CHAPTER TWO
I don’t know that any part of my creativity will be salvageable if there are neighbors. I avoid booking places with neighbors, but there’s a house on the same road as the cabin I’m staying in.
I looked up the satellite images for this place before I booked it just to make sure it’s not near another cabin. I don’t want to have to listen to someone else’s loud children screaming at all hours of the day and night.
The place where I’m staying looked to be secluded on this road, so I didn’t notice the other cabin. It was probably swallowed up in trees when Google took the image.
The cabin I booked is tucked away at the end of the mile-long road I’m on, so I’m relieved to see they aren’t right next door to each other.
There’s at least a quarter of a mile that separates the driveways.
I prefer no traffic and no neighbors. I get distracted easily. The fewer people I see and the fewer conversations I’m forced to have, the more focused I can be. I once booked a writing retreat and met the neighbors before I even made it in the front door. It was a group of women on a girls’ weekend, and I ended up getting drunk with them every night and not getting a bit of work done.
It’s not always a bad distraction, but any distraction would feel like a negative one this time around, considering I have so much riding on meeting this deadline.
Which is why I audibly groan as I reach the end of the driveway and see a human. A living, breathing human on the front porch of the property I’m pulling into.
With all the advancements in technology, there is absolutely zero reason the rental host for this cabin should be meeting me in person, but here he is. I don’t even know him, and I already find him the most irritating
thing in the world.
I take that back.
The shape of corgis is pretty damn irritating. There’s something about a corgi that’s just . . . unfinished. It’s as if God started making the dog breed and walked away from them when he was only halfway into the design,
leaving them in this weird limbo. Their bodies are too long for their stumpy legs, their heads too big for the rest of their bodies, like they might face- plant with every step. Anytime I see one, I can’t help but feel like it’s a cosmic mistake walking around on four legs.
If there were a corgi at this guy’s feet, I’d question whether I had died and gone to hell.
The man’s grin stretches, and I half expect his face to split open as if it can’t quite contain all his teeth. There’s a bounce in his step that reminds me of someone who’s far too eager to please, as if he’s trying to sell me on this booking that I paid for months ago.
Why am I in such a bad mood?
Oh yeah. The podcast.
I wipe the frown away as I put my car in park and grab my phone. I also bring my key chain with me—the one with the Mace on it. I’ve never had to use it, but I’m also rarely in situations where I’m alone with strangers.
My thumb brushes over the small canister as I slip it into my pocket, the cold metal comforting in its weight. I’m in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense trees that seem to swallow the road behind me, and even though I’m pretty sure I could take this guy down if things went south, I’m not sure anyone would hear me out here screaming for help.
Where’s the bear when you need him?
I know from the guy’s owner profile that his name is Louie Longsetter.
What kind of name is Louie Longsetter? It sounds like a character from a sitcom, not the kind of person you’d expect to meet in the real world, with actual parents who said the name out loud and thought, Yes! That’s the one!
I don’t know that anyone named Louie Longsetter could even be dangerous.
But the way he’s standing like he’s been waiting for me longer than he should have been makes me second-guess that assumption.
I try to imagine a murderer named Louie Longsetter. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but as a woman about to embark on weeks of isolation, the thought that he could be a threat sticks in my mind, unwanted and uncomfortable, like a burr I can’t shake off.
“Right on time!” he calls out, his voice too bright, too cheerful, as if I’m a guest of honor instead of just another renter. He jogs down the steps
with an odd kind of buoyancy, heading toward me in a way that’s both eager and unsettling.
I hate that I find cheerful people immediately unlikable. I’m aware that’s a flaw within myself, but I have too many flaws to worry about polishing that one.
“Beauty of GPS,” I mutter, popping the trunk with a little too much urgency. Louie Longsetter may not seem like the name of a murderer, but I’m pretty sure there was a serial killer named Pichushkin. Anything’s possible.
Louie is beside me now, and he reaches into my trunk, his large hands wrapping around the handles of my suitcases. He yanks both out at once and lets them drop onto their sides on the gravel with a dull thud.
I wince, resisting the urge to snap at him. It’s RIMOWA luggage— new, sleek, expensive, and so far, free of any scratches or scuffs. I received it for my birthday a few months ago, and this is the first time I’ve been able to use it. I’ve been proud that it’s remained in pristine condition.
Until now.
I bend down quickly and lift one suitcase upright as I suppress a wave of irritation.
Louie, oblivious, mirrors my movements and sets the other suitcase upright, though I notice he’s dragging it behind him as he heads to the porch. The wheels scrape against the gravel like nails on a chalkboard, and I flinch inwardly, lifting mine off the ground to carry it.
“You’re the Petra Rose, right? The writer lady?” he asks, peering over
his shoulder at me.
The writer lady?
I nod as I follow close behind, trying to plaster on a polite smile. “Yes, sir. Here to find inspiration. In the silence,” I add.
There are groceries in the back seat I still need to unload, but I’d rather him not know that. I just want him to leave. I needed him to leave before I showed up. That’s why rentals have door codes and self-check-in instructions.
We head up the porch steps, me holding my suitcase gingerly so the wheels don’t scrape up the steps, while Louie drags the other behind him like it’s an afterthought.
“I haven’t read any of your books,” he says, his voice almost apologetic, “but my wife said she thinks she’s read one.” He stops on the
porch and fishes a ring of keys out of his pocket. “We did watch your movie, though. When I told my wife you were staying here, she made me promise to ask you about some character who was missing? Not sure what she’s referring to. You know, I was thinking on my walk over here about what would make a great movie,” he continues, handing me the keys.
Oh, God. Not this.
“My life,” he says, cocking an eyebrow like I should be impressed.
“I’ve lived one hell of a crazy life. It could make you millions.”
I’m positive it wouldn’t.
“If you need any ideas . . .” he starts again, clearly not getting the hint from my expression alone.
I cut him off, my smile stretched thin. “Fiction is the only thing I know how to write, unfortunately.”
I’ve lost count of how many times people have offered their life stories to me after finding out I’m a writer. Everyone is convinced they’re sitting on the next great American novel.
Maybe they are. I certainly haven’t been.
“But if you heard my story . . .” he says.
“You know, if it’s that good, you should write your own story,” I say, not wanting to come off as rude. “No one knows it better than you, and you shouldn’t be handing your ideas out for free.” My voice is polite, but inside, I am willing him to leave.
“Dyslexic,” he says with a shake of his head, his smile faltering slightly. “Very dyslexic. Not sure if you noticed that in my emails. Gotta be honest, when I recognized your name and saw you were the writer, I was kind of nervous to email you back. Thought you might laugh at my poor grammar.”
“I would never. My father was dyslexic, and he was the smartest man I’ve ever known.”
Louie smiles at that. “It’s a hell of a thing to work through. Sorry your mother had to deal with that.”
I pause, because I just told him it was my father. Not my mother. Does he have a memory issue? Hearing impairment?
He winks. “Gotcha. Little dyslexia humor.”
I smile. “Yep. That one flew right by me.”
“My wife says I woulda made a good actor. She’s an actress. My wife.
Sort of. Well, it’s hard to explain, but she acts. In documentaries. Which I
guess still makes her an actress, but . . .” He continues talking about his wife’s career, or lack thereof, but I’m too distracted to listen because—holy shit.
The outside of this place does not do the inside justice.
The interior is far more modern than I expected—clean lines, smooth finishes, like it’s been plucked straight out of a design magazine. The rustic exterior was just a facade—inside, everything gleams.
I was expecting creaky wooden floors, maybe the smell of old pine or the comforting musk of an extinguished fireplace. But instead, I’m greeted by sleek surfaces, harsh lighting, and the kind of clean, minimalistic decor you’d find in a city loft. The floors are polished concrete, gleaming beneath the recessed lighting that casts everything in a clinical glow. The walls are painted a crisp, sterile white, and large, abstract paintings hang in expensive frames, too curated and intentional for a place like this.
There’s a charm to traditional cabins. The kind where you hole up with nothing but a roaring fire and the occasional scuttle of wildlife outside. I was hoping for the roughness of wooden, unsanded walls, and the sense of being tucked away in nature’s arms, away from the world.
But this?
This feels like I’ve stepped into a tech startup’s getaway house. Not a writer’s retreat.
I let out a sigh and roll my suitcase toward the living room, the sound of the wheels echoing too loudly in the open space. I hear Louie following behind me, and can almost hear his pride as he watches me take it in.
“This looks nothing like the pictures online,” I say, turning to face him.
“Just completed the remodel,” he says proudly. “You’re the first guest since we finished it, actually. We’re pretty proud of her. My wife did most of the design herself. She’s got an eye for this stuff.”
That makes more sense. It explains the contrast between Louie and this house.
The living room furniture is completely sterile. A low black leather couch that looks more like a showroom piece than something you could sink into and read a book on. A glass coffee table that reflects the light in too many corners, its edges sharp enough to slice open a knee if you aren’t careful.
Even the fireplace, which I thought might offer some rustic warmth, is just an elegant gas fixture behind a smooth modern facade. It flickers with a mechanical precision that makes me long for the uneven crackle of real wood burning.
I am such an ungrateful brat. Who would be sad to stay in a place this gorgeous?
It’s just . . . there’s no charm in it. No history. It’s efficient, sure, but it doesn’t feel like a place for inspiration. It feels like a place to execute tasks, to work, but not to create. I wanted solitude, yes, but I wanted to feel connected to the wilderness of this place, to the raw beauty of the woods.
Instead, I feel like I’ve been dropped into a high-end Airbnb, too pristine for the kind of messy, creative process I imagined.
My writer’s block has been so bad, I blame everything for it. I’m even prematurely blaming this beautiful house.
I sigh again. This might not be the retreat I hoped for, but considering my sour mood, I don’t know that anything would be met with warmth from me right now.
“Really nice place,” I say, giving Louie at least a fraction of the reaction he’s probably hoping for.
“I’ll tell my wife you love it,” he says. “You know, we live just down the road. You probably noticed the house, actually. First and only other one on the whole road,” he adds, his eyes fixed on me a little too long, as if waiting for me to ask for more details.
I nod, hoping that’ll be enough to keep him from offering more.
“I know you’re here to work,” Louie continues, “but if you’re not too busy, you could come over for dinner sometime this week. The wife would love to meet you. It’s just the two of us, and we love having company when we can.” His grin widens, and there’s that gleam again in his eyes that makes him come off way too eager and forward.
Or maybe the word I’m looking for is desperate.
Or just lonely?
My mouth twists at the dinner invite, but I try to suppress it with a smile. I can’t imagine anything worse than spending an entire meal making small talk with Louie Longsetter and his wife who thinks she read one of my books and is an actress, but not really an actress, but kind of is an actress. I’m already exhausted by the explanation of that, and I haven’t even met the woman.
“Oh, that’s really nice of you,” I say, my smile feeling more forced with every passing second. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll text you if I find some free time?”
There’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but he quickly recovers, nodding. “Of course, of course. You’re here to write, after all. I just thought, you know, if you needed a break or anything . . .” His voice trails off, and he gives a little wave. “Well, I’m just down the road if you need me.”
I nod again, tighter this time. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
With another awkward wave, he turns and heads out the door toward the road. I close the door, lean against it for a moment, and stare back into the unnervingly modern space.
The backyard overlooking the lake isn’t west-facing.
I always get a west-facing house for this part of the process. There’s something about watching the sunset that lights a creative fire in me like nothing else. The way the sky burns with hues of orange, pink, and violet pushes me to write with a kind of urgency that feels both exhilarating and necessary.
That’s how it’s supposed to work, anyway.
But I booked so late this time around, I had to settle for an east-facing backyard view, and I feel the difference in every fiber of my insecure, untalented being. Sunrises just feel harsh and demanding, almost as if they expect too much from me too soon, and that’s how I’m going to start each day here with these massive east-facing windows.
Maybe I could write in the primary bedroom, which is the next room I peek into. There’s a window that faces west behind the bed, but it wouldn’t offer views of the sunset through the dense trees.
“Almost forgot!”
Shit! I spin around at the sound of his voice, a yelp stuck in my throat.
I bring my hand up to my chest, startled, but try to keep my anger at bay when I see Louie is standing in the doorway to my bedroom.
He waves a sheet of paper in the air. “Wi-Fi password and such. Forgot to leave the rules.” He sets it on the credenza next to the bedroom door.
“Like I said, first guest since the remodel, so I’m sure there’s a thing or two I’m forgetting. Let me know if you have any trouble, or if any of the appliances don’t work, or . . .”
“Thank you,” I say sharply. “I can take it from here.”
Louie nods, but half his teeth disappear in what would still be considered a smile on most people, though for him it’s basically a frown.
“Break a leg,” he says. “Or . . . whatever they say to writers.” He heads back toward the front door. “Break a pen? Break a keyboard?”
He’s still muttering alternative phrases as he closes the door behind him. I hate that he knows who I am and what I’m here for. I shouldn’t have booked under my business email, but I’ve been using it for so long, it would be too much trouble to change it to something that isn’t my author name.
I can’t get away from myself, or my recognizable name, even to a guy who is older than my father and lives in the middle of nowhere. No matter how much I try to hide from being Petra Rose, I’m here. I’m there. I’m every-fucking-where. On the cover of People, on the home pages of E!
News and TMZ, on podcasts with only two thousand followers.
Whatever pays the bills, I guess. I’m sure I’d be doing the exact same thing if the writing didn’t work out when it did.
Hell, I have the following—I should monetize my own platform and start shit-talking myself too. I’d probably make more money by trashing me than being me.
I always feared this would happen. The loss of anonymity. But I don’t think I ever imagined it happening on this level.
When I first began writing, I did it purely for fun. It was a need.
Something I could escape to when my real life got hectic. It was exciting, and readers were excited. I’d write about anything I felt like writing about.
Hot MMA fighters, aliens attacking Earth, farmers falling in love with city girls. Seventeen books later, my name was out there and bills were getting paid and life was good. I felt like I was on top of the world.
Unfortunately, gravity pulls everyone back down again. And boy did I fall hard. It was like someone sliced a hole in my parachute and threw my descent on live television for the entire world to see.
Which is why I’m in the predicament I am in. Way too far behind on a deadline, and a house with a past-due mortgage. And the icing on the cake?
Writer’s block.
