One Month Later

Abigail

In my solitude, I learn that the power to put words on a page is back. I don’t stop to dwell on what happened with Quinn. It doesn’t matter. If I’m honest with myself, things were too good to be true right from the outset. I can’t say it doesn’t sneak up on me from time to time, but my answer to those harrowing moments is to open my laptop and start typing.

It’s not a legal thriller. My talents don’t align with that genre, which is probably why I wasn’t able to write anything worthwhile in the first place. No, the story I’m telling comes from me. There’s no label for it. I’m not sure it’ll end in a happily ever after, so I can’t even think about submitting it to a romance publisher or agents who represent those kinds of novels.

Mainly, I’m not trying to box myself in anymore. Fit a square in a circle or pigeonhole myself in a category that’s too restrictive.

I can finally breathe. The words that come pouring out of me shape a sensational story about love and loss, identity and essence, and the little miracles within the mundane. The things only those who are paying attention see unfold.

The flock of swans isn’t a flock at all, but rather a bevy. They play the soundtrack to my work, several of the males and females hissing at each other as a rite of passage in their courtship. Their white feathers create a stunning contrast with the backdrop of the vibrant spring blossoms.

Out here on the lake shore half a mile from my cabin, it’s endlessly serene. It probably seems odd to any passersby (which I have yet to see, but I suppose they might come when I’m immersed and I’ll never be the wiser), but for the first time in my life, I’m truly riveted by the characters I’m creating. None of them are me-not even the damaged and depressed female protagonist. If she were me, I wouldn’t be able to give her so much hope only to take things away. To watch her suffer.

If it sounds like I’m talking about actual people and not characters in a book, it’s because I am. They’re as real as anyone else in my life. In the absence of actual company, I write scenes that will never go in any book but that explore the characters in their everyday world. None of these passages are pivotal-they’re just a window to these people who populate a world of my creation.

Once every two weeks, I go shopping for groceries. It’s always when I know Quinn will be at his job, because the cashier is still in high school and has no filter. She’s got a huge “vintage crush” on Quinn and can babble about him for however long it takes for her to ring up all of your purchases. I tried buying less at a time, and discovered I learned just as much if not more about what he’s up to.

The only silver lining is that I now have his work schedule ad infinitum.

The other Coopers and Sheila are trickier, but going early in the morning means I can rest easy that none of their functional asses are out of bed. I take my time looking at the fresh produce that’ll go on tonight’s casserole, which I’m making from scratch.

Yes, I’ve only recently turned twenty and this is how I live my life. Not everyone was made to be a social butterfly.

Why do you always go through this rundown of excuses for how you live your life?

Because every time I run into someone from school, they want to know what I’ve got going on in my life. Talking about how my parents are dead and that their possessions didn’t clear the probate court for this long isn’t good. Elaborating on my utter failure with my career isn’t, either.

That awful conversation I overheard shed a light on how people perceive a writer. Why did my carrying around a notebook raise such scandal? Why was I the target of so much ridicule? Did they really have to go the salacious route, rife with sexual deviancy and tawdry nonsense?

Let it go.

I feel the urge to go write again, so I cease the aisle shopping and head straight to the register. The friendly high school girl waves at me and checks her watch, probably because first bell is going to ring any minute now.

“Vanessa will take care of you today, okay, Abby?” she says, checking her reflection and applying a few finishing touches to her makeup. “I have to run. Mr. Tomlin for first period.”

“Sure thing,” I tell her, failing to recall her name. She talks about Quinn so much that I wouldn’t be surprised if she sometimes forgot that she has a separate identity from him.

Actually, that all she has is a separate identity, since I don’t think they’ve ever even met.

I hear her squeal on her way out but don’t bother to check and see what it is that riled her enthusiasm. After the other cashier, Vanessa, finishes scanning all my items, she gives me the total and I pay, trying to not fret about the state of my dwindling savings.

The walk home goes by fast enough, and I don’t concern myself with putting anything away except the stuff that needs to go in the fridge. Hugging my laptop, I go on the hundredth foray into the wilderness. My isolated little piece of creative haven.

I make it to the final stretch of my manuscript when I realize it’s already dark out. It’s like I said: put me in front of a scenic slice of land and I forget my own state of being.

In all my weeks coming here, I have yet to come face to face with another soul. This time, a hulking figure appears, walking in my direction. I almost drop my laptop with fear. Who could it possibly be? This is an abandoned part of town. The houses are almost all vacant and there certainly isn’t anything exciting for anyone who’s not seeking a time-out from reality.

And even if they are, why would they do it here, on my turf?

“Hello?” I call out. “Who’s there?”

The only sound I hear in response is twigs breaking underneath the monstrous feet of whoever is coming.