This is a work of fiction and does not in any way advocate irresponsible behavior. This book contains content that is not suitable for readers 17 and under. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

Names, characters, places, brands, products, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and ownership of any location names or products mentioned in this book. The author received no compensation for any mention of said trademarks.

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To any readers willing to take a chance on a new author…
Thank You!

To my husband…there aren’t words enough. I love you and appreciate your support more than you could possibly know. How many hats do you wear? Let’s see…husband, friend, business manager, director of household arguments, dad, spider-terminator, coach, human calendar, ice cream connoisseur, groundskeeper, and general manager of calling me out on my crap. You wear them all so well.

To my children…thank you for being exactly who you are.

I’m pretty sure you’re teaching me more than I’m teaching you.

To my Smurfs…thank goodness you two accept me as I am. You are a gift to me straight from God. I will see you Friday afternoon for super-sized tamales.

To my Thirsty Mice…what was the question? Thanks for the unconditional love.

To my Caty…Beyond. That’s it. You are beyond what you realize.

To Mr. “Henningway”…thanks for teaching me the importance of transitions.

To my psychiatrist…I finally believe you. I can be creative without being manic…but it helps.

Chapter One

The ground-floor elevator door beeped an electronic reminder that she was making her way up to the office again, where she would be surrounded by people but remain utterly alone.

“Eighth floor, please,” she requested of another person in business attire she wouldn’t make eye contact with.

Erin Connor, 25, had achieved a decent amount of success given her guarded nature around others. She earned the title of Senior at a mid-sized accounting firm and had a group of entry-level bookkeepers who answered to her. At Erin’s request, they mostly communicated with her through email. She wasn’t shy like everyone thought. She was, however, cautious.

Erin shook her head at herself for noticing her isolation again. This entire social/work structure had been her goal, straight down to the solidly gray cubicle. Nothing in her workspace would attract attention. Privacy remained the best feature of her cubby. The entire space radiated a field of “don’t bother me,” but in recent weeks, the isolation had become suffocating. Five years had passed before she hit this tipping point. Now she experienced an entirely different side to her solitude.
Safe
had morphed into
lonely
.

She wondered nearly every day for the past month what she could do to bring a spark of life into her carefully guarded existence. Everything she thought of, like calling old friends or having a social conversation at work…all of those sounded terrifying. Taking such a bold risk wasn’t worth heading down the road toward another horrible outcome.

Erin contemplated all of this in the budding heat of Atlanta springtime, less than a month after the end of tax season. What could she do to break her solitude without opening herself up to risk? Creative problem solving wasn’t her forte. Erin’s strengths resided in the realm of
type-A
: organized, detail-oriented, scheduled. She didn’t know how to start a connection with someone anymore, frightened or otherwise.

She gave up on the prospect for the umpteenth time that month. Emails and memos demanded her attention anyway. Her chin rested on her open left palm while her right hand clicked away at the mouse. A conservative twist held her red hair and only subtle make up adorned her face. She realized she was the picture of professionalism, but also of desert-island isolation. Something had to be done.

So after hours of methodical desk work, she walked from her desk. She stared at the floor the whole way from her office to the glaringly bright sidewalk outside. She traversed the length of the city block, avoiding people as much as possible. How was she going to do this? Already she was scared to be out walking around. Erin turned herself straight around and went back to the office for another vending-machine lunch.

The next day, she came to work with the same unresolved frustration. Again, she worked up the nerve by lunch to try and find a way to affect a change. Underground Atlanta was a destination where at least she wasn’t as exposed as outside. She forced herself to walk from store to store, rather quickly, hoping to find something in her search without staying too long away from her cubicle. Nothing caught her attention; nothing solved her internal struggle.

Frustrated, Erin forced herself to wander a while longer when a memory popped into her head. In college, Erin saw a therapist to deal with the terrifying issue from her junior year. Her counselor recommended she write as a way to alleviate some of the pain. Maybe if she wrote about her current frustrations, they would be eased, as well.

So Erin righted her course toward the small office supply store she knew and bought herself a lined notebook with a deep, smoky purple cover. This particular book wasn’t the boldest choice they offered but had more color and fun than the traditional black and white they also carried. Erin spent too much time debating between the two styles, but decided the purple book spoke more to her goals. She took a deep breath and walked to the counter. Looking down as usual, Erin handed the notebook to the clerk.

Already feeling more bold, but still safe, she bought a little desktop decoration in the ‘corporate gifts’ display near the counter. The bauble didn’t mean much, but the purple and silver design was pretty and tasteful. She hoped its place on her desk wouldn’t cause people to take notice. Or maybe she
should
hope that. She thanked the clerk while forcing eye contact and a weak smile, and then walked quickly back to her office and into the safe confines of her cubicle again.

She took a deep breath, sat down and turned to the first page.

Erin Connor: Private Notebook

I’m not sure what I expect to get from this, but I’m looking forward to at least finding my way through this quarter-life crisis or whatever it is. I haven’t written like this in a few years. I’m probably rusty and will ramble, but bear with me.

Erin wrote to the journal itself, hoping if she pretended she had an ear to bend, the process might be another step toward readying herself for human contact again. Of course, with the absence of a
real
audience, her book remained risk-free. Even though she had only written three sentences, her lips turned up in the tiniest hint of a smile. She spent the rest of the afternoon doing her work somewhat peacefully.

When 6:30 rolled around, she dropped the set of compilations she’d been working on and packed up her leather computer bag. With the notebook tucked in the side pocket, she headed home for the evening. She couldn’t wait to get out of her pencil skirt and blouse and into her favorite yoga pants and cami.

Erin kept herself fit in her time away from work. She never wanted to feel weak ever again. And though her lithe, slight figure wouldn’t qualify as ‘strong’, she had more confidence in her ability to stay safe. Her miles and miles on the treadmill at least made her confident that she could run away if she ever needed to.

Erin stopped at the gym for a short workout before she went in her apartment. She liked the rec center at her complex. The facility was clean and sparsely populated.

The clock showed eight something by the time she got home. She double-bolted the door and dropped her keys on the counter. Erin shook her head as she looked at the darkening sky and the late hour she got home. No wonder she had zero contact in her life. She hadn’t allowed the opportunity for any. Her entire world consisted of work and self-protection.

A shower rinsed the sweat from her skin before she finally put her favorite clothing on. She poured a glass of wine and watched some random cop drama before she remembered the notebook in her bag. Possibility rested in the pages, and Erin was ready, just maybe, to find potential in herself. The couch creaked softly when she got up to get a pen and her new journal.

So here I am again, another workout after another day of accounting. I can tell you all my secrets, right? So here’s my biggest secret right now. I’m unhappy. Not just lonely, I’m plain old unhappy. The biggest problem with that is that I have no idea what to do about it. I can’t quit my job and hide, but I can’t just hop into life with a big hug for everyone, either. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything…I don’t even know where to start. I’m actually not sure that I
want
to start. But even if I do something about it, where do I find happiness? I don’t know. I keep hearing people say that happiness comes from within. That may be, but then what does it mean when you can’t find it? Is there something wrong with me?

Erin cried her first real tears in a long time after she went back to read what she had just written. One of them even dropped on the page, smudging a word there. Maybe there
was
something very wrong with her and that’s why she kept her life so empty. She nearly gulped down the rest of her wine and went to bed. The damn notebook could sleep on the couch; she didn’t want it near her just then. All that book wanted to do was shine a glaring spotlight the shell of a person she was. She slept restlessly, frustrated all over again.

When she awoke, however, Erin felt surprisingly refreshed. Her eyes were a little clearer and her body stood a little taller. She walked down the steps of her townhouse apartment and saw her notebook on the couch. That purple journal hadn’t run away after receiving her confession of emptiness. The book stayed, waiting for her to share more. This new “friend” would listen, and possibly understand. Maybe this could be her first friendship in years.

Once she donned her professional uniform of skirt, blouse, scarf, and pumps, she grabbed her notebook and headed into the office. Her new “friend” was the first thing she pulled out of her bag once she got there, but she cringed when she noticed that one corner was slightly scuffed. She tried to smooth the edge, but even that tiniest of blemishes would not be repaired.

Her type-A mind wanted to go buy a new notebook right away, but Erin reminded herself the book didn’t have to be perfect. In fact, this process might work a whole lot better if the cover remained
im
perfect. Interesting thought…interesting enough to share.

So you’re scuffed. You’re not perfect. I guess that’s ok. You can still listen to me, right? That’s good to know. I don’t need perfect, I suppose. Really. Here I am, feeling not so perfect. Anyway, I’m going to let you keep your blemishes and talk to you anyway. That way, you can accept me as I am, too. Huh. Thanks for that. Still interesting, but I’m not sure if any of this will help me. Either way, I’m glad I have you.

Thinking there was a hint of enlightenment somewhere in her blurb, she shut the notebook and smiled softly. A smile at work? Also interesting.

p.s. You made me smile.

The rest of the morning went along as most of her days did. She checked emails, jotted a few lines in her notebook, electronically communicated to the bookkeepers who worked under her, made only the most necessary of phone calls to clients, etc. Lunch, however, was different. Erin was feeling even more bold after having successfully gotten through two outings and for making a new “friend” with her book.

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