First Draft Romance

CHAPTER TEN

I fall asleep at five a.m. and miraculously wake up to my seven a.m. alarm. I couldn't have fallen asleep earlier even if I'd have wanted to—I was far too focused on chipping away at the book idea I came up with last night.

It's been years since I was able to write that much in one sitting—I wrote for ten, eleven hours straight, and ended up with twelve-thousand words. Which is insane.

The only times I got up last night were either to grab another cup of coffee from our defunct Keurig, or to finish off my laundry. I shimmy into a maroon crewneck and my most flattering jeans, successfully dabbing on the same makeup as yesterday, but failing at tying my hair back.

When I was in high school, I always had really long hair, but my mom told me it shrouded my face. I'd only tried a short haircut to feel like an all-new person heading into college, and it ended up being the first thing Gina ever complimented me on, so I kept it.

Now, I think it'd feel too weird to grow it out.

The drawback of my short hair, of course, is that it's impossible for me to put up. Sometimes, I do this weird topknot bangs thing, but it falls out quickly, and it just feels disgusting. And then, if I'm doing a half-up, half-down thing, my bangs still end up in my face, which negates the whole purpose.

Normally when I write, I spend the whole time messing with it. But not last night. Last night, I managed to sit still for what felt like only an hour but ended up being nearly half a day. See again: Fucking. Insane.

I snag some apples from the fridge. It's not like they'll do much to keep me awake, but after how I felt with not eating yesterday, I'd rather have something to tide me over, even if it's not till lunch. If Roz ends up going back on what she said about providing lunches, then I'll figure something out later.

The whole commute to work is strange—I'm full of this weird, buzzing kind of energy, but it's hollow. I don't know how long it'll take for me to crash, but when I do, it'll be epic.

I brought my laptop with me in my tote bag. It's a shitty old Chromebook that I'm surprised is still hanging on in there—something I feel more than comfortable taking out of my bag and working on my budding manuscript on the subway. It's not the same kind of high as last night. The words flow slower, it doesn't feel quite as electric. But it still feels good, y'know? And I'll happily take that.

The elevator takes a while longer to arrive than it did yesterday and the day before, but I remind myself, it's not as if Roz is the only person who lives here. There are twenty-nine stories beneath her penthouse.

The doorman doesn't say a word while I wait. I keep trying not to stare at him, but it's hard not to when he's the only other person around. After a couple minutes have passed, and there's still no elevator, I clear my voice and ask, "What's your name?"

He ignores me.

I ... will try again some other time.

If I had only waited another ten seconds, I wouldn't have embarrassed myself. The elevator arrives, its stainless steel doors sliding open to reveal Willow. In yesterday's clothes. Her mouth parts in surprise when she sees me, and a slight flush creeps into her cheeks.

I'm hardly fazed. "Hi, Willow," I say, waiting for her to get out.

After a moment of hesitation, she does, and smiles so confidently that I might not have thought she seemed embarrassed just a moment before. "Hi, Marcie," she says, then struts right toward the lobby doors.

Called it.

The ride up to Roz's apartment goes uninterrupted, and then suddenly, the doors are opening, and I'm stepping out into her kitchen/living area.