Dirty Little Secret

BAILEY

Bailey seethed, her foot tapping the floor impatiently. Who did he think he was? Her dad?

It was different when Spencer had happened upon her in the hallway yesterday. Eric was being a bit of a creep then.

But this felt like Spencer had been listening in on the conversation and had come out of his apartment to save her. Sure, Bailey knew Eric was shitty.

But still, it wasn’t his business.

Why does everyone want to get into my business?

Her mom was always trying to “fix” her, her agent didn’t trust her to get the book done, and now Spencer had shooed off her boyfriend.

“You’re not my dad, Spencer. You’re not my brother, not my husband, not my boyfriend. You have no right to dictate who I associate with.”

Spencer’s throat bobbed, his muscles twitched, his jaw tightening. He glanced away from her with narrowed eyes.

“He treats you like crap—”

Bailey fought the urge to wince. The truth stung. Even a stranger could see it. Her skin heated. Her eyes darted away from him, hands falling at her sides.

“Why do you care?”

“Why don’t you?” he whispered, all anger draining from his demeanor.

Bailey avoided his eyes, putting her hand on her doorknob.

“This conversation is over, Spencer.”

Bailey slipped into her apartment, closing the door with a thud.

What just happened?

Despite her anger, a smile snuck onto her face. There was a roughness to Spencer, but she liked it.

He wasn’t just charming in that effortless, roguish way she wrote about in her books. He was kind, in a way that demanded she value herself.

It was maddening and endearing all at once, like a character she’d created stepping off the page to remind her she deserved better.

Bailey sank deeper into her couch, legs curling beneath her as her mind whirred. What would it feel like to be in his arms?

She pictured it: strong, sure, but not confining. His touch would be firm enough to remind her she was safe, but gentle enough to let her breathe. Warm, steady, and somehow just…enough.

Her fingers traced absentminded patterns on the fabric of the couch as her imagination took flight. She could almost feel his hand brushing her hair back.

The fantasies must have carried her into sleep, because the next thing she knew, her eyes were fluttering open.

Her neck protested the angle she’d slumped into, while her back ached in rebellion.

Groaning softly, she shifted but lacked the energy to fully sit up. Instead, she let her head rest against the couch frame, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling.

Honestly, she tried not to examine her relationships too closely. It was dangerous territory, like wading into quicksand.

As a writer, she was skilled at recognizing patterns—character arcs, recurring themes, unresolved tension—but it didn’t take much to see the epicenter of her own struggles—her family, and more specifically, her mother.

That was the heart of it. Every broken relationship she fell into, every storyline of love that slipped through her fingers before it could fully form—it all traced back to those early days.

That aching gap. She didn’t want to sit in it, not now, not ever. Yet the truth lingered like a bad smell. She couldn’t quite imagine a relationship that didn’t mirror those fractures.

Not for herself, at least.

Her characters, though? They were different. Cynthia was hardworking, kind, and resilient—a version of herself but without the mess.

Bailey could spin stories from the pain and wrap up neat endings for others, even if hers never seemed to arrive.

The stories would have to be enough. They always had been. And anyway, deadlines waited for no one.

***

October came and went, and soon Thanksgiving flew by too. The weather had settled into a proper winter cold, with snow falling in sheets every week.

Eric still came by. Bailey could tell he was nervous at first, checking to see if Spencer would appear. He didn’t.

Women frequented Spencer’s door, and she tried not to pay too much attention to it. She didn’t like seeing it.

Soon, the holidays were over, and the new year was fast approaching. Bailey was making strides in her novel, channeling the turmoil in her life to propel her storyline forward.

Bailey needed good news.

Life settled into a routine—a sort of balance. She wished for something—some grand, inspiring thing.

Her routine was shaken when a snowstorm swept through the East Coast, burying New York and New Jersey in snow. Power lines were down, and families were frantic as they were unable to reach loved ones.

The roads were a mess with an accident on every corner. People were still foolish enough to drive in three feet of snow.

Generators were failing everywhere. Some hospitals were left without power, and people were dying.

The heat was out, and the cold was merciless. They named the storm Carlos.

And the worst of it was set to arrive tomorrow at 9 p.m. Bailey tucked herself in with that wish for inspiration in her heart.