Molly:

I hear my cellphone ringing from across the room and my eyes snap open. I should’ve known better. It really was too good to be true. I might have fallen asleep in Tucker’s arms, but he’s long gone, without even so much as a goodbye kiss.

It’s not like I’ve never been ghosted before, but I thought there was something different about him; I thought we had some sort of connection. Maybe I was just being overoptimistic. It’s not like it would’ve ever worked out between us anyway. I totally fucked up any potential of writing a story about his clan because I couldn’t keep my legs closed, and now I probably need to start thinking about throwing a dart at a map and figuring out where I can park my bus for a few months waiting for the next big thing.

“Shit, phone,” I mutter, aching as I try and move from my bed. My ankle is swollen and sore, and the rest of my body feels like it’s been through the ringer. The type of ringer that leaves you wondering if you’ll ever be able to walk straight again.

I grab a cold piece of pizza from the box on the coffee table that didn’t make it into the fridge last night and hungrily begin to plow it down. My phone is lighting up, vibrating on the floor and I hobble my way to pick it up. It’s my agent. Fantastic, I think sarcastically. He’s probably calling to harass me about why I haven’t been responding to my emails in the last couple days.

“Molly!”

I choke down the bite of pizza in my mouth and try to return the enthusiasm. “Hey, Josh. You sound happy.”

“Are you sitting down?” he asks.

I already beat him to it, sprawling out on the love seat, propping my ankle up in the air. “Sure.”

“You know that story you pitched last week? The one about the weirdo mountain men?”

“Yeah, about that,” I say. “I don’t think I want to do that anymore. It’s kind of a dead lead.”

“Well, I think you might want to reconsider. I submitted it to Rolling Stone, along with your last piece about the veterans who started their own biker gang, and they loved it. Loved it so much they want to pay you three dollars a word for a three-thousand-word article.”

“The fuck?” I stammer. That’s insane. “That’s like, what real authors make.”

He laughs on the other end of the line. I know, technically, I’m a ‘real author’ because I get paid to write stuff, but most of the time I feel like I’m just feeding the meter. I make words so that I can eat, drink, and travel. The fact that someone wants to pay me top dollar for my work is something I never dreamed of.

“And if all goes as planned, and you do all that razzle-dazzle magic I know you’re so good at, there’s room for a more permanent kind of contract. Countercultures of Modern-Day America, from the girl who lives in a bus.”

I am speechless, my heart racing, my palms sweating. It takes everything in me not to say fuck it to my ankle and start jumping on my bed like a child.

Then it hits me. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to pull this off. There’s no way in hell after what I did last night that these people are going to let me into their world. It’s unethical.

“Molly, you made it, girl!” he cheers. “Are you still there?”

“Do you need an answer right now?” I ask him.

“What?”

Maybe if I can just talk to Tucker, explain to him my plight, offer them some sort of cut of the money, I mean, I can give them everything I make from this story if it’s going to be a long-term thing. The wheels in my head are spinning, but every road I turn down feels like a danger sign. Like a blinking red warning that this is a horrible idea.

I can get past the fact that I fucked him for the sake of writing a good story. But the fact that I know in my heart that I actually have feelings for him, that’s going to be a whole different challenge to navigate.

“It’s just, I have to talk to my source,” I say, trying to buy some time. “These people… they aren’t too into the idea of modern culture. They’re recluses. I need to make sure they know I’m only trying to help them, not exploit them.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Molly. You could charm the pants off anyone,” he says.

I wish I could laugh along with him, but the comment hits a little too close to home a little too soon.

“Give me til next week. If I can’t get it sorted by then, I promise I will have something equally as compelling for you.” The latter is unlikely, but I’m willing to say anything to give him the confidence in me that I need to try and summon in myself.

“Friday,” he says. “At the latest.”

“Fine,” I sigh.

“And check your email, please.” His tone has gone from thrilled to perturbed and I completely understand why. “I sent you a delightful assortment of stuff you can expect to work on for the rest of your life if you don’t take this job. How do you feel about comparing twelve types of bottled alkaline water and rating them based on their taste?”

“You want me to write about what water tastes like?”

“I’ll have them overnight the case for you.”

“I’ll talk to you soon,” I say with a sigh, kicking myself for not jumping all over this opportunity and letting the details work themselves out for themselves.

“Friday. I expect good news on Friday.”

I hang up the phone and chuck it across the room. Dolly is making her “I need to go out right this second” sound, slapping me in the stomach with her paw.

“I know, princess,” I say. “Let’s get you walked, get me showered, and pray for a miracle.”