion in the genre.

“Those—” I point at her with my glass and narrow my eyes into slits “—are not books. Those are trashy pieces of shit that shame the shelves.”

Jane laughs. “Oh, shut up, Bobby and I read them out loud to each other and crack up. They’re great!”

“They are not great. I slave away for my craft, Jane. I tear open my veins and bleed on the page.”

“That’s not very sanitary. Or healthy. You should probably get that looked at.”

“And then some perverted group of college boys, or soccer moms, or maybe even just one very depraved mental patient, writes books about f*cking dinosaurs while they are really high and make enough money to pay off their student loans. While I live in squalor.”

“This is hardly squalor.” Jane gestured around.

“This is absolutely squalor. No maid, no wine, trash everywhere. Call me Oscar the Grouch and this is my trash can.”

She smiles. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I really feel like those books should be rounded up and shot.” I finish my glass and pour another. The bottle is already feeling light. Damn it. “And you know I don’t condone damaging literature.”

“So, those books aren’t literature?”

“They aren’t literature!” I slosh a little accidentally as I move my glass around to emphasize the point, feeling warm and tingly inside. I wipe up the spilled drops with my finger and lick it. Have I mentioned how much I love wine? It’s the best. The besty-best.

“Please don’t write that shit, Jane,” I beg. “Real artists bleed from their soul.”

“I already bleed from my vagina once a month. Isn’t that enough?”