Page 44 of Muscle Cub

Since he probably wouldn’t see my reply for hours, I figured I could take my time and compose something thoughtful. Something quirky and sexy that didn’t sound overthought.

Even though I was definitely going to overthink it.

I’d already read his messages twenty times before getting out of bed, and I’d spend the rest of the day dissecting them.

While the coffee brewed, I pulled up the selfie of Austin and me. I centered and cropped it around his face and assigned it to his contact information.

He looked adorable of course, although a little goofy and cross-eyed because he’d stared at the wrong part of the phone instead of directly into the camera. My smile was a shy grimace, and my hair was sweaty from packing and hauling gear, making it appear even thinner than it was. Due to foreshortening, I appeared small next to him.

I was strung between treasuring the picture and feeling slightly mortified by it.

I didn’t look like I could be his dad though. Surely nobody would think that.

I considered sending it to Eric with a message in all caps that screamed HE TEXTED ME BACK! #Paulstin.

But then, it might never happen again. Austin was too nice a guy to ghost me. He might’ve replied out of politeness.

I didn’t want Eric to pity me later. Plus, once I replied, he’d text me at least twenty-five more times. I’d be committing myself to an hour of back-and-forth—or worse, he might call me like someone from the twentieth century.

I’d need to be caffeinated for that.

My sister, Veronica, was a similarly rabid communicator. She sent me a seemingly innocent text about my niece’s upcoming birthday party, but I could feel her waiting to pepper me with invasive questions about the campground. Since she’d gotten married and had kids, she wanted to live vicariously through my sex life. As if I had one. I had to be the most disappointing single, gay brother a woman could have.

She’d also ask me how the book was coming—she always asked me how the book was coming. She romanticized my author career too. I’d been lying to her about my progress for months.

Today, I needed to take action that honored the bonfire spell. I needed to shift my energy away from guilt and failure to what I wanted. I needed to get out of my own way.

I replied to Veronica’s message, letting her know I was home safe, a little hungover, and would catch up with her later.

I swiped back to the picture of Austin and me. I wonder what his social media looks like…

No.

I’d promised myself I’d take the weekend, maybe get a little action, see if that helped shake loose some ideas—get my groove back—and when I returned, I’d get to work banging out words.

And that is exactly what I intended to do.

As soon as I put away my camping equipment in the attic above the garage.

It was truly one of the most justifiable reasons for procrastinating I’d encountered in a while. I regretted I could only use it today.

I’d also vowed—in a dramatically pagan ceremony, now that I recalled it—to let go of the stories that no longer served me and the labels other people had given me.

Despite my agent constantly advising me to refrain from checking reviews—reviews are for readers—I’d read them all. The comments about my first book had been glowing. It had been an author’s dream come true. I’d been so high on the accolades, even the few trolls who’d left one-star reviews—just to shit on something thousands of others had already lauded—hadn’t brought me down.

I’d thought I was doing a pretty damn good job processing criticism in a detached, constructive way.

Until it had come from Charles during our last screaming fight—about him cheating on me again—when he’d said I couldn’t write.

I’d known he was trying to wound me.

He’d been in the wrong. Everyone had known he was in the wrong. He’d known it. But he’d lashed out like he was the one being attacked.

It had been guilt expressed as aggression.

He’d also said I couldn’t fuck. He’d confessed it like it was a burden he’d been carrying. Never mind that any armchair psychologist could’ve diagnosed my inability to get it up for him. He’d cheated on me for years when I’d been away working on my master’s, then my doctorate.

Charles had loved my writing. He’d been the one who’d convinced me to keep going when I’d felt stuck or blocked. After Boy had been published, he’d introduced me at readings and stood by my side during signing events, beaming with pride like it had been his book too.