Salted Caramel Coffee (COMPLETED!)

Chapter Seven} $t¡łł

     Black places a plate in front of me so full that I can barely see the actual glass itself. Three pieces of French Toast are stacked high and are completely covered in a thick layer of powdered sugar, sitting next to a pool of maple syrup. Chocolate covered strawberries line the rim of the plate so close to the edge I think they might fall off, but they don't. And of course, a steaming cup of coffee sits next to the massive plate, the faint smell of caramel wafting into the air.

     "Christ, Black. You're gonna give me diabetes." I say, grimacing at the disgusting amount of food she's put in front of me.

      "I'm pretty sure that's not how it works," Black chuckles, pulling out a chair for me to sit in.

     "Pretty sure it is." I mumble under my breath.

     During breakfast, Black seems to be working. But it's not the kind of sit down job that I would expect. She's constantly getting up and moving around the house, looking at sticky notes that she's plastered to the walls and then sitting back down again to scribble on a huge notepad she has. It almost seems like it would be easier if she just put all these notes in a notebook and wrote her books on a computer instead of a pad. Everything Black does is so inefficient, it stresses me out.

I don't take a single bite while Black is in the room. I don't even pick up my fork. Her office is around the corner from the dining room, and she keeps scurrying in to check the walls for her notes. It's incredibly annoying.

I lift a square of toast to my mouth, the bite only inches from my lips before Black pops in again. I drop my fork in annoyance, a loud clatter echoing through the room, making Black turn her head.

"That's so annoying," I hiss, pressing my fingers to my temples. "You're a writer! Can't you just stay put for like twenty minutes?"

Black cocks her head to the side, finally pausing for a moment to look at me. "How is being a writer related to being still?"

The way she says it makes me want to walk straight up to her and sock her in that pretty little face of hers, but I don't. Instead, I ball my hands into fists and clench them so hard I'm worried my nails might tear through my skin. "It's just- you would get so much more work done if you just sat down and wrote. Your house would be cleaner if you didn't have your notes all over your walls. Your books would be written faster if you wrote on a computer, you'd be healthier if you didn't eat so much crap, and don't even get me started on the fact that you probably end a full ten hour day of work with about a grand total of a thousand words on your paper." I don't mean for it all to sound to rude, but it all just comes shooting out faster than I can stop it. If Black is at all fazed by any of what I said, though, she doesn't show it.

     "Correct," she says matter of factly. "Everything you said is correct."

I knot my eyebrows down, confused as to why she's not angry. If she were my mother, she'd be screaming at me for a rant like that. Absolutely b e a t i n g my ass. "What?"

"Listen, Emma." Black sets her notepad down on the table. I cringe as I notice it go directly into a drop of maple syrup, but I don't say anything. "You obviously have a system you use when you write."

I open my mouth to tell her they I don't have a 'system'. It's just what's obvious. What she's doing is clearly inefficient, and there are ways to fix that, but Black stops me with a quick finger.

"But I have a different one. It may not be the best one for timing, or health, or cleanliness, but I'd rather have fun writing then be clean." She says.

"I'd have more fun if I didn't have to get up every five seconds." I scoff, pushing my plate away and sitting to face Black.

"Well, that's you." She picks her pencil up and twirls it between her fingers, unable to be still for the length of our conversation. "I'd rather not be confined to the five foot block jail of my desk when I have my whole house to wander. We're different people, Emma. Not everyone does things the same way you do."

I can feel the tips of my ears turning red with anger, annoyance bubbling just under my skin on my chest. "I never said that."

"Sometimes you act like it." Black says flicking her pencil around her thumb and then spiraling it through her pointer finger and down her middle finger.

The fact that she's known me for not even two days and still has the nerve to say that to me makes me beyond pissed off. Black has no filter. None. "You're right, Black. We are different people. Which means I'm not going to like writing just because you decide to shove it down my throat. I'm here for one reason. My mother. I don't want your help, and I don't want you telling me that I could be a good writer, because I don't want to be one." I hiss.

     This time it's Black's turn to go red. She stops twirling her pencil and just glares at me, her nostrils flared. I try my best to maintain my icy cold facade, but I'm terrified. The muscles in my body turn to stone, as if even they know shit is about to go down.

     "How old are you again?" Black asks. Her voice is creepily low, like a lion about to strike it's prey.

"Fifteen," I reply, my voice cracking. "what's it to you?"

Black takes a step closer to me, towering over me in my seat. It suddenly occurs to me how tall she is compared to me, a child versus an adult.

"Well I'm twenty four. And your mother? She's forty two. Pretty sure she has the authority over you. She gave me one job- to help you with your writing. I wasn't going to, only because I trusted that you could get there on your own. But I'm not so sure anymore." Black says. She snatches her pad off the table, sticky with syrup, and flips five pages foreword. "Here." She slams the pad and pencil in front of me, the table rattling underneath. "Write."

     "Excuse me?" My eyes widen incredulously, and my jaw nearly drops to the floor.

     "I said write!" Black seethes through her teeth. "I was given one job, and now I'm giving you one. First thing that comes to mind- go."

"Just try it. Have an open mind, Em. You said it yourself, it's like trying to catch a bear with a fly"- far away to a place where writing doesn't exist. Is such a place real? Maybe not- the time! I'm kind of in the middle of something here if you didn't notice. Run- away. Run now. You have the chance, the straight shot to the door. Nobody's stopping you...

I pick up the pencil, running my finger over the perfectly sharpened tip. How easy it would be to cooperate...

But oh, how boring it would be.

"I would rather die, bitch."

Suddenly the pencil that was once in my fingers is now spiraling perfectly into a spot I can't see. But I know it hits on point when a shriek of pain cuts the air like a dagger slicing skin. My feet pound on the floor, my shot to the front door free of barriers. I slip out, leaving everything except the clothes on my back, the phone in my back pocket, and the gaping pit in my stomach opening wider and wider with every step I take from the house.

  "If you say one more thing about my writing while I'm here, I swear to god I'll run away."

     I've never felt so proud of myself in my life. I'm not running away from my issues, I'm leaving them behind.

"Em-"

     So why...

"Test it out."

     I don't get it...

    "I dare you."

     Why am I crying?

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Hey guys! I'm back from my month at camp! I'm so sorry this chapter took so long, I just wanted it to be perfect💞 what do you guys think?

     -Shayna