The Randy Romance Novelist(39)

“One of the most amazing?” I asked, while tears streamed down my face.

“Yes, the most amazing was when I met you.”



Tears fell down my cheeks as I typed. I was supposed to be working on an article about living in the city with a frisky feline, but I set that aside and started on the last chapter of my novel. Instead of writing about medieval times, or a couple I wasn’t really close with, I wrote about my life, my experiences, and my misfortunes. I poured them out into my computer.

After my writer’s club meeting, I wondered if people would like my character, Meghan. Would they be able to relate? Would they be able to see her as a woman searching for the new chapter in her life? Or would they find her over the top and na?ve? I had so much self-doubt, now that I had been criticized for the first time. I wondered if I should even finish the story. I felt like the negative remarks broke my spirit, broke my inner storytelling soul.

A week went by, and I didn’t bother writing; I didn’t even open my computer except for when I was writing up a quick article for work—working from home was amazing, by the way. When I wasn’t writing articles, I was reading, soaking up every story I could dive into. The only problem with my plan of avoidance was I lived with a very in-tune boyfriend, who could tell I was avoiding my work in progress. He convinced me to talk to Wolf Shirt Wendy, to email her and get my writing spirit back on track.

Wolf Shirt Wendy practically forced me, through the Internet, to keep writing and scheduled coffee with me later on in the week to go over what I’d written so far. I had to send her chapters constantly to read, so she could keep me on track to finish. She was going to get one huge shout-out in my dedication.

I wiped the tears from my face and started to type again, just as my phone rang. I looked down at the caller ID and saw Delaney’s name.

Crap, I knew she was calling for an update about the party, and all I had right now was a giant papier-maché penis, plastic whistles, and an appointment to go talk to a male stripper company called Balls to the Wall, with Jenny, my co-worker.

But, knowing my best friend, she wouldn’t stop calling until I picked up her call, so I answered the phone.

“Hey, Delaney.”

“What are you doing right now, hooker?”

I sighed back into my chair. “Is that really necessary, calling me a hooker? It’s not a great term for women’s rights. Maybe, instead of hooker, you could call me something like, girl who is as smart as an astronaut.”

“Do you really want me to be a liar, Rosie? I’m not comfortable with lying.”

“You’re lying right now!” I shouted into the phone, getting way too emotional way too quickly.

“Yikes, settle down there, weighted vagina. There, is that better?”

I huffed into the phone, saved my work, and shut down my computer. I knew there was no way I would be getting out of whatever Delaney had planned. “Pretty sure being called a hooker and being called a vagina fall in the same category as not the best nicknames.”

“Eh, I’ll keep working on it. How’s the purple prune doing anyway? Still thick?”

I shifted in my chair. “Yeah, still feeling heavy.” I looked behind me to make sure Henry couldn’t hear me. He was in the other room, enjoying his Saturday. I whispered into the phone. “Delaney, I’m kind of terrified that I’m allergic to Henry’s penis. I’ve been doing some research on the internet, and I’m afraid it’s a real thing.”

“You’re not allergic to his penis,” Delaney answered back, exasperated. “Did you call your doctor like I told you to?”

“Yes, I have an appointment the day before your bachelorette party. Having your party on a Sunday is a real bitchy move, by the way; people will have to take off work.”

“I’m well aware. I just don’t want to be at the bars, surrounded by idiots on my night; we will be holding it on a Sunday.”

There was no arguing, so I didn’t mention the date anymore, even though people who had been RSVP’ing to me had asked about switching it. They will just have to be told it wasn’t an option and to take it up with Delaney. My maid-of-honor duties only went so far.

“Fair enough. So what do you want from me? If you’re trying to figure out what I’m doing for your party, I’m not telling you.”

Even if I had information about the party, I wouldn’t tell her.

“I have an appointment at the salon; I need your guidance. Will you meet me?”

“Seriously? I’m in sweatpants, Delaney.”

“Oh, my God, well . . . excuse me. I didn’t mean to disrupt your frumping. By all means, continue; don’t let me disturb you.” Her voice was full of sarcasm.

I groaned. “Text me the address and time.”

“Meet me in thirty, I will text you the address. Love you, puss!”

“Don’t call me that,” I shouted as she hung up the phone.

Annoyed, I got up and headed to the closet. Taking sweatpants off and putting on real clothes on a weekend when all you planned on doing was lounging, felt like peeling off your own skin with mini toothpicks. It was not enjoyable.

“Who was that on the phone?” Henry asked, walking up behind me and kissing my shoulder.

“Delaney. She wants to meet me at her salon to go over something. I really don’t want to go, but I know I have to. I haven’t been a really good maid of honor.”