My mother thinks I’m one of those loonies that are secretly attracted to wrongdoings, despite my good-girl exterior. I’ve protested, “I’m not!” about a million times, but she does NOT get it. “Well then, why else would you write such GHASTLY novels in the first place, ‘Lara’?” she keeps asking.
I can’t explain this to my mother, I can’t. And does she have to say my “name” like that?
Okay, I wasn’t even born Lara Arlington: I was born plain simple Lauren Jane Adams. But I’ve always liked how my initials spell ‘LA’, hence the pseudonym.
“Couldn’t you just have stuck with your old job?” She. Just. Won’t. Give. Up.
She’s screwing with my head again. I love my Mom, I do, but this is unbearable. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old bestselling author. Not to brag or anything, but my debut novel, Leda, did well enough to land me a million interviews, on the cover pages of several glossies (I looked quite good, even if I say so myself – all dark brooding eyes and pouty mouth, almost like a supermodel) and not to mention, quite a few awards.
So how on earth is it a bad decision, quitting my job at the law firm and turning into a full-time-author? Trust my Mom to come up with something.
“Your father is very upset, you know, you should get back into business at the firm.”
Yeah, right. His firm. And I know for a fact that my ‘father isn’t upset’. He sent me a whole box of Kate Spade stationery to congratulate me. (Also, a teddy bear in a pink tee that says ‘WORLD’S BEST DAUGHTER’ and a blingy hat.)
I sigh and look at my watch. “I gotta go, Mom.”
She’s still looking at me, hoping I’ll explain why I write novels with such disturbing characters. She won’t understand if I tell her the truth. That I love my characters dirty, much like my martinis. She’ll panic and want to take me to Dr. Milton down the street. Yes, a psychiatrist, surprise surprise, who loves putting people on TCAs and fattening them up. So, nada.
I smile at Mom as apologetically as I can and leave her there with her dinner and Rosé – she drinks nothing but Rosé – looking mightily pissed, but I can’t do this.
I’ve to go home to Instagram stalk my ex online. Hopefully his profile is still publicly accessible. It’s only just past eight pm.
I imagine how crazy the tabloids would go of they get their hands on this piece of info. The headlines will actually scream, “THE REAL LIFE LEDA IS NONE OTHER THAN AUTHOR LARA!” Dear God. Shuddering at the thought, I let myself into my state-of-the-art (and terribly lonely) place and barely shedding my coat, flip open the laptop to see if Liam has posted anything new, if he’s still single, if… if he still misses me.
I do this every single night. I’ve gone to spy on him at work, incognito, a lot of times. Almost got caught once, and stopped.
We dated for over an year, until I got so caught up in writing and interviews and big money and book deals that he felt unloved, felt compelled to leave. I didn’t care much then, but now I’d have given EVERYTHING up to have him back. Liam, with his pleasant Irish lilt and twinkly brown eyes and dimpled smiles.
I feel like I actually might turn into Leda if I don’t get Liam back. And end up in a straitjacket. You know how this one person walks into your life and you’re like “He’s my Sun” and it’s funny how I’d think it was crap. Now I know what it means.
He’s taken every bit of love I had to offer and there’s no love left in me for anyone else. I feel dry as a bone.
I can never love again.