Teaser Tuesdays, vol 1

Every once in a while, I’ll offer a peak into what I’m writing. Here’s chapter one of my current manuscript, Warmth of Your Sun.

I race down 421 S trying to get to my apartment before the idea falls away into the ether. I’d been minding my business, shopping for groceries, when Icona Pop came on the loudspeaker and the opening scene dropped into my mind’s eye as if it was always there, waiting.

“Come on, come on…..” I urge the traffic around me.

In small town North Carolina, not to mention small beach town — people are rarely in a hurry. I finally turn right on Atlantic Ave and thank the gods that at the very least, it’s off season. Had this been two months ago, I’d be hastily speaking into my Voice Memos the scene I desperately need to write.

I pull into my apartment complex and open the door to my vintage Subaru Outback. Vintage as in almost 20 years old. Vintage as in the door screams in protest every time I attempt to open it. I wince as the hinges groan in protest, and make a mental note to add this into the book.

A vintage Subaru Outback makes sense for a first car, right?

I mean, it was mine.

I blink away thoughts of high school before they bloom and rush inside, dropping my purse and keys on the couch in my living room. My apartment is specifically curated to a particular aesthetic: I call it broke but inspired writer. Nothing matches, but everything goes together.

I plop down in my chair at my desk and open my MacBook Pro, taking a deep breath. This scene felt so real it made my chest hurt. That was a good sign. The premise was simple: opening act, and we meet the main character’s future love interest when he’s in high school, before things go south after graduation. He’s in football, and it’s before a game, and he’s hyped by his buddies as they’re rapping a Macklemore song and jumping up and down in the locker room — but then, the scene turns.

Which is what came to me in the store.

It’s fairly simple. I’ve written teenagers before, and even though this isn’t a young adult novel, this moment is monumental to the plot. I know the ways in which what happens in those years can form us. The ways in which what happened to my main character and her love interest — let’s call him Rex for now — almost kept them from finding the love of their life.

I wince as I start typing.

Maybe a little too on the nose, Richmond.

I shake off the tendrils of doubt and close my eyes, breathing in this character. She’s fierce. Magnetic. Demands attention. But underneath? Underneath she’s harboring a depth no one knows. I open my eyes. I can do this.

Penny. That will be her name.

I’m making progress and feeling good about the scene when something shifts. A moment of dialogue feels stilted, and then things get too dark. I need them dark — but not this dark. I pause typing for just a moment to collect myself.

Maybe if I play the song again….

I open the Music app. The heavy drums and keening undertones take me back to those summer days that edge into fall. The football games, the way the sun glowed against the stadium in golden hour, the cheerleaders prancing along the sidelines as if they own the entirety of the night….

You’re on a different road, I’m in the Milky Way….

There it is.

I begin typing furiously, chasing the story as it falls from my fingertips. Sometimes, writing is a fickle thing. Plot and characters and scenes come to you in a flash while you’re out shopping for groceries but then you rush home only to forget every brilliant idea you had moments before. If I had a dime for every time a story completely unraveled before my eyes, I would be a rich woman. Instead, I am a barista on an island off the coast of North Carolina who cannot afford stories simply disappearing. I will wrench them out of my veins with force if it comes to it. And right now? I’m leaning into the other side of writing — the side that comes out after wrenching the plot from an open vein.

A small smile curves my lips as the scene unfolds.

This part? This part feels like magic. I write for what feels like forever, only coming up for air when my cat, Morrigan Rose, jumps in front of me and pushes her against my arm before rolling her body sideways onto my keyboard.

“Oh hey,” I whisper. A product of the Universal Cat Distribution System, Mor showed up on my doorstep two years ago. She’s solid black, incredibly vocal, and basically velcro. A beeping sound comes from the computer and from the look of the various symbols, letters, and absolute chaos I’m seeing on the page, it’s clear Mor made her imprint on the novel.

“Okay. Attention. That’s what you need. I get it.”

I drop a hand and run it over her silky fur, lifting her off the keyboard and placing her to the side, just out of reach of her claws that desperately need trimmed. I sit for a moment reading over what I just wrote by combing my hand over her fur again. She turns to face me, blinking slowly. I smile at her and she meows, grabbing my arm in between her paws and kicking at it like a toy.

“Ow!” I cry out, jerking my arm from her death trap. “Excuse me for mistaking your visit for anything other than a demand for food,” I mutter. I glance at the time and wrinkle my nose. It feels like I have been writing forever because it’s been forever. It’s already noon. No wonder she’s turned the corner from a noisy roommate to actively hunting me.

I push back from the table, Mor jumping in between my feet and weaving herself in between my legs as I try to walk to the cabinet for her food. I grab one of her cans from the shelf and immediately her meows reach a fever pitch.

It’s about time, peasant. Feed me and tell me I’m pretty.

I drop the contents in her bowl — some concoction pretending to be duck — and throw the can away. The whole time, I’m pulling threads of the plot apart, making sure I know what’s next. The last thing I need is to experience another dry spell.

I finished my first book three months ago, right before my best friend Winter came for her birthday. Since then, I have been trying to find an agent all while diving into book number two.

Both have felt impossible.

No, not felt — they have been impossible.

My first book came to me in a rush. I couldn’t keep up with the scenes coming to me and I had to race them to the page. Words flew and I was done with a first draft in two months. Winter told me I basically channeled an entire novel and she wasn’t too far off base. Even now I read through some of the chapters and have no idea how I managed to come up with it. It felt…effortless.

This one?

Well, as of this morning, I have the plot. At least I think I do. Hopefully everything will click into place. The last thing I need is for these characters to side swipe me and surprise me with something entirely unexpected.

I know. A tall order. I toss the cat food can in the trash and stretch my arms above my head, saluting the sun before folding at the waist and reaching toward the floor. I groan as the release pops my back, rolling my wrists from the tension of typing for hours. Straightening, I glance at the computer screen across the room, the blinking cursor an invitation to continue. I know I can’t though — I need to be at work in a little under an hour and if I get started on the next chapter, I will be late. Again. My boss Devlin is a lot of things, but understanding of the writer’s trance she is not.

I collapse on to the couch and reach for my phone, but am distracted by movement out my window. My phone falls to the floor and I feel a surge of electricity in my chest when my eyes settle on the distraction.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. Mor meows in response, thinking I’m talking to her. I’m used to surfers outside my window. But normally they fall into two categories: young guys who can’t be older than 20 chasing adrenaline and crashing into the waves more often than not, and the more seasoned surfers with skin like leather who refuse to step away from their addiction to the sea. This man though — this man is different.

“Fuck me,” I say.

I try to calm the way my heart is beating a thousand different rhythms. He has longer hair — dark curls that fall into his face as he’s dancing with the waves. He shakes his head effortlessly, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he moves and sways with the ocean. My eyesight isn’t as great as it used to be but even from this angle and distance I can see the defined shape of his massive frame. My mouth hangs open, and I’m suddenly grateful no one is here with me because I am definitely ogling this gorgeous human being. He cuts a wave, his arms hanging out by his sides. Another man paddles over to him when he gets closer to shore and he throws his head back in response to something that was said. His smile cuts me to the bone.

I take a deep breath. He’s a pro, having cut his surfer teeth on bigger waves. I can see it in the way he studies the sea, moving further out than the others in order to be pushed to shore in a way that seems effortless. The person he’s with tickles the edges of my memory, the way he stands and watches his friend feels familiar and new. I can’t place where I would know him though, given that there aren’t many people I’ve met on the island who are permanent fixtures.

A sound cuts through the silence and I startle, only to laugh at myself when I realize it’s my phone vibrating against the wooden floor. I reach down and grab it, answering immediately.

“If this is you calling to once again brag about how many orgasms you had last night, I’d rather not listen.”

Winter laughs on the other end of the line.

“No orgasms to speak of — Brandon is out of town with Jax for an event.”

“There’s always your trusty vibrator. Doesn’t it have a name?”

There’s silence on the other line.

“I’m not talking to you about my—”

“Dex! I remember.”

A soft groan escapes Winter’s mouth and I laugh.

“We should probably talk about you anthropomorphizing your vibrator.”

“Or not. It’s fine.”

I quirk up an eyebrow.

“If I remember correctly, you named it Dex because it rhymes with sex.”

“And?” Winter clicks her tongue. “I was in dire need. You know this.”

I do know this. Winter had a horrific break up a few years ago that in a lot of ways, served as a catalyst for her and Brandon to finally admit their love for each other. Before that admission though, there was a lot of tension.

Too much tension.

She continues to talk, conveniently changing the topic. I allow it, and listen as she shares her plans of the launch of her new brick and mortar she’s starting with Nova and Gabi — an addition to Wild Flora, their flower shop. It’s going to be amazing. A mix of a bookstore and restaurant and a new home for their secret dinners they host everything month for Austin creatives.

I keep studying the man surfing, completely ignoring my best friend. I can’t help it. I’m in a trance of male beauty. She knows I’m not listening though and pauses for a moment, taking a breath.

“You aren’t listening.”

“Yes I am,” I lie.

“Piper, you’re normally ten questions in at this point and all I’ve heard are noncommittal grunts.” She laughs a little under her breath and I hear a splash in the background and Gabi’s distinctive trill. “Where are you? What are you doing? I didn’t catch you at work did I?”

“If I was at work I’d be in the walk in hiding from customers and not distracted by this thirst trap casually walking outside my window.”

She sucks in her breath.

“A man?”

“A delicious snack of a man, yes.” I reply. My words are breathy. I can barely form a sentence. I wrinkle my nose because normally I would cringe at this type of reaction. I’m a sucker for romance in my books, but call me cynical. There’s no way meet cutes happen in real life. Unless you’re my best friend. Well, my best friend or the entire group in Austin, actually. Even Nova and Jax had their romantic cinematic moment with their proposal a few months ago. Who does a flash mob on S Congress for a proposal?

Jax. That’s who.

I clear my throat and drag my eyes away from the window.

“Okay. I’m listening. I need to get ready for work anyway. Tell me all your things. Are you at the pool? How? It’s almost October.”

“I am. And yes, it’s almost October, but I live in Texas Piper — we’re still at like 95 degrees.” She pauses for a moment. “It’s excruciating. I’m so ready for fall.”

“Fall brings magic.” I say with a smile.

“And magic brings newness.” She replies. “But also, I’ll believe it when my weather app shows temperatures in the 50s. Until then, I’m questioning if I will be in a permanent summer for the rest of my life.”

I laugh at the drama in her voice, knowing I’d be in the exact same spot if I still lived in Central Texas. Fall has always been a thing for Winter and me. We always knew how to survive the summer: days spent by the pool with our best friends Steve and Miguel. But fall? Fall meant pulling our Doc Martens out. Fall meant oversized sweaters and cuddling under the bleachers and scaring everyone else with our obsession with Practical Magic. I blink away the memories and hone in again on my best friend telling me all of the things.

“It’s happening, Piper. It’s really happening. Like next week we’re having a feature published in Austin Statesman and there’s another website that wants to interview us about how we came about the idea of Elysium.”

I smile again, remembering the conversation when she told me the name of her restaurant for the first time.

“Wild Flora and Elysium. All you’re missing is the Underworld,” I quipped at one point. Nova, Gabi, and Winter all laughed, and then told me they very much knew what they were doing. Every month, they host a private dinner — available only through secret word of mouth invitation. Because of the allure and mystery around these dinners, they were one step ahead of me with their rebrand.

“We’re renaming the dinners the Pomegranate Salon,” Winter beamed. My eyes went wide with recognition.

“Nice,” I replied.

Brandon leaned in and kissed the side of her cheek.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

“Mira,” Gabi snapped her fingers. “I told y’all we’d figure it out. Mae and I saw that psychic when we took our trip to New Orleans and—”

Nova put her hand over her best friend’s mouth.

“We know. She told y’all you would be married forever and have wild and fulfilling sex and that you were marked by success.”

Gabi licked her hand. Nova squealed and jerked it away, wiping her hand on her skirt.

“It wasn’t just us, amor,” Gabi said. “It was all of us,” she motioned her arms around the room. “I spoke to that woman for all of us.” She looked at me then and winked.

“You included, Pipes.”

“It’s Piper.”

Winter laughed into her sangria and Gabi shrugged.

“That’s what I said. Pipes.”

I wrinkle my nose at the memory, and then find myself craning my neck to look out my bedroom door toward the window with the ocean view. You know. Just in case the surfer is still there. When I can’t find him, I swallow the disappointment and turn my attention back to the mirror, putting the phone on speaker so I can do my makeup.

“Are y’all still hoping for a late November opening?”

“Yes,” she says. “Weekend after Thanksgiving, actually. We need to give Gabi and Mae time to return from their honeymoon before opening, and it’s the perfect weekend with the shoppers that are out and about because of the holiday.”

I nod in agreement and then remember she can’t see me.

“That makes so much sense. I can’t wait for this, Winter. You’re doing it. You’ve been wanting this forever and you just…did it. You’re amazing.”

“Yeah well, I’m not spitting out books like it’s nothing,” she replies. I roll my eyes.

“That is…not entirely true. I haven’t written in almost a month and this morning I had a moment of clarity, but I think I am terrified it will be short lived.”

She clucks her tongue in disagreement and I can sense a pep talk coming.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. Even though I am legitimately terrified I will be a one-book wonder. Even though I question myself daily in whether or not my books are even worth pursuing. I can’t not create though, just as much Winter couldn’t let go of cooking.

“If you say so,” she replies. “Just…don’t give up on yourself.”

I go quiet for a moment, knowing Winter well enough to know that comment means more than just my books.

Don’t give up on finding someone.

Don’t give up on the breakthrough.

Don’t give up on miracles.

I fight a sigh and roll my shoulders before leaning in toward the mirror to add a touch of mascara.

“I know.” I tell her. “And don’t worry — I won’t. You know me. These books won’t let me go until I get them out on the page.” I take one last look in the mirror before turning toward my bedroom and combing through my pile of clean clothes.

“Now…tell me more about your opening weekend. What are y’all gonna do? What are Jax and Brandon planning?”

It’s the right question to turn the conversation. She dives into the explanation, the giddiness palpable. I can feel the excitement radiating off her through the phone. I close my eyes as I place the phone on speaker and switch out my ratty t-shirt with a vintage Nirvana oversized tee and leopard print biker shorts. I can see Winter now in my mind — sitting out by the pool in Nova and Gabi’s backyard, arm splayed out over her eyes, her entire face covered with joy.

It’s what will carry me through the day — this image of my best friend living her best life.