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The Cabin

By Erin Unger

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LEAH KETTRIDGE


Betrayal is such a benign-looking word on paper. In real life, it could kill a person. Like me. I was dying on the inside as I flipped from one page to the next of the bestselling novel in my hands. And all because of Keenan Brinner—the hottest bestselling author I knew and dated some time ago. Yet some part of me kept praying it wasn’t true as I pressed into the sofa cushion and continued to read.
It just can’t be.
But the book with the startlingly dark cover said it all.
“No, no, no.”
Hot tears stung my cheeks as I ripped the well-designed cover off the book and then launched it across the living room. It smashed against the refurbished brick wall and landed with its pages bent. Good. It deserved a worse fate than just bent pages.
How? When had it happened? “At the
restaurant.”
I face-planted my palm against my forehead.
Why hadn’t I kept my big fat mouth shut and told my sister Aeris the storyline in the privacy of my home? Tears stung my eyes. Who’d have guessed my lowdown almost boyfriend would stoop so low. He didn’t need my work.
I stared across the room, not focusing on the heap of a good—terrible—book. Well, it was on the NYT bestselling list. Not bad for a nobody writer like myself. And since it was my story—not his—then I allowed myself a moment of self-satisfaction.
My gaze dropped to the torn book. I had to take another look. Couldn’t it be a coincidence? Maybe the rest of the book was different. In a scramble, I grabbed it up and found the page I’d last read.
By chapter forty there was no doubt. Sweat broke out on my brow as I sat rooted to my soft faux leather couch.
A page later, I dropped the book in my lap as if it’d bit me. “It was such a good scene.” I slammed the book over and over onto the edge of the coffee table. “Thanks for taking it.”
He’d even used parts of our date in one scene. “How. Dare. He?”
My cell phone scared the stuffing out of me when it screeched its jangly song from the kitchen counter. Bill Essex’s picture bleeped on the front screen as I raced to grab it. The cell weighed my hand down as if someone had poured cement into it. My voice squeaked as I answered my agent’s call. “Hello?”
His voice echoed over the line and I gripped the phone even harder. “We’ve got a problem.”
I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to clear my dry throat. This can’t be happening.
Tension broke up his every word. “Are you aware your story mirrors Keenan Brinner’s? You know, the famous writer who could sue you for everything you have. You better be glad I caught this before your manuscript went to editing.”
My voice gave out again. “It has come to my attention.”
“How did you think you’d get away with this? I won’t be caught in the middle of litigations because of you.”
I fell onto the couch and worked to control my shaking hands and sudden loss of coherent words. “It really is my story, Bill. Keenan took it.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
Would he believe me if I explained? “I told someone about my novel and didn’t know Keenan was at the same restaurant listening. Well, not until later—”
His pitch gained velocity. “You expect me to believe he stole it from you?”
I looked up to the ceiling.
“You’re done. The book’s off the docket. Goodbye. And don’t contact me again.”
It was as bad as I’d imagined. No agent. No book. Add jail time to the list of misery.
The phone dropped out of my hand to the floor.
How was I ever going to face the world again? I was dead to the publishing industry forever. And I had to tell all the people I’d bragged to about my upcoming release.
Every ounce of energy—and care—leaped out of my body like an exorcism had been performed.
More sleep, that’s what I needed. I was still in my pajamas from a lazy Saturday.
After pulling the blinds and curtains even tighter together, I flopped onto my creamy comforter and buried myself in it as hot tears seared wet spots onto it.
Goodbye, dreams. Hello, Massachusetts State Penitentiary.

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