Page 19 of Sweet Escape

“Soon,” I whisper to the tub, and then I get about my business.

It doesn’t take long for me to get ready, and barely an hour passes by the time I’ve showered, shaved, and done my hair and makeup. Then I’m strolling out the front door of the Firehouse and onto the streets of Rosewood.

I take in as much as I can, from the strong oak trees lining the sidewalk, to the little benches scattered here and there, to the streetlamps with signs announcing the final night of the Summer Movies in the Park. I make a mental note to ask Murphy if she wants to attend.

I pass a bakery and a boutique. An exercise studio and a health food market. A music store and a flower shop. A bar, a café, a bookstore. And then ...

I smile.

The coffee shop.

I breathe in deeply as I push inside, the familiar scents of roasted coffee beans and pastries swirling together in a way that is simply magical.

And as I stand in line behind other patrons, I revel in my new surroundings.

It’s quaint and adorable, and I love that it’s walking distance from the inn. There are a few couches and armchairs in the middle, and plenty of tables along one wall where several others have set up shop with their laptops and headphones.

I’m not normally a scheduled worker—writing tends to be an organic process for me. But this looks like the type of place I could use as a home base. Maybe a spot at which to kick off my day and make a plan, even if I don’t end up doing the majority of my creative work here.

Even though I’m in town to get away from the drama of what happened with Theo, there’s still a deadline looming in the not-so-distant future. I still have obligations to my manager and my record label. And as nice as it would be to check out from all of that and disappear, the last thing I want to do is squander my dream just because I decided to waste three years of my life on a cheating asshole.

“What can I get you?”

The barista is a smiley brunette in her teens, and I offer her a returning smile before ordering a flat white and a croissant.

It only takes a few minutes for my order to come up. I take my drink and snack back outside to sit at one of the outdoor tables in front of the windows.

Then I tug out my notepad and pen and just ... sit and watch. Waiting for inspiration to strike.

I’ve been writing my own music since I was old enough to hold a pen, and my first song was a jolly little thing about our neighbor’s dog, Lily.

Lily, Lily, why are you so silly?

You love to sniff everything you see.

Lily, Lily, why are you so silly?

I’ll pet you all day for free.

I smile at the memory. It might not be my best stuff, but I was only five.

Even back then, I loved to write about what I saw.

As a five-year-old, I saw my neighbor’s dog. I saw my friends at school doing secret handshakes. I saw Christmas lights and the beach and Popsicles. So I wrote about those things.

Now, what I see is different. More nuanced.

Like now, sitting at this table and watching the slow calm of a lazy afternoon in Rosewood, what I see is ...

An elderly woman walking her dog.

A mother struggling to get her son into his car seat.

A little girl begging her dad to go into the bakery.

And while I might not write about those particular things, specifically, they might inform something Idowrite.

I write down a few key words and then play around in a thesaurus online.

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