The backyard was buzzing with activity. Trish, sporting miniature overalls and a bright pink watering can, was giggling as she chased butterflies around a patch of newly planted lavender. Megan, kneeling by a flowerbed, turned to smile at Lindsay, who stood a bit apart, a half-finished cup of tea in her hand.
"Looks like someone's enjoying herself," Megan said, her voice warm.
"She adores it," Lindsay replied, a wistful smile touching her lips. "Lena always said a garden is a child's first playground."
Megan watched as Trish carefully watered a tomato plant, the image overlapping with a fading memory of a younger Lindsay, her hands lovingly tending to rose bushes. Perhaps there had always been more to her than the socialite persona.
"Would you like to help?" she offered, gesturing towards the open seed packets. "It's good for fine motor skills."
Lindsay hesitated for a moment before nodding. As she knelt next to Megan, their shoulders brushed. A surge of warmth, unexpected and unwelcome, shot through Megan. She glanced at Lindsay, finding her cheeks flushed, a lock of hair falling across her face.
Megan reached out, gently tucking the strand behind Lindsay's ear. Their eyes met, and for an electrifying moment, time seemed to stand still.
In the fall after her high school graduation, Danielle Davis has been spending her days lying alone in her shared New York City apartment. Attempting to fill the ticking time, she fills her moments painting empty canvases and ignoring her roommate as much as she possibly can without her actually noticing. But she can only go so long without seeing her, and at their once a month lunch date her roommate brings along a guest. Maren.
Excerpt:
She was paler than I first remember her, wearing clothes three times larger than her own frame, little effort put into her outfit compared to the first time I met her. She looked confused too for a second, and then she leaned down to pull her sandals off, making herself comfortable in someone else's home. Maren didn't seem like the kind of girl to spontaneously show up at someone's house, maybe I had misjudged her.
"Beth's not here." My face remained blank while we made eye contact, she stood up, her natural height just a little taller than my own. Her gaze settled on me, her eyebrows were slightly furrowed. Head to toe, and back again her eyes flickered.
She didn't answer my statement. "I didn't think you'd be here."
"I live here." I deadpan, she's leaning against the door now, pulling her phone out of her pocket.
"I know."
***
This is my NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) project for this year! This is a raw, unfinished first draft of a story I've cooked up to keep me warm in the winter. Don't be surprised if there's incomplete sentences, memory problems, and forgotten moments. Writing a first draft is about getting the words on the paper and moving on. Editing will begin after I've finished the novel.
Hmu writing buddies. ;)