Page 8 of Fighting Words

“Why are you so against the creative process?”

“I’m not.” I say the words through clenched teeth.

She doesn’t falter. Shestilldoesn’t get it. “It’s obvious you might need some help—”

“NOT from you!” The words burst out of me like a clap of thunder, and I immediately regret them, even more so when she flinches and drops her eyes as if I’ve scared her.

Christ.

I dump my untouched second glass of wine down the sink, set the glass on the counter, and head for the stairs. I’ll put the fire out later. Right now, I want to be done with this conversation and done with her.

“There’s a spare blanket there if you need to take it to bed. It gets cold at night. I’ll get you to the train in the morning.”

“But—”

“Good night, Summer.”

I’m almost to the top of the stairs before she replies sullenly. “Good night.”

CHAPTER 3

SUMMER

Nathaniel wasn’t kiddingabout the cold. A cottage like this doesn’t come equipped with central heat. It’s the dead of night and I’m lying on the daybed in the guest bedroom upstairs, still wearing Nathaniel’s sweatshirt and socks. I have three blankets wrapped around me and Cat at my feet, acting like a tiny furnace.

I can’t sleep, but it’s not from the chill. I have no idea what time it is. My phone’s charging across the room, and I don’t want to leave my cocoon of warmth to check it. It has to be late though. I stayed awake downstairs a while after Nathaniel went up. Part of me wanted to finish my wine; it was delicious and I would have gladly accepted the glass Nathaniel poured down the drain in his rush to get away from me—a pity. But I also lingered down there because I appreciated the peace and quiet in front of the roaring fire. I love this cottage. If I had money to spare, I would gladly take a vacation somewhere just like this. I can picture it perfectly. I’d do nothing but read for days on end. My only worry would be running low on the cheese Nathaniel fed me or on firewood.

It would be a far cry from the vacations I’m used to, the ones I went on as a kid with my family. To call them vacations is laughable. They were excursions, treks, life-changing experiences for which it was absolutely required to come equipped with bug repellant, bear spray, hydration tablets, blister cushions, and ankle wraps. It was not about fun. My parents and my siblings would have laughed if I’d argued that vacations are meant to be relaxing.

The worst ones—the ones that make me wince just thinking about them—include a five-day hike through Big Bend National Park in the heat of summer, a primitive elk hunt in Montana where we had to forage for our own food and mostly lived off of berries and nuts, and a never-ending sailing trip where I was expected to push through my intense bout of sea sickness to help the crew, I don’t know, cast lines and whatnot.

My entire familylovesstuff like that, but it’s not all that surprising. They’re extreme people, all of them. Let’s start with their jobs for instance. They’re all in healthcare, and not the 9-to-5 kind either. Both of my parents are pediatric trauma surgeons, my brother Ben is an emergency medicine doctor, and my sister Emma is an obstetrician.

My dad has completed the New York Marathon five times. My mom has taught herself the perfect art of French cooking and is an award-winning sommelier. Ben founded a healthcare non-profit and spends part of every year bringing low-cost health services to underserved communities around the country. Emma has three blond children!

I’m the blackest of the black sheep, the baby of the family people just sort of forget about.

“Ben and Emma really take after the two of you,” some distant relative said to my parents at a recent wedding. “You really lucked out with them.”

I wanted to wave my hand and say,Hey, remember me? I exist too.

My family wouldn’t know what to do with themselves in this cottage.

“Is there a leak somewhere I could fix?” my dad would wonder. “You know what? These door hinges need lubricant.”

“Let me get these books organized,” my mother would suggest.

They wouldn’t understand the magic of a place like this, the same way they don’t understand me.

I roll over and turn on my side. Cat meows like he’s pissed I woke him up, as if he hasn’t slept soundlessly through the night.

None of my family knows I’m here right now. Last month, I told them about my new job at InkWell via group text, and the silence that followed for the next eight hours made me want to shove my phone down the disposal. I knew Emma wasn’t going to respond. But finally, my brother chimed in to save me from complete embarrassment.

Ben: Great, Summer. Very exciting.

Then my dad broke rank.

Dad: I didn’t realize you were looking for a position like this. Developmental editor? What is your benefits package? Did you negotiate your salary? What’s the next step? Call me.

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