Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“Okaaaaay.” Then I nod firmly. “I will.”
I don’t know how I get out of that place, but I do. It takes a little more convincing on her behalf, both that I am actually breaking up with her and that I will write a poem about her. Finally, I’m able to hug her goodbye, put my key on her counter, and get out before she sucks me back into the vortex of denial.
Traffic is clogged on the freeway, as usual, so I’ve got nothing but time to sit in the car and think. There’s a bit of a pattern here and I’m not sure if it’s in my head or not. Poetry has never been considered a manly or sexy occupation, or at least it wasn’t when I was growing up in Manchester. In fact, I got my arse whooped often for scribbling down poetry and reading Keats when I should have been playing rugby or screwing chicks. The only thing that saved me was always being in a band.
Now, though, ever since I started posting my work online, things have changed. Over the last three years, my Instagram account and blog have caught on like wildfire, to the point where I officially have my first book deal with a major publishing house. It’s all done and being published in two months.
I know it’s absolutely ridiculous to have your fame via Instagram, especially as that fame doesn’t tend to leave that space, nor does it necessarily get a lot of respect. When people ask what I do, I just tell them I’m a writer with a book coming out soon. It doesn’t take them long to look me up and have it point to my account. A lot of the time, especially with women, they’ve either heard of me already or are following me. That’s what happens when you have one million followers. I don’t post pictures of myself, nor do I mention that I’m also a musician, but that doesn’t stop them from contacting me.
The more I think about it though, like how it all went down with Simone, the more I wonder if girls want to date me because they want me to write about them. Either with epic love poems or destructive sad poems. That’s food for a new piece itself.
Which lie do people want from me?
I’m so worked up by the time I finally get home to Studio City and find parking on the street, that I don’t even go into my apartment.
I go right across the street to the coffee shop.
And let out a huge sigh of relief when I see Marina at her usual spot by the front windows, typing away on her laptop, sipping on what I’m going to guess is a matcha latte with coconut milk and a splash of agave syrup.
“Hey,” she says to me with bright eyes, flashing me that big smile of hers. She’s so self-conscious about it, which I think is a bloody shame. No one should ever hold back on their smile—it’s like holding back on joy—and Marina’s is beautiful and kind. It’s the one thing that puts my heart at ease.
“Hey,” I tell her, slumping down into the seat across from her.
“Uh oh,” she says, snapping her laptop shut, the cover adorned with stickers from her company—Palm Trees & Honey Bees—and gives me her full attention. “What’s wrong?”
She’s used to this from me. Sometimes, like today, there is actually something wrong, but other times I’m just trapped in my head and being a moody little arse. She’s usually the person to get me out of it. Not to say she doesn’t give me shit, because she does, but she’s a lot more forgiving and intuitive than my other mates.
“I broke up with Simone.”
“Noooo,” she says with a harsh gasp. “Why? Why did you do that?”
I shrug. “I don’t love her.”
“Argh.” She leans back in her chair and stares dramatically at the ceiling, shaking her head so her long blonde hair goes flying around her face. “You idiot.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I say sharply, feeling defensive. “It had to be done.”
“But why?” She presses her fingers into the table and gives me a hard stare. “Why? It was, what, five months? You guys seemed so happy. It seemed like this could be it. How dare you? I was rooting for you. We were all rooting for you!”
I frown. “Who is we?”
“No one, it’s T-Banks from ANTM.”
“T-Pain and what?”
“America’s Next Top Model, Laz. Old school.”
I have no idea what she’s going on about. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t think this would annoy you.”
“Well, it does,” she says. “Obviously I’m your friend and I just want you to be happy. And you seemed happy.”
“Seemed is the operative word. And I’m quite happier now, believe me. I think Simone was…well, I don’t know, but it turns out she wasn’t quite the person I thought she was.”