When JJ came home, I was lying on the couch, bouncing a tennis ball off the ceiling. Cristian wasn’t there, so I was practicing no restraint.
“I’m not perfect. I can’t think of a plot for the Phoenix sequel. You look really cute in your school clothes.”
“Take ’em off.” Thump…thump…thump…
He ignored me. “You’re gonna knock the plaster down.”
“Ask me if I give a fuck.”
He sat on the coffee table, briefcase on his knees. “Did you soak in the tub with a glass of wine and think about it?”
“Take a nap and try to dream up a plot?”
“Woke up cranky and out of sorts.” Thump…thump…thump…
He reached out and grabbed the ball as it fell. “Enough.”
Scowling, I picked up a pillow and started tossing it. There is no reasoning with me in this mood. I’m a jerk. I’m brain fried. I’m directionless and plotless and a shit pile of uninspired cells.
A writer who isn’t writing feels worthless.
JJ grabbed the pillow and put it beside the ball. “What about the novel you were editing? What did AJ say?”
“He said it was okay, not my best…it’s fucking shit.”
“He didn’t say that last bit.”
“No, I did.”
JJ stood. “Get up. Comb your hair, tuck in your shirt, and let’s go out for dinner.”
“Only if I can get drunk.”
“Fine. I’ll drive.”
He takes such good care of me.