Really, Allison isn’t the best writer.
Which is what she’s been telling herself the past four hours that she’s been sitting in her favorite black armchair of The Bean -a coffee shop downtown-, eyes glazing over a 372 page, hole punched, manuscript. She’s on her third latte, and the caffeine making her body buzz isn’t giving her the energy to care anymore.
Quite frankly, being a writer was probably one of the stupidest and smartest professions she could go into. Sure, she gets to technically stay at home and write most days of the year, and then for a month she’ll go into the transition of editing, publishing, and book tours. But, there’s the first part that stresses her out. The writing. And the hours and hours and hours of it she has to do.
She’s always wanted to write, ever since she was a kid. She dreamt of writing her own princess stories when she was four, making up her own tales and plots to recite to anyone that would listen, really. Her dad was usually the victim, forced to sit with her before she fell asleep, listening to her ridiculous narratives, chuckling when she just had to do the hand gestures.
Now, she’s twenty-four, living in Portland, and is the bestselling author of a heroic fiction series Huntress, the story of seventeen year old Crystal who’s dream is to be a huntress of Artemis, and follows her journey of realizing she doesn’t need a prince, or anyone, to save her.
And Allison is proud of it, alright? She gets to tell the kinds of fairy tales she wished were told to her, and the hundreds of email, tweets, fanmail, and fans prove to her that she’s changing the way girls see themselves. And it’s usually enough to keep her morale going as she writes seven out of the twelve months.
But her pen is rapidly hitting the opened page of her manuscript, and her leg nervously bounces as she reads over the page again, suddenly judging how many pronouns she’s included and how she has really needs to just stop using commas all the goddamn time. The chapter she’s spent much of the day mulling over in the corner of the shop is one she was almost too scared to add, and is still, now, unsure. Crystal reunites with an old friend from the second book, Holly, whom she rescued from turmoil.
Allison had hinted Holly as a potential love interest for Crystal, adding subtle hints of admiration and flirtation, and it’ll be the first time she’s ever portrayed Crystal other than the assumption of heterosexual, or ace based on some fan theories (though, she very much knows in her heart that Crystal is 100% gay). But, adding queer characters, main characters, has always been a stressful experience with her publisher, getting quite the lip for introducing a transgender side character back in the third book, followed by numerous LGBTQA representation.
So, as excited as it does make her to have written this, the voice of her publisher looms over her.
Right at that moment, where she’s started to chew at her red pen cap, eyes skimming over the page, she jumps at the sight of a hand on her table, and is hit with the overwhelming smell of cinnamon and vanilla.
“Are you all done with this?”
Allison looks up quickly, blinking fast as she moves a hand to push her glasses up on her face. And, geez, she starts to feel her mouth go dry, preventing her from saying anything. Which, how ironic, a writer with nothing to say.
She nods.
The redhead, Lydia, smiles and takes the ceramic mug from the table. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, but strands of curly locks have fallen from it, framing her face. Her cheeks are especially rosy to match her lips, and she has on a floral apron over her dress. She looks angelic, Allison thinks, and she quickly buries her face back in the manuscript to keep from the blush spreading to her cheeks.
“I’ll get this out of your way then. Let me know if you need another,” she says sweetly, her voice upbeat and sounding like sugar. She starts to walk away, but calls over her shoulder. “Don’t work yourself too hard.”
And, okay, Allison has to confess. She may have based Crystal and Holly’s relationship in the book on her feelings towards Lydia. Which, really shouldn’t even be relevant. When Allison was only halfway through her first draft of the book, she frequently made trips to write in The Bean to escape the constant that was her dreary apartment, hoping a change of scenery would help her. And, technically, it did. Because on that rainy day in Portland, Allison stumbling in with her flimsy umbrella and half of her body slick and wet from rain, is when she met Lydia for the first time.
“You’re a little wet, hun.” she had called over the counter, smirking at Allison. And man, that was it. Allison was hooked. She was hooked on the strawberry blonde hair and the heels she always wore despite being on her feet all day, unphased. After that, it had just been fun, quirky banter between the two, usually resulting in Allison being too shy and nervous to initiate anything more.
Hence, Crystal and Holly.
So, she really has Lydia to thank for the inspiration, but it’s not like she’s about to go up and start with “Hey, I have a semi-huge crush on you and I may have used it to influence the characters and their relationship in my book series.”
Not exactly a conversation starter.
She’s pulled from her thoughts when the table vibrates, and her phones flashes to read the name Stiles, a ridiculous photo of the two of them at Scott’s twenty-first birthday when they were slightly drunk and decided to hold sparklers, a great candid shot of them freaking the fuck out when the spark was getting too close to their fingers.
“What do I owe the pleasure,” she answers, a small smile on her face.
“What are you doing in this exact moment in time and space, Ally?” Stiles asks exasperated.
“I’m proofreading? Why?”
“Because I need you immediately. As in right now,”
Her brows furrow, because Stiles’ emergencies usually range from needing to vent to needing something outrageous like a kidney transplant. Thankfully, she has yet to hear the latter. She really hopes it’s not the nature of his call now, her fragile heart wouldn’t be able to handle it.
“Listen,” he sighs, “Mel gets out of preschool early today for some reason. I think we forgot what days were early release. Me and Scott are both stuck at work for the time being. Think you could pick up the princess in half an hour? Hold her until we get off?” he pleads, sounding desperate. And Allison laughs.
“And miss an opportunity to see my favorite goddaughter? Of course I’ll get her.”
She hears Stiles holler into the phone, and then his muffled voice relaying the news to someone near him, presumably Scott. “Thank you so so much, Ally. We owe you! Scott says thanks, too.”
“Anything for you,” she coos.
“Love you, seriously. If I wasn’t gay and madly in love with a certain tanned, muscular man, I’d kiss you.”
“Gross,” she scrunches her nose, but laughs anyway. “Save those kisses for Scott.”
“Oh, you better believe it.”
The phone clicks, and the call ends. So, she starts packing her things to leave, buzzing with the excitement of seeing Melissa. She’s probably the sweetest girls Allison has ever come across, which is why she always sneaks behind the boys’ backs and buys her ice cream before dinner.
Allison is already in her car, keys in the ignition, when her eyes go wide, and she starts frantically searching through her bag in the passenger seat. Her manuscript is gone, lost from the car, and, shit, she must have left it on the table as she had rushed out.
She stumbles back in, expecting to find it still on the table seeing as it’s only been a couple of minutes, when she stops cold in her tracks.
Because Lydia is sitting in her chair.
And she’s reading the manuscript.
For a second, she doesn’t move. She just stands there, because a part of her wants to watch Lydia’s expression as she skims through it, which, damn writer’s curse, she seeks out validation anytime she can with her writing.
And then Lydia smiles as she reads a line, and it’s sweet and wholesome, and Allison wants to live in this strange, warm feeling.
And then Lydia looks up, and the feeling is gone.
“Hey,” she says, offering a small smile. She moves to stand from the table, taking the manuscript in her hand as she walks up to Allison, and wow, why does she look like her hair was brushed by a comb made from golden bristles? “You left this on the table. I was going to keep it in the back, but turns out you came back for it.”
Lydia smirks, and Allison opens her mouth, and then closes it. And then opens it again. “Uh. Thanks.” she takes it, gripping it tight in her hands. “Just out of curiosity, what part were you reading?”
Lydia holds her smirk, and God, Allison is in no position to be prepared for this. “Just a random paragraph that was open.” she dismays with a wave of her hand. “Something about arrows and dirt paths,” She almost looks bored. “Tavern waitresses with flowing red locks and kissable lips.”
Fuck.
Allison is sure she just nervously laughs, hoping that maybe she will seem unapproachable enough for this conversation to end and she can walk away with her dignity thrown against the wall. “It’s not about you,” she explains, but she doesn’t think she’s all that convincing what with how Lydia arches a brow.
“Really?”
It’s quiet, and Allison really doesn’t trust herself to answer.
So, Lydia just shrugs, and takes a step backward. “I wish it was,” she whispers, and her smile grows wide and bright, and Allison is sure she’s full on blushing.
She still standing there in the almost empty coffee shop when Lydia calls from behind the counter.
“Oh, and one more thing?” Lydia perks over the pastry counter.
Allison just stares at her with hopeful eyes.
“I think Holly has just much of a crush on Crystal,” she coos, and disappears through the back door into the kitchen, arm full of baking trays.
Allison just about faints.
When the seventh and final book of Huntress is sent to print, ending the story with Crystal finally meeting Artemis and deciding to continue her life as a mortal, protecting those around her, and Artemis blessing her and Holly with an eternal bond, Allison decided for the first time to add a dedication:
For Lydia,
My constant red-head reminder that you don’t need a prince to live happily ever after.