Page 57 of Lovetown, USA
“You’re nosy.”
I lean forward. “No. I’m your friend, remember?”
The word hangs between us until she finally sits, sagging against the bed, half a muffin forgotten in her hand.
“Fine.” She takes a deep breath. “My career is basically fucked, and it’s my own damn fault. I imploded in…epic fashion.”
She pauses, staring down at the muffin like it might come alive and comfort her.
“I used to write forThe Beacon,” she says, pausing to allow me to take that in. Which I do. That’s a major publication. I used to subscribe to it back in the day.
“And now, I’m blackballed in the journalism industry. This little online gig? I only have that because I’ve known my editor since journalism school.”
She bites off another piece and chews. “She’s taking a chance on me, but I don’t think…I don’t know if I’ll ever come back from what happened.”
I let the words sit. I don’t push. She doesn’t need that right now.
After a beat, I gently say, “Self-medicating isn’t the answer.”
Her lips curl. “Thanks for your concern, Doc.”
She downs the rest of the muffin, then stands, her back straight, shoulders squared. “I have some things I need to do today.”
The dismissal stings a bit, but I stand, respecting her wishes. “You’re kicking me out?”
“Yep.”
“Understood.” I step toward the door, then pause. “But before I go, come out with me tomorrow night. Lovers on the Lawn. It’s a big outdoor picnic with blankets and candles and a movie screening.”
Her laugh is biting. “That soundshorrible. Does it at least end with an orgy?”
“What?” I laugh with her, but mine is out of genuine amusement.
“Just trying to think of ways it could sound more interesting.” She considers, eyes narrowed like she’s weighing the potential outcomes of a dangerous gamble. “Fine. But only for research purposes.”
“Of course.” I move toward her, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek. “By the way…even at eight in the morning, you are absolutely fuckingbeautiful.”
She smiles, and I leave her there with the promise of our date tomorrow and the smell of blueberries lingering in the air.
19
Lane
I stare at mylaptop as the little white light on my webcam blinks back at me. Feels like it’s mocking me.
“Morning, Britt,” I say, trying to sound cheerful.
“Morning!” she chirps. “Numbers are great so far.” Her face fills the screen, along with her perfectly coiffed hair, bright blue blazer, and tortoise shell glasses. “But—and this is a big one—the column feels a bit too cynical.”
“Hello, have we met?”
Britt snickers. “Just recalibrate. Give us more of a balance between edge and…hope.”
“Hope?”
“Hope,” she emphasizes. “Sprinkle it in there. Readers want to feel like love might still exist. That true love is possible for them, even if the town is trying a little too hard.”
I roll me eyes, tapping my pen on my notebook. “Got it. Sprinkle hope on my articles like salt bae.”
