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I submitted this short story to a contest. It didn’t win, however I love the practice of writing outside of my typical genre, and I do love this rom-com inspired piece. Hope you enjoy as much as I did writing it.

Through the window I saw the sunset; watercolor hues faded into each other with no beginning and no end, how I’d always imagined Jackson and I. Now everything had changed, and Jackson had discarded our love like last season’s bestseller.

“You want some time to yourself?” asked Loren, my driver. 

“Yes.”

Loren exited the car and searched the landscape; not a soul was in sight. “You’re good.” He motioned as he opened the door, letting me out. “Don’t go beyond the tower. I’ll follow at a distance.” 

I nodded my understanding and took off at a jog towards the sea while plugging in my earbuds. Fiona O’Donnell sang a longing ballad: “you don’t know what you have ‘til it’s gone.” 

I knew what I had. The perfect love. How could I have been so wrong? My world had shattered–like Grandma’s prized heirloom vase. The pieces lay bare for the rest of the world to pick up as souvenirs. I’d already given him all of me–now I needed something for myself. Where to begin?

I wrapped myself around my coffee mug, ball cap slung low, praying no one recognized me. Two years had passed, and my name had slipped out of the news feed, even so, I had a few loyal fans that made living a normal life hard. Rain dripped off the awning of Bean There, Done That. I’d chuckled the first time I walked past. I couldn’t stay away from a coffee shop with such a quirky name.

“You need a refill, hon?” 

I placed my hand out, stopping the barista, who wore a nametag with Twila emblazoned with heart stickers. “I’m good.” 

Her frizzy gray curls sprung up in all directions, accented by a pair of dark cat-rimmed eyeglasses, and completed by a hand-sewn apron that looked like it came straight out of the 1950s. She was a real-life Mrs. Frizzle from The Magic School Bus. She collected all the containers of sugar packets on the tables, went behind the counter, and dumped them out. “I like your outfit.” 

“Thank you.” Her words lifted my confidence a bit. I still had it–that bit of swag I thought would never return. 

“Reminds me of the 2010s,” she kept on.

I refrained from sputtering my coffee back into the cup. 2010s? Who was this woman giving me fashion advice when she looked like she walked straight out of a Sears catalog? Honestly, I had owned the blouse for over ten years. I forced a smile; she meant well. 

“I know who you are?” She slid into the seat opposite me. “But I won’t tell a soul. You are safe here, dearie.” 

I looked at her from under the bill of my cap. Her brow wrinkled at me. 

“Here you can always go out the back door, scout’s honor.” 

“Thanks.”

I began frequenting the coffee shop daily. My interaction with Twila stalled at the pleasantry stage. After a week or two of our song and dance, she asked a question. 

“So, what are you working on?” 

“Huh?”

“You’re still a writer, correct?”

“Sometimes.” 

“Caroline Rose, I’ve read every one of your books–you have a gift. Why would you stop?”

“Well, you know life came along, and I lost the touch. After two duds, I find myself without a publishing house willing to take me on.” 

“Is that why you started writing? To get the approval of publishing houses?” 

“Absolutely not. If you know anything about me, it’s been my life’s work. As vital to me as the oxygen I breathe. You can’t just force creativity, though.” 

“I have the cure.” The corner of her mouth lifted slyly. 

I leaned in. “Do tell.” What elixir would an aging barista have to cure my writer’s block?

She leaned back against the counter. “You’ll just need to come see for yourself. Tonight at seven thirty, half an hour after closing. Come to the back door.” 

“Um…. you won’t eat me, right?” 

Twila chuckled. “I hate to break it to you, hon, but I truly think I’m the only one who recognizes you these days. You’ll be safe.” She returned to arranging her sugar packets again.

“Geez, Twila, way to build my confidence.” A piece of me loathed her words, and the other half relished the freedom they brought. Twila said whatever came to mind, but she’d proved her trustworthiness in the two weeks I’d known her.

“Will you come?” She prodded. 

I picked up my coffee cup and took a swallow. “Okay.” 

“Seven thirty. Sharp. Give the door three solid raps. I’ll know it’s you.” 

That night I drove. I needed a getaway car at my fingertips; who knew what I was getting into? The whole thing reeked of a story, and a kind of anticipation that twisted with hesitation filled my gut. I hadn’t looked forward to anything for a very long time, yet I loathed anything new. Would whoever is behind those doors recognize me? I should have worn my wig. Too late now. 

The October sun sank low behind the clouds, and dusk fell fast as I parked behind the back entrance of Bean There, Done That. As I threw my keys in my bag, my head pounded. What lay behind those doors? 

My fist pounded the door in three short raps, the effort sounding weak against the solid metal door. 

Twila opened the door. “Milady.” She leaned in for a hug. “I’m delighted you came. Welcome to our little club, the Plot Twist Collective.” 

My head cocked to the side, taking in the scene. All the overhead lights were off, and only twinkle lights illuminated the circle of faces staring at me.

“Don’t you worry; it’s a safe space, little one. We’re all writers, who write for the love of the word.”

I narrowed my eyes. Little one? “Wait? You’re a writer? What do you write?”

“Come and find out. Folks, I’d like you to meet our guest for the evening. This here is Naomi Carter. She’s been coming into the coffee shop; she’s a writer and needs some encouragement.” 

Naomi Carter? I didn’t think she had it in her to lie so easily.

Twila winked at me. The twitch of her eye said your secret’s still safe with me. She motioned for the crew to gather around the snack table. “Let’s do introductions. State your name, what you write, and what you read you find delightfully fascinating.”  

The woman to Twila’s right started, “Welcome, Naomi–I’m Cindy. I write contemporary romance and recently re-read Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy is a page-turner of a man, I tell ya. I’m thinking of doing a retelling. I can’t help myself; it’s my favorite.” Cindy grinned and sank deeper into her seat.

One by one, they went around the circle. Each introduction grew the excitement in my belly. Finally, people who understood my love for literature. When had I stopped caring less about the craft and more about the sales, the bestseller list, and the fame?  

Three-fourths of the way around the circle, my heart skipped a beat when my eyes met his. His curly dark hair that grazed his ears reminded me of my childhood crush. He ran his fingers through it before giving his name: Silas Reed. I couldn’t avert my gaze from his velvety dark eyes; my cheeks warmed like a mug of hot chocolate. When had been the last time I’d blushed because of a man? I had no clue what Silas Reed said because the pounding of a pulse in my ears prevented me from paying attention. 

“You’re up, dearie.” Twila patted my back. 

“Oh. Yes sure. Like Twila said, I’m Naomi.” The name didn’t roll off my tongue as easily as it did hers. “I write romance, well at least I used to. These days I spend most of my time staring at a blank page. I can’t seem to get even the first word out.” 

“We’ve all been there, hon. Haven’t we, gang?” Twila gestured around the circle.

 I lifted my eyes. Nodding heads came at me like a flock of bobbing turkeys. I couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “I can see that.”

“Community is where it is at. All of us have tried to make it on our own, and we can’t.”

The group dispersed as they all reached for snacks. Twila elbowed me. “Well, what do you think?” 

Silas caught my eye across the room. He cocked his head and shrugged before giving me a thousand-watt smile.

Words failed me. Tonight felt like a new beginning. Something had led me to this place for a purpose. Caroline Rose, best-selling author, now had a new name, a new beginning, and a new story. 

Twila slung an arm around me. “Who knows, you may even find a new love. Wouldn’t that be a plot twist?” Her eyes twinkled with untold secrets as she winked at me.