Amber Laura's Blog

I feel bad. Well, I know I should feel bad, so I screw what I figure passes for a sympathetic expression on my face.

            Tears sparkle in the woman’s eyes—what was her name again? Annie? Angela?

            “…it was really quite an abusive relationship,” she says, her voice prattling on in a pitch that compliments her agitation: high and tinny.

            I tap my stockinged-clad foot on the carpet.

            One. Two. Three.

            “Of course, he’s trying to screw me over in court. And I don’t have much physical proof…”

            I glance down at the papers clutched in my lap before flicking my gaze to the coocoo-clock overhead.

            Forty minutes.

            What’s-her-name has been talking for forty straight minutes. Eating up the very limited two-hour slot for our writing group’s bi-monthly critique session.

            If she doesn’t stop soon, we’ll run out of time long before everyone gets a chance to read their pieces. Even worse? She’s not sharing a story with us. She’s not reading from a printed sheet of paper. No, she’s just…talking at us, rather explosively shouting her rage on our very unsuspecting and ill-equipped group.

            My foot taps harder on the floor. I let my gaze linger on the clock tellingly this time. The lady doesn’t so much as glance my way though. 

            She’s crying now, wiping at her nose and hiccupping about her rotten-no-good-piece-of-shit-soon-to-be-ex-husband.

            And I suppose I do feel bad for her. Then again, I only met the woman forty-seven minutes ago, so it’s rather hard to tell.

            I’d tell her, once more, how sorry I am that she’s going through a hard time, but I’m afraid that the next time I open my mouth it’ll be to politely but firmly inform her that her time slot has long since run out. That, indeed, we’re not a therapy group for the bitter and estranged.

            That we’re a writing group. A fiction writing group.

            Which would be rude.

            The Lutheran in me would feel guilty.

            The Minnesotan in me would feel conspicuous. Then again, I never was much good at being passive-aggressive.

            But seriously. I want to hear the next installation of Susan’s nature poems. I want to see Meghan’s progress on her YA drama. I want to share my piece on Christina and Jason’s on again-off again love story.

            I really want this lady to shut up.

            Which, okay…that was rude of me. Clearly, she’s upset and hurting. And I do have a heart but—hell, we’re a group of veritable strangers. Find your friends and complain to them.

            (Then again, maybe she’s already done that and now she’s decided to pick up her show and take it on down the road, so to speak, find new ears to sob to. More than likely, she’s run through her own host of loved ones, if her spotlight-hotting-ways are to be believed…)

            Yup. I’m definitely growing impatient.

            And I’m not being the most Christian-like version of myself.

            But I’m also not speaking these thoughts out loud, so I suppose it could be worse.

            If she’s going to hold us hostage, then I’m going to continue to think my baser thoughts.

            I glance back up at the clock. Fifty-seven minutes.

            I’m in Hell.

The post Five Minute Read: Baser Thoughts appeared first on LitLiber.

The developmental pass is
behind me. Comments litter the right
side of the computer screen. Taunting me,
daring me to hurry up, finish!
 
To write faster, better. Smoother.
Don’t forget plot. Would your character actually
say that? To him?
No, no. Overdone. Clunky. Uninspired.
 
The third draft is cleaner, and by the fourth
I almost believe in my characters, in their motivations.
Almost.
Monday is bright: self-directed smirks and giggles at my own wit and talent.
Rebounding as I stitch scenes together, shift one here,
eliminate another all-together.
Genuis, really.
I deserve a glass of wine. Maybe two.
 
Tuesday reaffirms my earlier fears—garbage.
Imposter. Fraud.
Craft and elements: elusive, fickle creatures
provoking me, teasing me.
 
A mirage. Maybe it’s good. Great, even.
Perhaps it’s destined for the wastepaper basket.
 
Tears stain my cheeks on Thursday as I nitpick
Delete, rewrite. Change one word, maybe two.
Moving forward in a circle.
 
By Friday, I’m ready to retire.
By Sunday, I’m rolling my eyes at my own dramatics.
It’s fine. Maybe brilliant.
 
My pub date can’t come soon enough. Then again, I’m not ready for it.

The post Five Minute Read: Editing Poem appeared first on LitLiber.

The sun winked through the pale pink curtains, casting the room in a cozy, almost romantic glow.

     Frowning at the thought, Beatrice considered that was probably not helping the situation. Shifting her eyes to the teenager in front of her, she stifled a sigh at the look of hopeful expectation on the round, rosy-cheeked face.

     “May I ask why you want one?” Beatrice said. Leaning across the counter of her shop, the long-sleeved velvet cloak enveloping her rippled under the last rays of the falling sun. Raising winged eyebrows, she pursed her lips in what she supposed was a mythical expression.

     “I’ve been in love with Bobby Kincaid since…like forever,” the girl assured Beatrice.

     Racking back, Beatrice latched on to the memory of the girl’s name: Sarah.

     “Hmm.” Clasping her hands together, Beatrice asked: “And does Bobby know how you feel?”

     This question earned Beatrice a theatrical sigh and a deep furrow from an otherwise unblemished brow line. “No, that’s the problem. Bobby doesn’t even know I exist.” Waving a hand behind her, the gesture taking in the rows and rows of shelves at the back of Beatrice’s shop, she concluded. “That’s why I need one.”

     “Ah, I see,” Beatrice said, her own gaze skipping over and around Sarah—raking over the glass containers with their cork lids: rosemary, lemon grass, and lavender. The pre-mixes she’d concocted for clients: health, wealth, abundance, and purpose.

     Beatrice didn’t need to peruse her own items to know that what Sarah was looking for wasn’t included in Beatrice’s shop. Still, the exercise gave her the necessary time to find the right words to explain to Sarah why it wouldn’t be found there.

     “Unfortunately, I don’t sell love potions,” Beatrice said, her voice soft and gentle. Her dark brown eyes implored Sarah, silently begging her to understand. “It’s a matter of preference for witches, my dear. But I don’t believe in magick that takes over someone’s free will.”

     The line between Sarah’s eyes deepened. “I don’t understand…”

     “If you and Bobby are meant to be, it has to be because you both choose it to be.”

     “I know,” Sarah insisted. “That’s why I need the potion. So, he’ll choose me.”

     Beatrice sucked her lips into her mouth. Dropping her gaze down to the butcher topped counter below her, she fought for wisdom. “That’s not what I mean. If he chooses you because you forced him to—via a love potion—you’ve taken away his free will.” Giving the young girl a compassionate look, she added: “And you’ll always wonder if he really likes you for you, or if he likes you because you tricked him.”

     At the words, tears formed in the young girl’s eyes. Reaching across the scant inches separating them, Beatrice patted her shoulder. “I know, it’s hard.”

     “Yeah, right,” Sarah sniffled, one hand coming up to wipe away the moisture on her face. “Men are always throwing themselves at you. My aunt says so.” Her gaze took in Beatrice’s long, straight pale hair, her up-tilted nose, and large espresso-colored eyes. Draped inside the midnight-blue cloak, her body was tall and willowy. The essence of the beautiful sorceress.

     Beatrice snorted. “Your aunt’s telling tall tales.”

     “But you know what,” Beatrice added, snapping her fingers together. “That just may have given me an idea…”

     “Yeah?” Sarah asked as Beatrice skirted around her counter. Eagerly, she watched as the older woman snatched up an empty leather pouch out of a wicker basket set to one side of her register. “You’ll make one?”

     “Even better,” Beatrice assured her. Grabbing a dark crystal out of one of a plethora of bowls lining the middle table of her shop, she also snatched up a small candle and a spell card. Tying up the pouch, she presented it to Sarah. “Here. On the house.”

     “What is it?”

     “A spell—for self-love. Do everything on the instruction card and I promise, your life will change for the better,” Beatrice informed her. “I have a feeling it’s going to be exactly what you need.”

     Giving it a less than confident glance, Sarah nonetheless shrugged. “If you say so.”

     “I do. And I happen to know a thing or two about it,” Beatrice said in a stage-whisper. It earned her a lackluster smile. But it was a smile.

     “Do me one favor, though?” Beatrice asked. Turning toward her, Sarah seemed to be waiting.  “Come back and see me in a week or so. Tell me what you think of it.”

     “Okay.” With a last wave, Sarah walked out of Beatrice’s shop—snuggled at the back of a plaza of business suites, the young girl’s feet echoed down the long, corridor toward the street entrance.

     Left to herself. Beatrice released a long, slow sigh as she returned to her counter. “Why do they always want love spells? I’ll never understand.”

     “Well, the girl made a good point. I can’t imagine you’ve ever needed one.”

     Turning sharply at the unexpected sound from her doorway—and more than that, such a deeply masculine one at that—Beatrice’s gaze met a pair of hazel eyes. And a wide, full mouth. Silver-templed light brown hair. And a high, wide forehead.

     A stranger’s face. A very good-looking stranger’s face.

     “Sorry,” he said then. “Couldn’t help but overhear your conversation…”

     “Is that so?” She pursed her lips, but all the same, Beatrice left the safety of her counter again. “Beatrice Mathers,” she said, one hand outstretched as she stepped forward. “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

     “Oh, I can almost guarantee it.”

     “Flattery,” she murmured through smiling lips. Without waiting for him to continue she added, with a little more starch to her voice. “What can I do for you, sir?”

     Grasping her hand in his own, he grinned good-naturedly. “Russel Casey.”

     When he didn’t immediately enlarge upon this statement, Beatrice arched one eyebrow. Lifting her hand in a sweeping motion, she gestured toward her shop—the glass jars on the shelves lining the back wall, the lone table running the middle of the room with copious stones and crystals, the squat bookshelves under the window holding incense and candles. “Shopping?”

     He had the grace to blush. “Well, now I’m not exactly sure if I’m in the right place.”

     Humming softly, Beatrice bit back a grin. “Don’t tell me you came for a love potion too?”

     Russel laughed as she’d meant for him to do. The low, rich sound tightened her stomach. “No. But after watching you, I’ll admit to being curious—what special little pouch you’d have made for me.”

     Beatrice wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or not. Having grown up in a society that didn’t believe in the power of witchcraft, she was far from unaccustomed to such behavior. Usually, however, it was thrown at her without subtlety.

     As such, she chose to believe he was being genuine. Letting her eyes latch onto the jeans loosely hugging his thighs, the blue shirt tucked into his trim waist, she allowed herself to consider the question. “Depends. Why’d you come in here?”

      A sheepish look crowded his face. “Honestly?”

     She nodded. “It’s preferable.”

     “I thought you were a restaurant.”

     Blinking in blind reaction, Beatrice wasn’t initially sure what to do with that information. Reflexively, she glanced over her left shoulder, at the wall painted with her store’s name. Her lips pulled into an amused smile. “Sticks and Stones Soup?” She asked.

     Shrugging, he laughed. “When I saw the name on the plaza directory outside, I thought—”

     Beatrice threw back her head and laughed. “You might grab a bite to eat?”

     “Something like that.” Sticking his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels.

     “Well, unless you’re looking for a dried leaf salad—which I would strongly NOT recommend,” Beatrice said, her voice trembling with the weight of her amusement, “you’re right. You’re in the wrong place.”

     “My apologies. New in town.”

     “That seems obvious.”

     He grinned. “Still figuring my way around.”

     “Hmm.” Keeping her response determinedly noncommittal, Beatrice shifted. Moving around Russel, her slippered feet steered her toward the two stained-glass lamps decorating her store. With a flick of her finger, she turned each off.

     “Oh, and you’re closed?” Russel asked in realization.  

     “Just,” she assured him.

     “Now I’m doubly sorry for keeping you.”

     Beatrice gave him a dry look. “Do I seem impatient to leave?”

     Russel shook his head. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me where I could find one? A restaurant, I mean. A good one.”

     Tapping one finger against her chin, Beatrice gave the question due thought. “Wings and beer? Cheeseburgers and pie? Or something fancier?”

     “That depends, are you interested in joining me?”

     Rotating toward him slowly, Beatrice gave Russel the benefit of her full attention. “How bold,” she teased.

     “Is that a yes?”

     Once again, Beatrice took up her habit of humming as she dipped her hand into a glass bowl beside her—she pulled out a dark black crystal. She picked up an emerald-looking one, as well. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring.” Though she’d never made it obvious, she’d looked.

     Of course, she’d looked. When a handsome, broad-shouldered lumberjack of a man entered her metaphysical shop—well, she looked. And when he’d touched her…Beatrice had known. Still, Fate could be a cruel, vindictive creature. Just because something was written in the stars didn’t mean it wouldn’t come without obstacles…

     Blinking, nonplussed, he finally said, “I wouldn’t have asked you out if I were.”

     Pursing her lips, Beatrice asked, “And how do you know I’m not married?”

     “Don’t. Figured you tell me if you were.”

     A moment of silence before a small, begrudging smile graced her face. “I’m not.”

     “Good. So—dinner?”

     Giving him a long, lingering look, Beatrice found herself answering before she’d fully thought it through. “Do you believe in fate?”

     Rocking back on the heels of his feet, hands stuck in the front pockets of his jeans, Russel seemed taken aback. Again. “I…I guess I’ve never given the matter serious thought.”

     How else could she explain it? That he was meant to wander into her shop. That she’d been expecting him… even if she hadn’t known what he’d look like, who he’d be exactly. How could she explain that she’d been waiting for him. All these years.

     A stranger on the winds of change.

     “Sometimes, after work, I head down to Copper’s Den for a pint,” she told him.

     His smile widened. “You wouldn’t happen to be considering going there tonight, would you?”

     Pulling the strings taut around the small pouch still in her hands, Beatrice closed her eyes. Offered up her intention to the mother goddess—it was a matter of seconds. Too short a span of time for him to ask what she was doing, but there was a heaviness in the air, a weigthedness when she reopened her eyes.

     If he’d been closer, Russel would have realized they’d suddenly taken on an almost violet color—but only for a moment before the burnt brown returned once more. “I was considering it.”

     “Then I hope to see you there.”      

     In answer, Beatrice held out the pouch in her hand. “Here. Take this.”

     Staring at it with no clear expression on his face, Russel only allowed for the smallest tic of his right eyebrow. “What is it?”

     “What I would have made for you,” she informed him. Nodding toward the pouch, she waited until his fingers reached out to take it from her.

     A shot of pure adrenaline shot through her at the brush of his hand, bursting up her wrist and through her veins. She barely suppressed a visible reaction. Yes, he was the one she’d been waiting for.

     Then again, it was clear—from the wary look on his face, to the amused expression he’d displayed earlier, that he wasn’t a man who believed. In psychic gifts. In witches and magick and all the folklore therein.

     So, she’d tread carefully. It was important—more than he’d ever probably know—that he accept her for who she is, but she wasn’t going to force it on him.

     It was all part of the prophecy.

     “A spell?” Russel asked, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at.

     Lifting one telling eyebrow, Beatrice found herself at ease with his bluntness. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I’m a witch.”

     “Yeah, no. I got that.”

     Nodding toward the pouch, she grinned. “What you do with that information matters.”

—

The post Five Minute Read: The Prophecy appeared first on LitLiber.

            For years, she’d wondered what it would be like. Sipping drinks with pink umbrellas in them; flouncing along in her slinky bikini as she waved her arms manically around her head, shouting hazily after newfound friends. If she’d wrinkled her nose, she could almost smell the dried salt, the syrupy scent of fabricated coconut, and the sweet tinge of mai-tais wafting amongst the pink-hued atmosphere.

            Of course, that was the problem with fantasies. They had a habit of paving the way for little more than the disappointments of reality.

            Scrimping and saving, dieting for months on end while she hotly denied herself a second glass of wine or even a nibble of the delectable croissants her co-worker Mal insisted on bringing in every Monday. 

            Budgeting and savings accounts and all the things she’d had to forgo in order to pad her wallet for a tropical lay on a beach in Fuji.

            Her dream.  

            The postcard of which she’d hung up on her fridge since the moment she’d purchased the tickets.

            Her dream (finally!) come true.

            Only now, three days in, she had yet to see the sun. She’d barely even seen the outside, much less the ocean, given the storm that had rained and thundered, whipped and chilled against her small hut since practically the moment she’d disembarked from the plane.

            Actually, no.

            She frowned. Ever an honest woman, she had to take that last statement back. It wasn’t true. When she’d debarked, the island had decided to up the ante on her. It’d teased her with a singing whisper of wind, carrying the heavenly hints of water and relaxation on the air.

            Carrying with it every daydream she’d entertained all these long months—enticing her, taunting her with a tropical delight.  

            It was three hours later—almost on the dot—that the winds had started to pick up, the sky darkening to an ominous, eerie shade of indigo. At first, laying out in the plastic beach chair that had come with her room, Sasha had done little more than adjust the position of her wide-brimmed hat.

            So it looked like rain? What was a little rain?

            When goosebumps had broken out across her body, she’d begrudgingly headed inside. It was fine, she figured. After her flight, an early night was probably for the best.

            But she didn’t sleep; the creak and crack of the windows, the groan and moan of the trees—like lashes on the electric air—kept her awake.

            Which she supposed had been nice for one aspect: she’d been utterly prepared when the morning had brought only more of the same.

            Rain, storms. That abominable wind.

            Not one tiki bar open.

            Welcome to paradise, Sasha Odell.

The post Five Minute Read: Welcome to Paradise appeared first on LitLiber.

Rating: 4.5/5 STARS

As written on the back of the book: (Heartstopper #1) “Boy Meets Boy. Boys become friends. Boys fall in love.”

In this sweet and wholesome series, readers meet two high school students who find each other by way of a classroom seating plan. Easily and naturally, though they appear to be opposites, a friendship blooms between them. Which leads to lingering looks and touches, then outright flirting and then… Charlie, one of the boys, is openly gay while the other, Nick—gentle giant Nick—is about to unexpectedly venture into the confusing (but also freeing) process of questioning his sexual orientation.

Let me begin by saying: this was my first foray into the world of graphic novels—but the cover of the book kept calling to me. To make sure I fully committed and delved into this style of storytelling, I purchased the first three volumes of the series.

I was immediately sucked in. The storyline is beautiful, simple at moments and wholly complex in others. I flew through the first book and then the second. And yup…I sped through the third just as quickly.

The author transported me back to that teenage self that still beats inside this thirty-something’s heart. I found myself fawning and ‘aww-ing’ and blushing right along with the boys. It was delightful.

My only criticism? I felt like the dialogue ran a bit flat… when I read, the words sounded stilted and a bit monotone. Then again, this might be the naïve reaction of someone who’s very new to graphic novels—someone who’s used to more room for speech. Either way, it’s a slight critique. The storyline, the artwork, more than made up for it.

I loved that the plot was simple. It was rooted in reality. The drama, the tension…it read true to life. It wasn’t a rollercoaster of improbable events and larger-than-life stunts and distractions. It was two high school boys meeting and trying to understand their feelings for one another—amidst the uncertainties and fears of labels, acceptance, change and control. It led with raw, honest emotion.

Fabulous. Absolutely Fabulous.

#bookreivew #bookrecs

The post [Book Review] Heartstopper (Vol 1 – Vol 3) | by Alice Oseman appeared first on LitLiber.

4/5 Stars

The Chicken Sisters is the story of a generations-long feud between two chicken shacks/restaurants—which happened to have been started by two sisters. Get it? Chicken. Sisters. A last-ditch option to bring some business into the small Kansas town where it all started (and is now dwindling), the two families enter into a reality-TV restaurant competition series, called Food Wars. With a strong sense of foreboding, both family’s (remember: related by blood and/or marriage) risk more than competing chicken recipes—all the personal, messy, private parts of their everyday lives are filmed and written for the theatrical consumption of the masses.

The story was good. It centers on two sisters. Neither perfect, which I can always get behind because who really cheers for flawless characters? Not me. Vying to win at all costs, even if the reasons behind their motivations are hidden or confused…. each of them is incredibly, complicatedly flawed. Ugly in moments, broken in others. Apologetic and reasonable in-between. They run the gamut, which makes them, even at their lowest points, also sympathetic. They have scars and the way they deal with them are as opposite as they are credible.

The drama is tight, tense. The family squabbles and betrayals are honest and uncomfortable. Well written. Satirically funny. Unfair but also just.

The only reason I didn’t give it 5 stars? By the end, the conclusion (the falling action) felt a bit…boring. Drug-out. I didn’t care very much how all the small strings would tie together. Maybe because I was emotionally exhausted and just wanted it to be over, maybe because by then, I hoped everyone walked away with the hurt they deserved, and the digs they deserved delivering to each other, and I didn’t care about a happily-ever-after. Maybe because there were just too many strings to tie up (which felt a bit like like a finale dump). That said, the ending was really good and I’m glad I held on to the last page.

A highly emotional, roller-coaster of a read.

The post [Book Review] The Chicken Sisters | by KJ Dell’ Antonia appeared first on LitLiber.

Miranda looked down at the cocktail beside her on the bar countertop. The heavy layer of condensation on the glass spoke for itself: she wasn’t actually interested in drinking it. Glancing around at the smattering of other bar patrons, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be here.

            But then again, there was really nowhere else to go.

            “It’ll get better. I know the words are trite, but they’re true.”

            Glancing up at the words, Miranda tried to smile at Sam. Sam wasn’t just the bartender of The Oasis Bar, where she currently found herself, though he was certainly happiest when he was allowed to play the part–snug in a pair of black slacks with a fitted t-shirt cloaked around his body. Sam owned the establishment and was just as frequently found crunching numbers in the back office as he was up in the public view, slinging drinks and cracking jokes.

            Friends almost all their lives, when he’d found out what happened…well, he’d all but insisted that Miranda come down for a couple of drinks. On the house.

            “I know.” Her words were small, uneven as they came out of her trembling mouth. She hated the weakness and hurt she couldn’t disguise. Especially because she did know. She’d get over the hurt. The betrayal and deception. She’d even get over the small part of her that wanted revenge–that sincerely hoped that Matt and Shannon’s runaway romance would blow up in their faces, that she’d be left with mascara stains and he’d get pudgy walled within a life of quiet desperation.

            But tonight. Tonight she was too hurt, her body screaming and protesting in a kind of breathless pain, to do anything but remember to…well to breathe.

            “Where are you staying tonight?”

            Shrugging one shoulder, Miranda realized she should probably give that question due thought and consideration. To go home was not an option. Even though Matt and Shannon wouldn’t be there…were in fact on their flight to Hawaii for their honeymoon…she couldn’t face the implications, the history and dashed hopes that would greet her at the door. She couldn’t face her imminent departure—like a piece of furniture that lost its function.

            She was supposed to be the one marrying Matt—granted, he hadn’t asked yet but it had been a part of their future. Once. Two years they’d been together. Two years, almost from the date of their first kiss, they’d moved in together. Pictures of them dotted the walls and shelves of their apartment—a perfectly happy couple smiling back at the camera.

            And then, in one instant, an instant in which she’d had no say, they simply weren’t dating anymore. She was left alone. He was left with someone else’s ring on his finger.  

            He’d never let on. Never let on that he’d fallen in love with his co-worker. Miranda’s teeth ground together as a picture of Shannon floated in her eyes. Long, willowy frame and dark hair and large oval eyes with an open, honest smile. The snake.  

            Dammit, Miranda had liked Shannon. She’d welcomed her into their home. Into their social circle. Stupid fool that she was, she’d thought nothing of their inside jokes or secret smiles. She’d chalked it up to professional camaraderie. She’d enjoyed not having to listen to his boring stories about this client or that one. She’d been happy to let them carry on without her.

            She just hadn’t realized then what that meant.   

            “It’s been going on for a while now.” Matt’s words came back to torment her, the bar darkening around her at the remembered intrusion of his voice. Her eyes only saw the sorrowful look in his eyes, the way he’d reached out to touch her, shrinking back when she shook him away.

            “You’re, you’re married?” She repeated, for what must have been the tenth time. Her eyes felt too dry, and her voice shrill as she snapped her fingers. “Just like that?” She shook her head, not offering him the opportunity to speak. “But that doesn’t. We’re, we’re…” She pointed between herself and Matt, her movements robotic, slow with the weight of shock barring down on her. 
            “It wasn’t…we didn’t plan this,” Shannon said, speaking for the first time since Miranda had unlocked her front door to find them, sitting together on the sofa, their hands clutched together, waiting for her. They’d stood up in unison as she’d hesitated over the threshold, their faces a mixture of sympathy and excitement.

            “You,” Miranda spat, her finger wagging toward that woman now. “You can shut up.”

            “Miranda…”

            Rounding on Matt, she poked that same finger into his chest then. “You too. Both of you. Get out. Get out right now.”

            In mutual agreement, they’d left. Even that small shift in the power dynamic was short-lived. The text message she’d received from him a few hours later made that clear. Technically, the apartment was in Matt’s name. He’d offered to let her stay there until she found another place. He was really sorry and he hated to know that he’d hurt her. Anyway, he and Shannon would be leaving for their honeymoon in the morning, so she’d have plenty of uninterrupted time to make any decisions necessary…  

            “I just… I can’t believe it,” Miranda said now, her lips as numb as her whirling thoughts.

            “I know.” Sam nodded. A mutual friend of both her and Matt, he was in a fine predicament himself.

            “Did you?” Taking a deep breath, her eyes trained on the rivet of water running down her bucket glass, Miranda forced herself to ask the question. “Did you know?”

            “No.”

            Feeling the pressure of his finger under her chin, Miranda allowed him to lift her face to his. His green eyes stared earnestly back into her brown ones. “I promise, I didn’t know. I would have never…”

            A film of tears danced in Miranda’s eyes. Her throat swallowed hard as Sam’s face, the high cheekbones and ruggedly outlined jaw, swam before her gaze.

            “What am I supposed to do now?”

            “Heal,” he said shortly. “And then move on.”

            She sniffed. “That’s easy for you to say.”

            Sam lifted one eyebrow, but his voice was neutral when he questioned that. “Me? Why’s that?”

            “Oh, come off it,” Miranda said, trying to tease her way out of a complete meltdown in the middle of a bar full of people she did not know. “You never date anyone seriously. You walk and walk out of relationships as easy as that, leaving only a trail of tears in your wake.”

            His eyes widened. “Ouch.”

            “Oh, I’m not saying…I’m not criticizing you,” Miranda said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “But you don’t really have experience in this department.”

            “Having my heart broken?” His look of mockery was rich and full.

            Miranda, however, rose to the challenge thoughtlessly. “Yeah.”

            “Well,” leaning back, Sam reached under the bar counter, coming up with a white towel. Using it to wipe down the bar beside her, he laughed. “As to that, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

            Miranda let her head tilt a little to one side. Then a laugh broke out of her throat. “Nope, nice dice.” She grinned, the first genuine one of the night. “Nice try, but I’ve known you since kindergarten and I think I’d remember you crying into a pint of ice cream over some girl…”

            Sam’s look was shuddered now, but her voice remained calm, even. “Now’s not the time for this conversation.”

            “I happen to disagree.” Placing both elbows on the bar, Miranda leaned in closer, her eyes watching Sam’s movements, which were taking him steadily farther and farther down the bar counter, the towel circling the already-clean space. “I need a good distraction. And it was your idea to have me come here tonight.”

            Straightening up, Sam chucked the bar towel toward the utility sink on his side of the bar. Then he met her gaze. Those aqua eyes were narrowed but there wasn’t any anger inside of them. “Okay? I’ll make a deal with you then.”

            Miranda snorted but she played along. “Yeah?”

            Sam nodded toward her—indicating the mussed hair her hands had ravaged and the make-up more than a little smeared under her eyes. “Give yourself time to get over Matt and what he did to you. Once you aren’t about to burst into tears at the mere mention of his name …I’ll tell you the story.”

            Pouting now, because Sam usually let her have her way, and tonight more than most, she needed that, Miranda let out a gusty sigh. “Seems hardly fair.”

            “Believe me, it’s fair.”

            “Why?”

            “Because my heartache isn’t going to make yours any less. In fact, it’ll probably make it worse. It’ll scratch at the surface of your own pain.”

            Miranda took a moment to respond. She knew his words made sense, even if they felt a bit like overkill. “Fine.” Still, she wasn’t one to give up when she wanted answers to questions. Her lips pulled up to one side mischievously in negotiation. “One month then.”

            Sam’s lips mirrored hers. “At least six weeks.”

            “Six weeks.” Miranda tasted the words. But one look at Sam and she knew it was the best deal she was likely to get. Sam was rarely private, especially about his love life. If he’d kept this secret, and from one of his best friends, she figured it must be pretty good.

            The insensitive thought was followed quickly by a swamping sense of shame. What if…? “Do you…” her words came out coarsely, fumbling. “This is…this heartbreak. Was it recent?” Could she have been so blind that she’d missed everything? Her boyfriend and now her best friend? Was she so self-involved that no one cared to talk to her anymore? To tell her what was going on in their life, in their hearts…?  

            Sam shook his head, but his words came slowly. “No.”

            A rush of relief swamped her. And then, gulping past a billowing cloud in her throat, she croaked out: “How long did it take you to move on?”

            Sam gave her a gentle look. “There’s no rulebook on a timeline.”

            Miranda nodded. Her thoughts were far away, fixating on a time when she wouldn’t feel this crushing threat of nothingness. “Six weeks then. Six weeks. I’ll be sitting right here and you’ll be spilling everything. You hear?”

            Sam nodded. “Heard.”

            “Sam?”

            “What?” He asked, exasperation lining the word.

            “Do I know her?”            

“You could say that,” he said, before turning around and heading toward the till. Out of sight of her, his words far too soft to be overheard, he added: “After all, it was you.”    

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Because…why not? Y’all, my second novel, Twenty-Seven Tiered Almond Cake, is ON SALE RIGHT NOW (ebook version ONLY)! So what are you waiting for? Go and grab this realistic fiction novel (romance, women’s fiction, satire, sister’s fiction) for only $1.99. 

Twenty-Seven Tiered Almond Cake is a humorous, sassy women’s fiction novel about resentment, self-reflection, and redemption. (Psst, there’s even a little romance…and a lot of cake!)

I hope you enjoy reading it. If you do (or even if you don’t) please leave a review. Pretty, pretty please. It’s one of the most vital ways to help feed an author.  

It’s available for purchase here:

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2nUpogm

Barnes & Noble NOOK: https://bit.ly/2nf6ctk

*Sale ends October 15, 2021*

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[Book Review] Anxious People | by Fredrik Backman

5/5 Stars!

Much like all the books of Backman’s that I’ve read, I was immediately pulled into the rich tapestry of characters presented within this beautifully simple and wholly complex story; characters that had me laughing when I would have otherwise been crying; characters that left me spellbound in the unique and colorful ways they had of speaking and seeing the world around them; characters full of spite or competition or ugliness that shone so truthfully, but not so overwhelmingly, that I found myself smiling at them in support nonetheless, accepting them for their flaws and their beauties equally.

This is a novel about conversation, about the myriad stories of everyday people, and the routines and daily operations found within. (Well, except for the dramatic background of being held at gunpoint…but then, the author brilliantly leaves the reader wondering…is that really so unbelievable, even for everyday people anyway?) This is a story about the swapping back-and-forth, the comparison and competition of strangers talking to one another, and learning things about themselves along the way. The conversations aren’t tales of the exceptional. They’re the stories of the common, the ordinary and relatable: stories of falling in love and desperately trying to stay that way, confessions of deep well-shared kinds of pain, moments of quiet or even loud cries of desperation. They’re conversations about those facets which seem petty and mundane on the surface.

And yet, woven together, these stories become remarkable, poignant— for the romance living so subtly inside trips to a store, or the love threaded in the grumblings about a partner’s ever-revolving hobbies. They become beautiful in their discovery of sameness and bonding between seemingly conflicting personalities and goals. It’s a story of messy resentments, failures, quiet hopes, and un-squashable try.

This is a book about big moments in small statements. Big moves in quiet steps. People meeting, bonding, and continuing on, forever changed because of those interactions. Not necessarily different or better, just dimensional.

#bookreview

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She sighed, sticking her hands as far as they would go inside the front pockets of her jeans. She sorely wanted to check the time on her cell phone again, but it would have been pointless. She was keenly aware that three minutes had passed since the last time she looked. And the last time she’d looked, he was already ten minutes late.

Not that being late ever mattered to him. Or being early. To him, time was little more than an annoying gnat that he’d just as soon dismiss as answer.

Restless now, her right boot kicked aimlessly against the cracked pavement. A dying dandelion sprawled out between the seams of the sidewalk. In conjunction, her breath fanned out in a smoky haze as another sigh seeped from her mouth. Through vague eyes, she watched as couples, joggers, and families walked past down the trail to the garden path. The sounds of their muted conversations only further propelled her feeling of loneliness. Of conspicuousness. 

He wasn’t coming.

He’d changed his mind.

Shielded behind the sweep of her hair, she glanced furtively around the park. She’d only been there once before. Twenty minutes away from her home, she felt as out of place as she could only assume she looked. Straight ahead of her, at a fork in the path, stood a boardwalk bar: offering a smattering of tables, with lighthearted conversation floating overhead, it looked both inviting and unfamiliar. Swaying slightly from one foot to the next, she no doubt stood out like a sore thumb—looking both alone and lonely. Like a flawed thread in a quilt. Gone was any chance of appearing like a casual walker out for a solitary stroll.

She was clearly waiting for someone.

And being stood-up.

Dammit.

Hot tears pooled in the backs of her eyes. She’d half-expected this, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d set her up for a fall. It was never malicious. It was just—she was desperately in love with him. And he liked that she was desperately in love with him. And maybe there was something about that which made him more irresistible to her.

She was so naïve she didn’t realize that. That catching his attention, that making him stand up and take notice, that being the reason he changed plans with someone else—that it was a part of the appeal. Perhaps a large part.  

She knew it and still, she couldn’t quite help herself. He had this air about him. Of confidence, of being part of the beautiful people of the world. Of caring…when he decided to. It was infectious, the way he’d dote on her, make her feel like the one person out of thousands who could heal him, understand him. Make him laugh. He had this air of risk. He’d toss her out of her boundaries, but always with the promise he’d keep her safe enough. And he did.

Every time she was with him, she felt alive. Like a shock of electricity zipping up and down her spine, bursting out of her fingers, radiating her smile. The air smelled sweeter, the grass felt softer against her bare feet. The world took on a hazy sort of glow that reminded her of snow globes. This perfect, encapsulation of the life she’d always fantasized about.

So now, she fantasized about him.

And sometimes, he’d allow her dreams to come true.

Worse, sometimes he wouldn’t. Sometimes, he’d let her down. When he picked someone or something else over her. The turmoil was horrendous. It would leave her stomach churning with the acid of questions, anxieties about what had gone wrong: what had she said or not said? What should she have done? Was she not scintillating enough? Was she not scandalous enough? Did she bore him or try too hard?

And then, right when she’d hit the pit of despair, and sometimes even afterward—sometimes after she’d grieved and come to grips with the fact that this dysfunction wouldn’t get better, that she deserved better—he’d call or show up unexpected at her house.

And she’d be high on life, high on him and that enigmatic magnetism all over again.

It was a disaster waiting to happen. It was a relationship that would never come to fruition.

She knew it and still, she found herself there: standing in the midst of an approaching autumn evening waiting for a man who wouldn’t show. Which only made her more the fool.

Alone.

Again.

For him. And yet, unrequited.

Because she couldn’t help herself. And she hated herself for that.

“God, you’re so pathetic,” she spat, her lips curling cruelly at the sides of her mouth. “Stupid, stupid—!” Spinning on the heels of her boots, she was on the point of stomping off. She’d waited long enough. She really did deserve better than this. Only, just as she twirled around, she saw him. Coming up the walkway behind her. Slowly, with the long-loose stride of a man who was used to be watched. And liked it.

“Ben,” she whispered, her lips tugging upward of their own accord. Her heart jerked almost painfully in her chest, her skin tingling with anticipation. It was the drop right after reaching the heights of a rollercoaster ride. Her emotions scattering every which way, her blood heating up, cooling down, then blazing…

Schooling her features, a bit belatedly, she let her eyelashes skim down low over her eyes, her mouth pulling into a demurer state of mind. “You came.”

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, shrugging into the warmth of his jacket. There was no contrition in his comment, only a flat statement. He knew, after all, that she’d wait for him. She always had in the past.

As if on cue, she waved her hand in the air breezily. “It’s no big deal.” She wasn’t sure why she said it, where the compulsion to please him suddenly sprang from, especially when it should have been the other way around. She should have been pouting and he should have been grateful she’d stayed; remorseful he’d kept her. Yet another thing she’d hate herself for in the morning.

Ben came to stand in front of her, the scent of his cologne wafting into her nostrils, reminding her of late nights spent under snuggling up to his chest, under the glow of string lights and champagne. “You sure? You looked kind of upset when I saw you just now.” Reaching forward, he traced a finger down the side of her face. Despite the grave words, Ben was smiling at her, seemingly amused at her show of temper.  

Her body reacted accordingly, her stomach spasming at the contact, her chin leaning into his touch. Her indignation evaporating as though it had never been.

“You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He looked like he was going to say more. Brows drawing low, mouth pulling down slightly before opening…

A moment of panic seized her. He didn’t usually look so reticent. He didn’t usually look so unnerved by statements such as these. He liked to bask in the admiration of those around him.

“No,” Holding up a hand, she waved off the words hovering over his tongue. “Don’t.” The words shot out of her mouth insistently, almost violently.

He tilted his head questioningly.

“Don’t apologize,” she insisted. The hesitation of his voice, his stance—suddenly, she couldn’t stand to know why he was late. She was afraid he would actually put it into words.

What she meant to him.

 Her fingers reached out to grip the sides of his open jacket. “You’re here now.” 

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