He puts his hands to his head, throwing it back in the process. "Where is the fucking passion?"
My heart bangs against my ribs. He thinks I'm an idiot. He sees I can't do this. "I'm sorry. I just… you just… uh… I can…" I swallow. "You just make me nervous, and I'm trying really hard to write this the way you want me to. I just, you know, I have to go back and clean stuff up. I'm not a clean writer to begin with. I have to edit things, so it will be better once I go over it. I—" My vision blurs behind tears, my face heating with embarrassment because Edwin Mercer thinks I have no talent. And if he believes that, it must be true. "I… I…"
He looks sharply at me, his eyebrows burrowed, a sick look of pleasure washing over his face. "My dear, if you experienced even a second of my life's worst pain, it would crush you. Take this for what it is. And for the love of fuck, save me your tears." His tone drips with acid. "They’re worthless."
Worthless. That is all I have ever been in my fucking life, and now he sees that. My chest tightens, and I fight the sob working its way up my throat. I quickly stand and run down the hallway to my room before slamming the door and locking it.
Leaning back against the cold wood, I break. I cry. Something that I thought would change my life—coming here to write with my goddam idol—has done nothing but prove to me I will never be anything. I'm useless. I'm worthless. I want to leave. I want out of here and away from his condescending ass. I grab my purse from the nightstand, dig out my cell phone, and pull up Janine's number. I press Call. Nothing. I hold the phone in the air as I walk around the room, pleading for those damn bars to light up. I stand on my tiptoes by the window, glaring out at that shed. But no. No service.
I don't want to go back out there and call her in front of him. I don't want him to see how defeated and dejected I am. I'll just stay in this room until he goes to bed if I must. Just as I’m putting my phone back inside my purse, I hear his boots tromping down the hallway. His door slams shut with such force a picture topples off the wall in my room.
I give it a few minutes, grab my phone, and slowly open the door. It's eerily quiet outside with just the soft tick-tock from the grandfather clock in the living room. The floorboards creak under my weight. I briefly freeze before continuing down the hallway, praying he doesn't come out of his room. I just don't want that conversation. At all.
The pens and pencils are still scattered across the living room, the chair knocked on its side. My foot lands on a stray pen, and I lose my footing, crashing into the console table behind the sofa. The sculpture of Atlas topples over, and I panic as I frantically reach to catch it, sighing when it lands in my hand and I’m able to set it back in its rightful place. I take a few deep breaths then hurry to the kitchen.
I'm nearly to the doorway when I hear a thud come from his room. Any moment now, I bet he'll come out yelling. The second I round the corner, I grab the kitchen phone. I quickly dial Janine's number, all the while staring down the hallway at the closed door of Edwin's room. She picks up on the second ring, and she sounds much too sweet to put up with an arrogant asshole like Edwin, but then again, I guess you'd need to be nice to handle him. She tells me it’ll be an hour before she gets here.
I hang up, sneak back to my room, and pack my bags. I am not a quitter. I am not worthless. Some things just aren’t worth it…
I'm almost to the front door with my suitcase when I stop dead in my tracks. I want one last look at that view, so I go stand in front of the window and wait. I should be taking in the scenery, the trees, the brilliant colors of the changing leaves, but I’m not. My gaze is aimed at that fucking shed. Why? Because every single time Edwin gets stuck, that's what he does. Stares at that shed as if it's going to give him all the answers. And right now, I’m stuck. Should I really leave?
After several minutes, I manage to pull my gaze from the shed to admire the scenery. And I take in the gorgeous backdrop of the Appalachian Mountains, trying to burn the image into my mind, because at the end of the day, no matter how big of a bastard Edwin is, it doesn't change how compelling his words are. He's still my idol, and this is what my idol looks at as he writes. And any time I drag up this image, I am, in a sense, looking through his eyes. If nothing else, I have that. I can steal this little piece of him, and he can never take it back, no matter how worthless I may be.
Sighing, I turn from the window and head toward the front of the cabin. I crack the door open, and a black Camaro sits in the drive.