Confession: I don't know if I will finish this story. Sigh. So let me post Chapter 1 to remind myself that I tried. So here goes nothing~

Title: With Reckless Abandon

Chapter 1: The Writer

This may sound cliché, but erotica sells. While publishing smutty romance wasn’t the fix Evie needed for her financial problems, somehow it kept her afloat. Sex definitely sells. Sleepless nights and merciless editing had paid off. And everything was going perfectly fine until writer’s block ruined her creative hustle.

It started as a day of skipping the writing grind to rest. Then dragged on for a few days, weeks, and now marked the seventh month. The hiatus was glaring and pushed her out of the writing platform’s monthly ranking. Thus affecting her income considerably.

The four-hour timer beeped. She rubbed her strained eyes. “Damn it!” she said, groaning. She massaged her aching shoulders.

The blank document annoyed her. “Fuck—” she said, slamming the laptop shut.

She had spent most of the day glued to her laptop, yet writing-wise, she had nothing new to post. She split her time between brainstorming (nay, daydreaming) and napping at her desk with a podcast playing in the background.

Her web novel’s chapter remained at 52. “Whatever happened to a promising new romance writer?” she thought (those were her editor’s words).

Slouching at her desk, she stared at the withering echeveria, disappointed by her lack of a green thumb (either that or negligence brought on by burnout). She bought the succulent at a trade fair after she got her first payout as a Cherie Novella author, the platform where she was a contracted writer. Hand-painting its white ceramic pot was on her to-do list (a task still unchecked more than a year later).

Evie wasn’t just stressed over blank pages, though: she had been unemployed for the past five months.

Her phone chimed. The scheduled ‘do not disturb’ had gone off. But she didn’t bother checking the message, thinking it was about unpaid bills.

The very things she had sworn off (dating, romance, and sex) kept bubbling up in her head. Her loneliness had gotten into her. Those suppressed feelings eventually caught up with her.

She needed something to stimulate her flatlining creative flow. Something to jolt her passion for writing and force her to take action seriously. Otherwise, she’d remain stuck.

But how?

She turned her attention to the rose gold, coil-bound writing journal-planner she bought during Astron Journals’ New Year sale. It sat atop a hardbound novel she promised to read—but never did. It remained open and neglected for days. At first, she wanted to dry the coffee-stained pages (a reminder of her klutzy midnight snack binge). The notebook was smudged. Crumpled. Weathered. Lost its desirability. “Kind of like me”, she reckoned. She grimaced. As for actual writing updates? Zero entries.

“God, I was such a mess!” she lamented, slumping at her desk and burying her face in her hands.

This wasn’t the plan when she left that dead-end job. The worst thing that could happen to her: get booted out of her apartment!

“Asking the landlady for another rent extension wouldn’t be wise,” she thought, biting her nails as anxiety over bills and regret over her decisions finally sank in.

She picked up the assorted pens and dropped them into the pen holder. The wooden organizer had a built-in clock and photo frame. It was 8:46 pm. Staring at the New Year’s photo of her and her friend Enzo taken on 5th Avenue, she wondered if he would come over tonight as he had promised.

Giving in to her exhaustion, she leaned back into the wobbly swivel chair. Closed her eyes. Tried to find her balance against the shaky armrest. She put her weary hands over her face. Fingertips massaging her forehead.

She felt better.

She stood up. Grabbed the phone. She needed a good rest on a comfortable bed. Her knees were shaking after being jolted from a sedentary state.

***

When Evie reached the sleeping area, she shook the sliding door frame (hoping to clear whatever was caught in there) and closed it tightly. She had thought of fixing that door—but never did.

Standing by her bed, she stretched her arms. “So tired!” she said, groaning. She flopped backward onto the soft mattress. Her empty stomach grumbled. “I’m just gonna wait for a food miracle,” she thought, frowning—as if such a thing existed.

She rolled over, gently moving her shoulders against the soft mattress to ease the pain, eyes fixated on a house gecko skittering near the flickering light. She needed a new ceiling light. “Another expense,” she said, sighing.

She got creative in turning her studio apartment into a multi-functional space. She became a minimalist. Since this side of town offered cheap apartments, she rented the unit without hesitation. Compact but livable. Low maintenance. But when burnout began gnawing at her, the room devolved into a swirling vortex of entropy.

When her phone buzzed, the grim thoughts were dispelled. It was her friend Enzo. He was on his way and brought food.

“Good Lord!” She rejoiced, “I wouldn’t be doing impromptu intermittent fasting tonight!”

But waiting felt like forever—

***

Enzo’s latest message said he was standing at the door.

“God, am I dying from lethargy or what?” Evie wondered, because she was too tired to get up and open the door for him.

But since he knew the PIN code to her apartment, getting in shouldn’t be a problem.

***

The sliding door to the sleeping area rattled. Eventually, it slid open.

Evie rolled onto her side. She caught Enzo staring at her.

He stood firmly by the sliding door, holding a box of cake. He was assessing the situation. She was a total mess. He was taken aback, but didn’t say a word.

She met his gaze. Her eyes were tired and famished. Yet details didn’t escape her.

His usually strong presence was dulled by stress and overwork. But he carried himself incredibly well; confidence and all—even the dark circles under his eyes didn’t eclipse his mesmerizing gaze. He had ditched his clean-shaven look today (a rough stubble shadowed his jawline), yet it undeniably added an irresistible charm.

He wore an army green zip-up hoodie (her Christmas gift to him three years ago), left halfway open (busted zipper), revealing a kitschy pink T-shirt with a bold ‘Quirky Love’ print (his spur-of-the-moment purchase at a summer festival bazaar a few years ago). The reason he didn’t wear the oversized sweatshirt when out and about: it was slouchy, unflattering on him. Yet, worn it today. A pair of loose black cargo-style jogger pants completed his rugged vibe.

His ensemble wasn’t his usual dapper, thoughtful style, especially when going outside. She wondered if he had skipped laundry. It was as if he read her thoughts, since she was eyeing him from head down to his well-pedicured, unpainted toes.

“I rushed over here as soon as I could. Sorry, hun—” he said. He was exhausted as he leaned on the sliding door frame. “Haven’t had a day off for the past two damn weeks. And yep, it’s a laundry thing,” he said wryly.

“At least when I die, the image I’ll take with me to heaven or hell is your slightly scruffy but handsome face!” she said, joking—trying to lighten the mood (or not!?).

He frowned at her, scratched his temple, looking worried. His calm but sorrowful voice trailed off, “Evie, what’s going on?”

She swallowed hard. Forced nonchalance into her voice, “So-sorry. My lazybones is acting up today,” but that came out shaky, so she faked a smile. Stretching her arms out, she rolled onto her back and grabbed a pillow—hugged it, covered her face with it; because if he asked any more questions, she would cry. She made up a lame excuse, “I don’t wanna get up. I just wanna sleep.”

“Had I known it would be this bad, I would’ve come sooner and figured things out. I know you’re tough. You’ll do fine, Evie,” he said, consoling her. “Sorry, I uhm—”

She lied. “I’m alright, Enzo. I just needed rest.”

He was upset. But perhaps realizing he should cheer her up, he shook off his worry. He smiled at her. Put on his usual, chirpy self. “Alright! I bought your favorite black forest cake. I know you’re down for dessert! Get up, or I’ll take it home.”

She groaned, disappointed. “It’s not dinner?”

He was baffled. “I thought you had dinner already.”

She hugged the pillow tighter and mumbled. “I lied.”

“Jesus!”

“If you knew I was on an instant ramen diet, you’d give me a TED Talk about how bad it is for my health.”

“I see no instant ramen in your kitchen cabinet, Evie—”

She glared, throwing a pillow at him for snooping around. He caught it midair. Threw it right back.

“You ran out of food,” he sighed, worried.

She downplayed the situation, smirking at him. “Thank you for solving the mystery of ‘why my friend lied through her teeth’!”

She felt relieved when he smiled back at her.

“You’re welcome, my dear liar friend! Now get the fuck up and eat. Or, I’ll shove this cake down your throat,” he said, holding out the box of cake and shaking it gently, like bait to a hungry fish.

Raising a middle finger, she said, “Fine—”

“Back on your feet, huh! That’s my girl,” he said, winking. “To the kitchen, lazybones!”

***

When Evie reached the dining table, he had already prepared instant cappuccino for them. The black forest cake was the centerpiece—a decadent, delicious slice of delight for each of them.

So she quietly settled into the chair, eyeing the things he bought: a newly opened box of instant cappuccino rested on the table (which she had completely run out of!)—the exact brand she liked. On the kitchen counter, a bag of groceries and fresh produce sat neatly next to empty food containers.

She cupped the hot mug and noticed it wasn’t hers. “Did you buy it?” The warmth heated her cold hands and soothed her hungry nerves. The coffee mug had a cute design: a cartoony chick on a chilli pepper. “Hot chick, huh?” she said, tittering.

And while watching him restock the kitchen cabinet, she silently sipped the cappuccino. Glad for the hot beverage warming her stomach. Grateful that her friend cared for her. The provisions would tide her over for about two weeks.

“Yep, kinda remind me of you!” he said without glancing back at her.

“Hah! That baby chicken definitely got my sleep-deprived eyes,” she said with a pfft.

He just laughed and carried on. He proudly informed her that he had bought the cake at her favorite bakeshop.

Evie’s mind drifted to a few years ago when they worked at a marketing agency (which turned out to be a scammy company), and an incident occurred. Don’t refuse my generosity, he told her; after all, they were friends. Fast-forward: ten years of friendship through thick and thin, she was officially a freeloader—embarrassment, self-pity, and guilt tightened her chest. Tears clouded her eyes. She wiped them away quickly. She choked down her chagrin and said earnestly: “Thank you.”

“Geez! I happened to drop by the convenience store. No worries, I used my GCs. I’ve got a lot from our company anniversary,” he said while arranging the stuff.

“Such a liar!” she said, teasing him, but a nervous laugh just slipped out. She spoke tenderly, “You bought the stuff I like, Enzo.”

He turned around and leaned casually against the kitchen counter, holding a jar of sweet-and-spicy pepper jam (her favorite brand) in his right hand.

He murmured, “Hmm”, combing his wavy auburn hair lazily, pushing it upward to the right away from his forehead (a dramatic habit of his; many girls swooned over him for it, and she was no exception).

She tried to meet his cool gaze, but her cheeks flushed with embarrassment (as if she had been caught with improper thoughts), so she turned away. The feelings didn’t fade away. Her eyes drifted between the half-drained mug and him.

“This isn’t free, you know,” he said, crooning. He flashed a mischievous grin, just enough to reveal a dimple on his right cheek, making her feel fluttery, tingly inside. “I’m taking some hefty ROI. And it’s not money, hun.”

“Color me dumbfounded—” she thought, blinking in disbelief.