Page 45 of The Roommate Lie

Even when we were together, I couldn’t write this book. Something about fake Jason was impossible to build a romance around. Now that we’ve broken up?

Forget it.

I’d rather crawl back to Texas on my hands and knees than write this book. When you add in everything that’s happening with my sisters and yesterday’s medical news, it’s a wonder I can get anything done at all. That I’m not hiding in a blanket cocoon somewhere, watching cat videos on my phone. How am I supposed to finish an entire novel when I don’t even have the energy to make lunch?

Magic.

Suitcase magic.

I fling open Big Red with a flourish worthy of a Las Vegas magician. It’s time to slap a Band-Aid on this open wound. It’s time toshake things up.

Carefully, I move the extra clothes I packed in my suitcase to protect my sweet angel. Underneath, my lucky typewriter is waiting for me. Except it doesn’t look that lucky.

Silver Bullet wasn’t in the best shape when I found him at a local flea market. He was dented and rusty, headed for antique heaven. I wanted to save him, but now he looks worse. As if he’s been to war.

The typewriter repairman I reached out to in New York City last year—one of the best in the country—said it wasn’t worth shipping to him for repairs. Silver Bullet was too far gone. And that was before Jason chucked my suitcase at the sidewalk like a meteor. I shudder to think what that repairman would say now.

After a showdown with my ex, my lucky typewriter is falling apart at the seams. Things are crooked that shouldn’t be, the carriage is dented, and there’s so much gaping around the rear panel, it looks like it’s trying to run away from the rest of the typewriter.

Maybe it still works?

I set it on top of the dresser, optimistic until the bitter end. But when I type my first letter, the sound it makes is the most unholy noise I’ve ever heard. If a typewriter could utter profanities, I’m pretty sure this is what it would sound like.

I type a few more letters. Maybe it’s fine—maybe it just needs to warm up. Yet each new noise gets worse, metal grinding on metal like my typewriter is powered by ancient, rusty gears. Or as if there are cannibal robots trapped inside, fighting to the death.

Despair washes over me. More than any cat video could ever cure.

It was already a long shot; I knew that. Typewriters have always worked for me in the past when I’ve had normal writer’s block. They’re a great way to break my routine, keep from editing while I write, and they make getting words down feel fun again. But I don’t have normal writer’s block this time. I have life-crisis block.

And I don’t think there’s a cure.

Panic joins my despair, and that dynamic duo almost pulls me under. I’m two seconds away from constructing a blanket cocoon when there’s a knock on the guest room door. A very cautious knock.

I take a deep breath and try to look normal before I open up. Even though my world is falling apart and “normal” doesn’t exist anymore. Charlie leans against the doorframe when he sees me, his eyes moving carefully over my face as he assesses the situation. Trying to figure out what’s wrong, so he can help.

“Whatcha doing, Kilpatrick?” His voice is gentle but teasing. “Because it sounds like you’re murdering a robot.”

My chin quivers. That’s all I can do.

He spots my typewriter on the dresser next, then my open suitcase, and the mystery practically solves itself. “It got busted at the wilderness resort?”

I nod.

“Mind if I take a look?”

I move aside, and he gingerly examines Silver Bullet. His hands are slow and careful, like a man who’s spent years working with glass. Something about how gentle he’s being gives me chills.

When he glances up, that same gentleness is in his eyes. I can tell he wants to say something upbeat, but he can’t. “It doesn’t look good,” he admits. “Our typewriter guy is out of town, but I’m honestly not sure if he’d be able to fix it.”

That doesn’t surprise me, but something else does. “Ponderosa Falls has a typewriter guy?”

“Henrietta’s oldest son, Barry. You’d probably get a kick out of him. He and his wife travel to history festivals every summer, that’s why he’s out of town. And they like to ride around on those old-timey bicycles. The ones with the giant front wheel but tiny back wheel.”

“Penny-farthings?”

I swoon despite how bad my day has been, and Charlie smiles, his dimples on full display. “I knew they’d be your kind of people.”

Before he can say more, he spots something on the bed that makes his smile deepen. Those dimples too.

---