Still Not Over You(2)

Defeat hovers over me like a guillotine waiting to drop, but that thread’s not snapping just yet. There’s still hope in the email.

All I need is a solid advance for His Royal Nuisance and I’ll be able to handle the rent hike. At least long enough to keep from having to move again after the fifth rent adjustment in two years.

I top off my glass, take a sip for bravery, unlock my phone, and swipe the email notification.

And immediately feel my throat close shut at those horrid first words, “We regret to inform you…”

Those bastards don’t regret anything at all. Not when they go on to list a litany of my faults, calling the book rushed with flat, unrealistic characters, incoherent sex, and zero chemistry.

I guess it’s not enough to stick the dagger in my gut.

They have to twist it, too.

Mission accomplished because I can't even breathe.

Yes, I know I forced the book. But I thought I’d been doing this long enough that I had it in the bag and could at least rely on experience to push me through.

I haven’t been shot down like this since I was a baby author sending my first query letters. Another brutal sign I’m off my game.

Mojo, lost. Everything’s a disaster, and that disaster’s name is McKenna Burke.

I’m ready to chuck my phone across the room when it buzzes in my palm. My brother’s name pops up on the screen with the same cheesy cheerful selfie grin I’d set for his icon.

Steve, not now. Bad, bad timing.

I almost hang up. My head throbs, my heart hurts, and I don’t know if I can stand someone else being happy right now while I'm so miserable. But I could use a little human connection, too, and one way or another...

Steve always makes things right.

I take another swig of Moscato, this time straight from the bottle, then wipe my mouth with a gasp and tap to answer the call.

“Hello?” It falls from my lips by reflex, when my mouth feels numb and my head is whirling.

“Hey, sis,” Steve says. Perky as ever. With the way I feel right now, it’s like being dead and hearing voices from the living. “Did you get my email?”

“Email? What?” I blink vacantly, and pull my phone away for a second. Oh, hell. There’s like...ten other emails I’d ignored, including one from Steve with the subject “Gamma’s birthday.” But he’s still talking, this tinny voice coming from the speaker, as I put my phone to my ear again. “Sorry, sorry, just looking now. I just saw it and haven’t had a chance to open it. Sorry.”

“No biggie! I was just asking about the card.”

“Card?”

“Gamma’s turning ninety, remember?”

“Oh...”

Ninety. Oh God. Oh hell, I...I completely forgot, and ninety’s the big one. Ninety’s the one where you know you won’t have them for another decade, but you hope anyway and celebrate like it’s not all downhill and scary from there. I'd wanted to pick out something really nice for Gamma’s ninetieth, and yet I’ve been so wrapped up in my own mess that I completely forgot.

Add bad granddaughter to my growing list of faults, too.

“Sorry,” I mumble, and the next thing I know the counter is blurry in front of me and my nostrils are burning and I can’t make heads or tails of anything when everything inside me is constricting. “I’m sorry, I-I –”

And that’s when the tears hit.

Snotty, sniffly, ugly-cry tears, slamming into me like a sledgehammer and coming out on a coughing sob. I cover my mouth, trying to whimper another apology, but all that spills out is these wretched, awful sounds. Steve makes a panicked noise.

“Kenna? McKenna, what’s wrong? It's – Jesus, sis. It’s just a card. You didn't murder anybody, don't worry, I’ll pick one out for you if that'll help –”

“Steve, it’s n-not th-tha...”

“Then what's going down, baby sister?” His voice softens. Calming. Soothing. “C’mon, Kenna. Talk to me. Let it out.”

I take several breaths, quick and deep, trying to get myself under control until I’m not stammering and hitching with every word.

“Everything, Steve.” I croak out finally. “My publisher just rejected my latest novel. My rent’s going up. I can’t meet a single man who isn’t like some creepy carbon copy of Ryan Seacrest. I’m so cursed I might as well be a black cat, and my life is shit. It’s just shit and I don’t know what to do.”

The last part is a wail that makes even me cringe, but Steve takes it all in stride. He always does.

He’s older than me by a few years, almost thirty, but with his bright cheer you’d think he was the younger one. He’s like a Labrador or Golden Retriever or something. Just scratch behind his ears and his world is all good. And if you're hurt, he comes running.

“You’re not cursed,” he says with more confidence than I could ever muster. “You’re going to be fine. Everyone has bad streaks. The important thing is to make a plan and get through it. You’re great at planning, remember?”

“Right. Just fabulous. The last time I planned a family vacation, we ended up sleeping in a stable in Nepal. With goats. Remember?”

“That was an AirBnB mixup, not yours.” He laughs. “Look, sis, you need to recharge your batteries before you write your next book. So why not stop worrying about rent and get away to the beach?”