Page 17 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
For a second, that thought threatens to overwhelm—God, it hurts so much to think of what I’ve lost—but I push it down, slap a lid on the emotions.
There’s nothing I can do right now.
Not from here.
And in the meantime, I’m wide awake.
I’m alive.
I need to sit in that, remember that, and not be grouchy because I can’t peck away at my keyboard—or really, enjoy the fact that I finished a book yesterday (and seriously, thank God I emailed it to Gerta before my house burned down and I lost all that work). I can replace plates and wine, my laptop and Kindle. I can replace my paperbacks (though maybe not all of my signed special editions, which sends a pang through my middle). I could—even if it would have practically killed me—recreated the final version of my book.
I have backups on the cloud.
Would I have lost the final day’s worth of tinkering and that really sexy scene with the sprinkles, chocolate syrup, and the can of whipped cream?
Probably.
But I would have been okay.
I will be okay.
Because I always am.
Because my fictional main characters—and the side ones too—always find their way to their happy endings. Oh, and the bad guys (or gals or gender non-conforming baddies) always get their comeuppance.
That’s not to say it’s easy for my fictional friends.
In fact, I’ve had many an accusation on social media (and in my inbox) about my penchant for putting my heroes and heroines through the wringer.
Bad exes? Oh yeah.
Horrible, abusive parents? Definitely.
An evil druid out to destroy the world? Abso-freaking-lutely.
Sexual trauma? Loss of loved ones? Bosses that should be arrested? Yup. Yup. Yup.
I’ve written car accidents and broken bones, magical deaths, and yes, even a house fire or two.
But my main characters are always saved by a fantastic possessive and protective man (or occasionally—because my girlies need their turns too—by my kickass heroines).
Anyway, I should be thanking my lucky stars I was rescued by the hot hero (hello inspiration for future books) and also that I’ve done enough research on what to do after a house fire to know what my next steps are.
Get out of the hospital.
Get a hotel room.
Contact my insurance company.
Or, well, items two and three may be reversed depending on whether I can drum up some sort of payment method to guarantee the reservation.
Either way, I have next steps.
Then I can see about paying back one Gray Roberts for his heroics.
I reach for the remote that’s attached to the bed, the long cream-colored cord wound through one of the holes on the side rail, and jab at the buttons until the TV turns on and I find some sort of game show to pass the time.
It’s not long before my eyes start drifting closed, but my sleep isn’t restful.
