Page 49 of The Roommate Lie

“You have to write a romance based on your ex? That sounds like torture.” He drags a french fry through the ketchup on his plate. “Can’t you just write a different book?”

I wish.

He says that so simply, so matter-of-fact. With all the innocence of a man without a fanbase.

“I can’t. That’s the story I promised my readers. I set up fake Jason’s romance in my last book, and I’ve already teased it multiple times. I just don’t want to write it.”

Charlie nods like he understands. Pausing, he gives my problem a little more thought. “Does it have to be a novel? Could you write something shorter instead? Would that be enough to make your readers happy?”

Something shorter? As soon as he suggests it, I love that idea. A fake-Jason novella would be so much easier to write than a full-blown novel. Or I could make it even more brief.

“A short story would be amazing,” I admit.

At that length, I’d be done before you know it. I could knock that story out in a few hours and never have to think about fake Jason again. If I also gave that story away to my fans for free? Even better. It would be like a peace offering, an “I’m sorry I ghosted everyone” consolation prize.

It takes a few seconds for doubt to creep in, and I give Charlie a sheepish glance. “But I still need to write a new novel—I need the money. And I have no idea what to write. I don’t even know where to start.”

I’m not being dramatic. When I say I have no idea what to write next, I mean it. My brain is an empty field of nothingness, a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Charlie shrugs. “You can write whatever you want. Whatever you’re most excited about.”

That sounds like bliss, but I still don’t know what I’d write. What excites me these days?Nothing.

I haven’t been truly enthusiastic about anything since Christmas Eve when I drove to visit my sister. I’ve been a bundle of worries ever since, and there hasn’t been room to feel anything else. My life has been stuck in survival mode.

Charlie can see it on my face. Not what’s actually wrong in my life, all the things I’m worried about, but the complete blank slate in my mind. The vast emptiness, devoid of excitement.

“You’re running on empty,” he says. “You’ve got to fill the tank.”

He’s right. I haven’t had real fun in a long time. That’s what this trip to visit Jason was supposed to be, my chance to fill my creative well. To see new things, have new experiences, and feel alive again.

But those plans didn’t exactly pan out.

“You need to take some breaks while you’re here. Have some fun. And you need a fishbowl of destiny.”

“A what?”

“A fishbowl of destiny. My sponsor gave me one when I started flamework. I could never figure out what to make, and it was really getting to me. So he filled a fishbowl with folded scraps of paper that he wrote random words and ideas on to help jog my imagination. I drew “smoke” and “tree” last month, and I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever made.”

Charlie pauses to point his fry at me. “You need a fishbowl of destiny. You could even put your favorite tropes in it.”

I want one. Badly. But a girl has to work with what she’s got. “Be my fishbowl. Tell me what to write.”

He considers that, giving my request serious thought. “How about a masquerade ball?”

I stare at him, the sheer perfection of that idea leaving me breathless. That idea ismagic.

“If you can’t figure out what to write, just start with a ball and see who shows up. We’ve read a few stories in book club that had masked balls, and they’re always fun. But I don’t think you’ve ever written one.”

I haven’t, and I love that he knows that. I beam at him, unable to hide my delight. “A masked ball sounds perfect.”

Charlie beams back, pleased he was able to help. “And I’m serious about taking breaks. I could show you around town while you’re here, take you to some of my favorite places—if you want.”

He sounds so shy when he says that, so uncertain, and it’s probably the most endearing thing I’ve ever heard.

“I’d like that.”

Again, doubt ruins my good mood, and I glance at the scandal sheet on the table. “But what about the Victorian?”

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