Page 1 of Pink and Country

1

April

M y 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 upward toward the ceiling; the darkness swallowing me in. What time is it? Through the small crack where my curtains didn’t quite meet, I peeked at the moon, a thin crescent of silver light in the night sky. I propped myself 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. Got it. I unplugged the cord and slouched back, my head hitting the fluffy pillow. I held my breath as I squinted at the phone screen.

Three forty-eight.

No. I cringed and dropped my phone 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. I had half a mind to look for a ghostwriter. No, I’d never go there. I sighed, dragging my hand all over my face still heavy with sleep. All I needed was to get my brain on board. I had my first meet-and-greet with insomnia a few years back, and it was a hard cycle to break. 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 groggy and drowsy during the day. After I dropped them, I tried melatonin, magnesium, meditation, breathing exercises, and lavender essential oil. The latter was my Zen-April’s drug of choice. So much it became my personal fragrance. I sprayed it on my pillow, misted it in the kitchen in one of those little wood-grain-exterior, ten-light-setting diffusers, and kept a roll-on in my purse.

Every night, my brain worked like a hamster wheel for hours, with thoughts of what could have been, but stalled, blank, empty, void, during the day. Forget being productive or at the top of my game. Not happening. My disturbed nights made me moody and lethargic most days. In one word, they messed with my head.

Damn thing.

I pondered my options. Get up and get to work. Or force my eyes closed and bury my head under my pillow, hoping sleep knocked on my door and swept me away. Yeah, right. Who was I kidding? Sleep never knocked twice on the same day. At least, not in my case. I sighed and 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.

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

I should be a runner. Or a high-performing athlete. 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 tossed and turned, 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 everywhere else but where it should be. Added to my sleepless nights, it 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 best sellers? At this moment, I too wasn’t convinced.

Blame me for my lack of organizational skills. Every minute of each day, I found more ways to be counterproductive than efficient. In the last months, I’d surpassed myself. Should get a medal. “Procrastination Queen.” My bubbly and unconventional personality usually fueled my creative side and made up for my mental chaos, a cluster of missed opportunities, griefs, and 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, went on strike and refused to go back to work. Regardless of the reward at the end. Stupid gray matter. Or was it white matter? Who cares? Somewhere inside me, I 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 that 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 insomnia only amplified my sense of inadequacy.

Six eleven.

I got up, put my favorite dark purple sweatpants on, tucking the front of the white T-shirt I’d slept in, and 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 piece of expensive clothing 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 seemed 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 one 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.

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 popped myself on a stool by the island and turned on my laptop, the lit screen blinding me. Ugh, too early for this. I blinked to bring moisture back to 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.

Bernice, my tabby cat, woke from her slumber and jumped on the kitchen counter, her vibrant blue eyes—almost the same shade as my own—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?” Bernice purred, and I rose to my feet to fill her golden ceramic bowl. The one with a black fish silhouette etched on the side. “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 meal. “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