Heart Song

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My eyes sprang open. I blinked twice, adjusting my sight to the obscurity surrounding me. Entangled in my bedsheets, I combed the web of knots my hair had turned into with my fingers. Great, my night had been another round of tossing and turning. I stared at the ceiling, the darkness swallowing me in, wondering what time it was. Through the small crack where my curtains didn’t quite meet, the moon peeked at me, a thin crescent of silver in the night sky. I propped myself up on my elbows, angled my upper body toward the nightstand, and searched for my phone with a hand numb from sleeping in an awkward position. Once I unplugged the cord, I slumped back, my head hitting the fluffy pillows. Squinting at the phone screen, I held my breath.

Three forty-eight.

No. I cringed and dropped my device beside me, where it landed on the mattress with a soft thud, praying I read the time wrong.

I needed the rest. More than ever. My novel wouldn’t write itself. Right now, I had half a mind to look for a ghostwriter. But who was I kidding? I’d never go there. I sighed, dragging my hand over my face, still heavy with sleep. All I needed was to bring my brain on board.

A few years ago, I had my first meet-and-greet with insomnia, and it was a hard cycle to break. Believe me. We were in this long-lasting relationship. Sure, the sleeping pills I took for a while helped with the sleep part, but they also got me all drowsy during the day. After I dropped them, I tried melatonin, magnesium, meditation, breathing exercises, and lavender essential oil. Anything to help me find sleep at night. The latter had even become Zen-April’s drug of choice. So much so that I turned it into my personal fragrance. I sprayed it on my pillow, misted it in the kitchen using one of those little, ten-light-setting diffusers, and kept a roll-on in my purse.

Every night, my brain was stuck in the hamster wheel for hours, with thoughts of what could have been, but remained stalled and blank during the day. Forget being productive or at the top of my game. Not happening. My disturbed nights complicated my existence. In one word, they messed with my head. And my life.

Damn thing.

I pondered my options. Get up and get to work. Or force my eyes to stay closed and bury my head under a pile of pillows, hoping sleep knocked on my door and swept me away. Yeah, right. I snorted. Sleep never knocked twice on the same night. At least, not in my case. With a sigh, I tried the pillow thing anyway. Just in case. One could still be hopeful.

My brain would not win this round. No way. Not under my watch.

Four fifty-seven.

This was an impossible situation.

How early was too early to wake up and jumpstart your day?

If I had an athletic bone inside of me, I would be a runner. Or a high-performing triathlete. Those were the people who got up early with purpose—or I supposed they did. At this time of the day, I, April Simmons, had none. To focus on my writing now was asking too much from me. 

Hours ticked by.

I flipped onto one side, then the other, doing a poor job of convincing myself I’d fall back to sleep.

My mind wandered to my third novel, which I hadn’t even started writing yet. My agent Jill had given me a one-month deadline to submit the first draft. My fourth deadline extension. I’d been procrastinating for the last three months, unable to focus, my fingers too stiff to type, my brain blocking my creative flow. My head wasn’t in the game. It was lost somewhere, far from the place it should be. And added to my sleepless nights, that was a deadly combination. Who would ever believe I was a twenty-four-year-old fantasy—enchanted kingdom, magic spells, elves, and all—author with two bestsellers? At this moment, I too wasn’t convinced.

Blame me for my lack of organizational skills. Each minute of every day, I found more ways to be counterproductive than efficient. In the last few months, I’d surpassed my previous low records and now should reward myself with a medal. “Procrastination Queen.” My bubbly, spur-of-the-moment personality usually fueled my creative side and made up for my mental chaos: a cluster of grief, broken dreams, and lack of restful sleep.

It worked for my second book.

Not this time.

My brain turned into a blank canvas when it came to writing eighty-four days ago and counting. Every attempt to reboot it since then failed. Baking chocolate chip cookies, going for walks around the block, singing my heart out. Once I even tried jogging. Yeah. Crazy, right? Anyway, the right side of my brain, the root of creativity, had gone on strike and refused to come back to work. Regardless of the reward at the end. Stupid gray matter. Or was it white matter? Who cared? Somewhere inside me, I had locked away every single disappointment and sorrow in my life. Losing Travis, having to reinvent myself, being on my own again. That was what fueled my insomnia. And now I was failing my agent with this book. Even when I tried to keep my pain out of reach, it always resurfaced. And toyed with my mind. I guess the lock wasn’t sturdy enough. My sleeplessness only amplified my sense of inadequacy.

And added to the rambling inside my head. How pathetic had I become? I was now talking to myself as if there were two of us.

Six eleven.

Sitting, my attention drifted to the dresser on the opposite wall. The paint was chipping on the side, and I made a mental note to repaint it. And change the knobs while I was at it. It was the only piece of furniture that had followed me since college. It used to belong to my boyfriend when he was a kid, and for sentimental reasons, I had kept it when I moved here. It matched the teal bedframe and nightstands. My bedroom was big enough to host a queen-size mattress, with dual nightstands, a large walk-in closet, and a dozen black and white framed photographs of my friends and me over the years. A freestanding mirror stood in one corner next to a large potted plant.

Deciding I had prolonged the inevitable long enough, I got up. I put on my favorite dark-purple sweatpants and slid my arms into a gray cardigan over the white T-shirt I’d slept in. With the elastic band I kept around my wrist, I tied my jaw-length baby-pink hair in a messy half-do on the top of my head. I slid my feet into my sheepskin boots—the one expensive fashion piece I’d ever indulged in—and made myself a large mug of hot chocolate. With whipped cream. Not coffee. No matter how tired I was, I never yielded to caffeine. The smell alone was powerful enough to engage my gag reflex. Sure, I downed a cup or two—let’s be honest—in college when I knew I’d be up all night studying for mid-terms or finals. But each attempt failed at keeping me awake and left a putrid taste on my tongue. Back when insomnia and I weren’t acquaintances. I filed coffee under the you’ll have to kill me first file in my head. Along with oysters, licorice, and kissing Stevie Broderick in high school. All things that made washing my mouth with bleach seem like a viable option. 

In my own twisted way of thinking, I believed hot chocolate solved everything. Heartaches, headaches, menstrual cramps, writer’s block. However, the latter hadn’t turned out to be true. I remained hopeful it’d work its magic. One day. Eventually. The secret was in the whipped cream. A catalyst able to multiply the hot chocolate cures everything effect by ten. Or I wished it could.

With my head tilted back, I crossed my fingers and mouthed a silent prayer to the god of creativity. Yeah, if he didn’t exist, someone should invent him.

In the kitchen, I plopped down on a stool at the island and turned on my laptop, shutting my eyelids when the lit screen blinded me. Ugh, too early for this. I blinked to moisten my eyeballs, the back of my eyes burning. Since when did I become a morning person? April, get a grip on your life, move forward, and live a little. How many times had I repeated the exact same words to myself in the early hours of the morning without success?

I sighed. I’d lost count.

I perused the space around me, anything to distract me and prevent me from staring at a blank page. The room was small but inviting. Stainless steel appliances, chess-black-and-white floor, mint-green cabinets. A wooden island topped with a concrete slab and two stools separated the kitchen from the dining room, which consisted of a square blonde wood table surrounded by four mix-and-match colorful chairs. A large window overlooked the neighbor’s building and prevented natural light from getting in early in the morning. A steel-blue sofa, a square artisanal coffee table with a floor lamp, a small cactus in a pot, and a wall-to-wall bookshelf filled with my favorite titles made up the living room of the two-bedroom apartment. The whiff of lavender mixed with the sugary scent of the chocolate chip cookies I baked and left on the cooling rack last night filled the air, giving the place a homey feeling.

Bernice, my tabby cat, woke up from her slumber and jumped on the kitchen counter, her vibrant-blue eyes—almost the same shade as mine—staring at me, unblinking, as she padded on the keyboard. I pushed her to the side and caressed her head, her soft fur warming up my fingers.

“You hungry, sweet girl?” She purred, and I rose to my feet to fill her golden bowl set on the floor by the refrigerator. The one with a black fish silhouette etched on the side that I made in the ceramic class I took last year in an attempt to meet new people and start socializing again. “You should grow fingers, you know. And learn how to type. Could be useful.” She arched her back and ignored me as she attacked her food. “Keep ignoring me, Bern. Super useful.” Why did I ever think getting a cat as a roommate would be entertaining?

Once back on my seat, I stared at the blank page on the screen and typed in big, bold black letters—

Amelia’s Kingdom – Book 3

I can’t even come up with a title

By April Simmons, lost but not found.

Before my brain caught up, I opened a new browser tab. Procrastination much? I typed “Kitten pictures” and hit search. The image of a tiny black kitten yawning on the big palm of a firefighter with a gorgeous, soot-covered face caught my eyes. Too damn hot. At least my hormones weren’t dead. Good to know.

I rolled my shoulders forward, buried my face in the crook of my elbow, and let out a heavy sigh. Gone were the days when I impressed myself with my dedication. A series of yawns escaped my mouth, making my eyes water. I took a sip of my hot beverage, absent-mindedly watching Bernice groom herself.

“Hey girl, can you do that later? I need some encouragement here. Can’t you see I’m struggling?” Our eyes met for half a second before she went back to licking her paws. “Never mind. I’ve seen beauty queens more enthusiastic than you. You won’t be mentioned in my acknowledgments section this time. Shame on you.” My words didn’t rattle her. Not even a little.

My phone chimed, and the sound startled me. Perfect. As if I needed another distraction. I clicked open the text message my best friend Saunders just sent me as if she’d read my mind and knew I required some much-needed guidance. Or a kick in the butt. Such a seer. Take this, Bernice.

Wait. Why was she up at this early hour? Saunders should be all wrapped up in her boyfriend’s arms at six in the morning. Not texting me. And she wasn’t even a morning person. Never had been.

Saunders:

Hey Bubble Head, call me when you get this. Love you xx

Bubble Head was the nickname Saunders gave me during our freshman year in college when I was in too many projects and committees during our first semester. Lacking time to hang out with my friends, I told her one night I pictured myself as a cartoon character with text bubbles popping up all around my head. And the name stuck all these years later.

I read her text message for a second time, wondering what she wanted. My curiosity won, and my sleepiness vanished as I punched in my best friend’s number.

She answered on the first ring. Seemed like I wasn’t the only one feeling impatient this morning.

“Okay. I hope you’re ready for this because I have great news for you. I’ve got your next adventure. Something to change your mind and give you that kick in the butt you desperately need.”

Yeah, Saunders knew me too well.

My heart raced at the thought she’d send me bungee jumping or swimming with sharks. “Do I really wanna know?”

“Oh, April, just trust me. When did I ever fail you?”

I inhaled, bracing myself for whatever she was about to propose to me.

“One of my clients rented a two-bedroom luxury cabin in Green Mountain for the month. He can’t go because his wife got sick, and she needs to stay in the city. Anyway, I thought you could use it. Fresh air. Great for inspiration. And, oh yes, it’s rent-free. Since he canceled last minute, he couldn’t get a refund. Anyway, what do you think?”

“You’re serious? You want me to move to the country for an entire month? They probably don’t even know what wi-fi is.”

“Girl, you’re being ridiculous. It’s a five-star cabin, not a shack. Anyway, don’t be a party-pooper. Imagine writing your new book without being distracted. You know I’m a genius in disguise, right?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Genius isn’t your middle name, Saund. Your super ideas don’t always turn out so great. At least not for me.”

“Anyway, it’s not like we live in New York. We’re in Ginger Creek, Georgia, April. Most people would consider it a small town.”

“Except here we have malls. We have more than just one main street, and there are no deer living in people’s backyards. You know what I mean.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, thinking. “What about Bernice? I know you won’t watch her. You hate this litter box thing.”

“I already checked with the renting company, and they said you can take her along. So, you’re going? You don’t have any good excuses to evade this opportunity. I’ll give you one hour to think about it. If you leave tomorrow morning, you’ll be there by sunset.”

“Fine. Give me an hour.” We hung up, and I dropped my forehead on the table. Did I just get set up? Saunders was right, though. I had no good excuses for refusing her offer. Damn it. I hated when she was right.

My phone pinged as a new text message came in. Two words.

Saunders:

Start packing.