The Tremendous Turmoil of Indigo

Chapter 13

Tate could think of many places he'd rather be than the bright, posh little eatery in the middle of River Oaks. He could be enjoying the bright sun upon his skin as he enjoyed a morning jog around the neighborhood with Gambit while the visages of winter still lingered. He could be going over the syllabus and working through discussion questions before his first day as a temporary college professor or he could be searching through the plastic containers stored in the garage of all the old works, edits, and random ideas he scribbled down over the years hoping something would ignite his passion for writing.

He'd rather be doing any of those things than sitting opposite the low-fro impeccably dressed woman. Everything about Juliet Brewer screamed out of town from the short-sleeved denim crop top in the below fifty-degree weather that had native Houstonians bundle up in scarves and chunky sweaters. Her slight Brooklyn accent flaunted her East Coast roots and the eloquent way she laced her words together like a National Rhodes Scholar let all know she hailed from a prestigious university with an exceptional grasp of every conduit of the English language.

"I could eat a thousand of these. What's in this?" Juliet proclaimed, carving into the spinach mushroom frittata that claimed the entirety of the dainty blush plate. "It is bacon grease or something?" She huffed humorly before putting another bite into her eager mouth.

Tate simply chuckled as she slouched back in the chair, "You're probably just hungry. Too much granola. Not enough starch."

"Damn, Tate." The fork paused in front of her mouth as she eyed him with shock then she chuckled with a faint nod. "Not a morning person. I get it. Most writers aren't."

"Can you still call me that, though?" He shrugged. "I don't write anymore. I'm even asleep before the hush of night."

"See. There it is." She shook her fork at him. "You say you aren't a writer then use terms like 'hush of night'. Normal people don't say things like that. I don't speak like that and neither do any of these average souls." She gestured her utensil at the tables of cheery people around them eating and guzzling coffee. "You just need a new idea. It'll come."

Her words shot through him like a thunderbolt, sitting him straight up in the chair. "So, you're not cutting me loose."

"Cutting you loose?" She repeated his words like they were odd configurations. "What are you getting at?" She lifted the delicate flute filled with a pale liquid from the table. "Tate, don't tell me you've been spinning tales in your head."

He shrugged, edging close to the table with a quirk to his lips, "I haven't been able to produce content. You cutting ties with me is the most logical step."

"Logic." She swirled the remainder of her cocktail around in the glass. "That would be the next logical step. But publishing doesn't flow with logic. It's a fickle beast that has the attention span of a hummingbird on speed."

He chortled at her metaphor feeling the claws of anxiety and tension loosening its grip on his gut and nerves. "So, what is this meeting about?"

"A new opportunity." She dabbed the corners of her clean mouth with a napkin then tossed it on the empty plate. "It's not your normal thing but I think you should give it a shot. You are great at writing across different genres and at this present stage of your life you have all the knowledge to create a hit."

He eyed her sideways with suspicion. She was buttering him up for something and he wasn't sure if he was going to like it. "What are you peddling, Juliet?"

"Fine. But just hear me out." She held up her hand and he nodded his agreeance to remain silent until she spoke her last word on the sales pitch. "Time has passed. You've matured; become a married man and a dad. You grew up and so have your fans. They've married, divorced, had children and what do parents love to do?" She paused for him to reply.

"Uh...read books...I guess."

"Not just books. But stories. They want to share something that they love with their children. A piece of their youth that they can pass on to the little ones."

"You want me to write children's books." He said with slight disgust. "I don't know how to make sentences that short. Run-ons are my specialty."

"So, are fragments." She teased with a chuckle. "Add a subject and you'll be gold. You have kids. You can do this."

He shook his head. He knew his strengths and this was not one of them. "This isn't for me. I'm not a children's author. I know I don't have ideas right now but I do know that writing for the under-ten crowd isn't on my list."

"Just think about it." She signaled for the waiter and once she had his attention mouthed the word 'check'. "You lost one of your muses and I know it's been hard for you but this could help you get back to your niche. Sleep on it."

He smiled at the words knowing she wasn't going to take a firm no on the topic right now. He nodded, "I'll sleep on it. Dream on it and see how I'll feel in the morning."

"You have seven mornings." She slipped her credit card in the folder the waiter brought over. "Or I'll have to find someone else for the deal."

"Sure. Seven days. Got it."

As he slid back into the driver's seat of the still-running car, he wondered if he could do it. Be a children's writer. It was never on his list of goals but Juliet was right he did know a thing or two about kids.

"Did you get the boot?" Cooper inquired looking up from her phone, the chair still reclined.

"No." He glanced at her before sliding the gear into reverse, "You couldn't come in."

"I'm good." She informed. "I wasn't ready to interact with people. I took a much-needed nap." Her phone buzzed with a message and she tossed it in the backseat like it was a bomb. "I can't sleep in that hotel. Too many people walking by my door."

Tate eased the car out of the parking spot holding back all the many questions he still had but Indigo advised him not to push her, let her reveal the reasons when she was ready. But his curiosity was getting the best of him. She called him early that morning for an emergency that was just a beetle that found refuge in her room. After freeing her room of the critter he suggested she'd spend the night in their guest room and she packed her bag with glee.

"But you like people." He eased to a stop at the red light. "You're a journalist. Your job is to be around people."

"People change, Tate. Look at you." She gestured to him. "I called you and you actually showed up."

"What does that mean?" His glare stayed on the road navigating the car through the intersection.

"Nothing. Forget it." She waved off her former words with a flick of the wrist. "It's just the sleep depravity talking."

He let her close her eyes, feign sleep but they were going to talk about it later rather she wanted to are not. Knowing her, he suspected she'd bring it up passive-aggressively but they'd discuss it nonetheless.

Should Tate give more thought to writing a children's book? 

What do you think Juliet means by him 'losing one of his muses'?

What do you think Cooper means by Tate changing?