A Milestone, A Promise, and A Sneak Peek

I started Macon Books because my therapist made me. I have spent my life very convinced that I had something to say, but until I had perfected it, I should keep my mouth shut and listen. So, I listened. And I wrote. I called it “taking reps,” and I did it almost every day. I wrote emails I would never send. I wrote books no one else would ever read. I wrote articles I’ll never publish. I wrote long and meandering journal entries about books I had read, ideas I had, the craft of writing, the nature of art, and anything else that sparked life inside me. I wrote with a kind of pathological fanaticism, driven by the idea that if I wrote enough words about enough things, I’d find the perfect thing I had to say and finally be able to share my words.

What I had forgotten, what I had maybe never really known, is that all art is communal – and the written word is the most communal art form of all. All writing exists in conversation. And the best of those conversations are gifts. The books and authors I have written about, am writing about, are gifts to me. Being in conversation with them, and about them with y’all, has felt like a moment out of a life that isn’t mine, but I’d love to live. Macon Books is a gift to me.

It sounds like I’m quitting. I am decidedly not. I’ll be back later today (or maybe tomorrow morning – we all know I reserve the right for Tuesday to be any day from Monday to Wednesday). I’m going to keep writing my weird little posts about books until the sun consumes us or my one lifelong hyper-fixation fades.

My point here is I hit a milestone number of subscribers yesterday. It was a very random milestone, and it doesn’t matter at all, except that I promised that if I ever hit that milestone, I would start another conversation with y’all.

On August 8, 2023, I am releasing my first novel. It’s called The Flight Risk. It is my contemporary spin on the red thread of fate myth. I will make and implement an actual launch strategy. I’ll probably ask y’all to help. But today isn’t about that. Today, sweet friends, is about sharing what I hope will be a gift, but I know will be the start of a new kind of conversation with readers.

Below you will find the cover, back copy, and an excerpt from chapter one. I am in the copy edits stage, so specific words might (will) change for the better, but the core will hold. I really hope you enjoy it.

Keep Reading, Macon

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Cover Design by Cath Grace

Things are going great for Baylee Lawrence. Her writing has won awards, been adapted into an outrageously successful movie, and she’s just achieved her childhood dream of selling out a storytelling show at the Ryman. It’s incredible. Her life is perfect—a series of grand adventures. She has no intention of changing anything. Why would she? 

She finally has exactly what she’s spent her whole life chasing and sacrificing for.

After a long night celebrating her success, Baylee is confronted with an unexpected blast from her past, setting off a domino string of events that sends her spiraling into a part of her life and heart that she’d spent the last decade trying to forget. She doesn’t want to go back. Normally she wouldn’t—but there’s a bucket list, a debt to pay, and the promise of what might be her grandest adventure yet. 

Spanning 18 years - and one really weird week - The Flight Risk is a modern retelling of the red thread of fate, a love story exploring with humor and heart what it means for the universe to conspire for you, despite you.

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September 21, 2010 - Nashville, Tennessee

There is a man in my bed.

I rub my eyes hard and sigh when the spots of white light disappear. I was hoping he’d been a hallucination, the Vomit Beast playing a joke on me, but, alas, there is an actual man in my actual bed.

He is naked.

I look back at the sopping clothes piled on the floor of the bathroom – clothes that almost certainly belong to the man in my bed. 

Because there is a man in my bed.

A naked man is in my bed.

His hair is wet—which explains the damp floor of the bathtub.

I find it odd, and incredibly embarrassing, that I missed an entire human when I woke up this morning—and that no part of my brain registered I was wearing clothing that did not belong to me.

I really am such. an. asshole.

Suddenly panicked, my eyes dart to the nightstand. Along with a still-full highball glass of water, and a handful of empty beer bottles, there is a box of condoms, a plastic wrap from a dental dam, and several (yes, several) empty condom wrappers.

At least we were safe. 

Probably.

I rub my eyes again.

Fuck me. Just... fuck me sideways.

But not without a condom. 

Ever.

Probably.

Dammit. Just… dammit.

What the hell is wrong with me? 

On the bright side, the man in my bed is super-cute in a boyish All-American way I cannot deny. He has thick brown hair, an incredible jawline covered in stubble, and the tight, compact build of a middleweight boxer. 

He’s exactly the kind of man I’m inevitably attracted to on the rare occasion I find myself attracted to a man.

I try to remember how we met, see if I can get even a hint of a name, a syllable, a letter, but the whole night is a blur of color and sound fading into black. My conscious self knows nothing of this man.

I have to consider getting my life together. This is ridiculous even for me.

I am in my fucking thirties. I have to stop sleeping with people whose names I can’t remember.

I walk quietly into the room, letting the fluorescent slant of light from the cracked bathroom door guide me to my suitcase. Halfway there I come up short, sucking in the yelp I want to release and turning it into a shocked intake of breath. There is a gorgeous red-headed woman wrapped in a comforter, passed out on the floor, a puke filled trashcan next to her head. She has an elven face, willowy limbs, and a teapot pouring out wildflowers tattooed on her left shoulder blade.

Hot. 

She is incredibly hot.

Sober Me has to admit, however begrudgingly, that Drunk Me has incredible taste.

Also, the man in my bed is making a bit more sense. 

If I weren’t so hung over, and ashamed, I’d give myself a high five. 

I really do love being bisexual, or pan, or whatever kind of queer I am. I don’t know. It’s all kind of murky to me if I’m being honest. 

I mostly identify as down.

I creep to my suitcase and, as quietly as possible, take out the first pair of pants, shirt, and shoes I find. Turns out I’m wearing skinny jeans, a light blue T-shirt, and beat-to-shit Converses for my show tonight.

Good enough.

I’ll be slightly off-brand without a scrap of flannel on, but desperate times—desperate measures and all that. I also hear they sell flannel in Nashville. I can always acquire some if I get desperate.

And I will.

I walk back into the bathroom and shut the door almost silently. I dress quickly, wishing I had made choices last night that left me with the memory of at least some of my actions. It’s been a minute since I’ve been truly blackout drunk. I’d forgotten how much I hate not remembering things, how unsettling it is to have your conscious brain turn over the reins for an evening.

How uncomfortable it is to know that, outside the bathroom door, there are complete strangers who have been inside of your body. Who’s bodies you have also been inside of.

I shudder, just a little.

Seriously, I have to get my life slightly more together. Even having my life three percent more together would fix this problem. 

It would have to.

I toss the wet T-shirt and boxers into the tub. The towels I used join them – after I take care of the vomit situation. 

As silently as possible I open the bathroom door, grabbing my backpack, keys, and wallet as I make my escape.

“Baylee?”

Shit. 

I feel my shoulders droop. Of course she is awake and knows my name. That is the exact morning I’m having.

I turn around and look into the just-opened eyes of the woman on my floor.

They are a very, very light blue, framed by inky eyelashes. The contrast is startling.

She really is just exceptionally hot. 

And naked except for a wedding ring. 

My eyes dart to the man in my bed; he also is wearing a ring.

Whew. I mentally wipe my brown. Okay, that’s a good sign. 

I don’t mind being a third to a consenting couple, but I’m not much one for cheating. There are so many single people. It seems shitty to fuck the taken ones.

The redhead sits up a little and goes translucent as a flush moves up her seriously perfect breasts. A pang of commiseration shutters through me. Whatever I did last night, it is clear I had at least one partner in crime. 

“You’re dressed.” Her voice is thick with sleep, but still soft and light.

It’s nice. She has a nice voice.

“I am.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I am.”

“What’s happening?” The All-American rolls towards us as he asks the question. His eyes are still closed.

“She’s leaving.”

The All-American rubs his face a couple times and looks at me through blurry eyes. “You're leaving strangers alone in your hotel room?”

I look over at the matching navy blue Toms tossed in the corner along with his jeans and a dark, maybe-blue-maybe-black, shirt. Her jeans and tee shirt are draped over the back of my hotel room’s desk chair. A light denim jacket is draped over its seat. “Y’all have socially conscious footwear. I’m not concerned.”

“Fair.” The All-American rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head.

The Elven Woman finishes sitting up and goes from white to green quick enough I consider grabbing the trash can for her. She shakes it off, very literally, fighting valiantly to hide her nausea as she reaches for her jeans and pulls them on. 

Under the covers. 

It’s adorably odd, this getting-dressed-under-the-covers thing. We have absolutely seen each other naked. I’m looking at her bare chest right now. I think she realizes this because her chest flushes a deeper red and she quickly pulls on her T-shirt. 

It’s a concert T-shirt for the White Stripes that looks well-loved.

She looks cute in it.

She pushes to her feet but has to rest her hand on the wall to steady herself. “If you’ll give me a minute to get it together, put on my socially conscious footwear, and rouse my husband, we’d love to take you to breakfast.”

“I really can't.”

“Work?” She asks pushing off the wall and stumbling towards me.

“Something.” I say, trying to keep the appropriate amount of space between us.

Her husband lets out a soft snore.

She chuckles and, ignoring my clear social cues, reaches out to touch my necklace, trailing her finger along my collar bone. “I like this.” She traces the thin golden circle at the end of the thin gold chain. “It’s simple. Classic.”

“Thanks.” I tuck it under my shirt as best I can. The vee of the neck is a bit lower than would be ideal in this situation. “I really have to go. Feel free to order room service, or whatever, before y’all leave. Just charge it to the room.” I pat her shoulder, I am made of romance after all, before adding an almost heartfelt “Goodbye” as I pass her—because I am not a monster.

Or at least I try not to be too much of a monster.

She grabs my hand, pulls me into her, and kisses me softly before letting me go and stepping back.

She tastes like the bourbon and vomit I spent my morning drowning in.

I blink at her.

“Later…” There’s the barest hints of a smile in her voice. “Baylee.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I turn to go.

I feel her watching me as I leave. I feel her watching me through the door as I turn to walk down the hall – a persistent tap on the nape of my neck. Feeling her watching me is probably why I don’t notice the teenage girl sitting against the wall next to my door until I trip over her feet.

“Whoa.” I smile down at her after I’ve steadied myself. “Sorry. Wasn’t paying attention.”

The girl stands and pulls on her backpack.

She is rail thin with huge blue-green eyes magnified by thick-framed black glasses. Her blonde hair has been pulled back in a messy, lopsided ponytail. She has a slouchy gray beanie pulled on in a way that only effortlessly cool people can pull off. It really should be falling off her head but isn’t. She is wearing red skinny jeans with a gray tee shirt a couple of sizes too big. A white, marigold, and black flannel shirt is tied around her waist.

She is a little grubby. Her hair under the beanie a little greasy. 

The backpack, a battered navy NorthFace, is stuffed to capacity. She slumps a bit under its weight, clutching the straps like it’s an open parachute.

“Hi?” I ask it, mostly because, you know, what the hell? “You okay, kiddo?”

“Are you Baylee Lawrence?” Her voice is husky for a kid, deeper than I expected. She moves to stand in front of me, bouncing slightly on the soles of her classic high-top Chuck Taylor’s, the mirror image of the shoes I have on my feet. “The writer?”

I feel my eyes widen in surprise. I am popular, but not stalker-level popular. I’ve never had anyone wait for me outside my hotel room before. It’s disconcerting. And, if I’m being honest here, a bit rad. I am not without ego. “I am.”

“Heck yes.” The words are pure relief as her face widens into a huge smile. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite place it. It’s a feather tickling the far recesses of my memory. Between the booze, the shock, and the weirdness of the moment, I can’t dial in her familiarity. “I found you. I finally freaking found you. I knew I could do it.”

I give her a high five, because she found me when she knew she could. Plus, I love a good celebratory hand gesture. Also, I have no idea what else to do. 

I’d forgotten people say heck and freaking.

“You’re a lot taller in person.” The girl says, falling into step with me as I head to the elevator bank at the end of the hall. She’s taller for a girl, maybe 5’8 or 5’9, and probably still growing. She has the build of a dancer, but not the grace. “You don’t look so tall on YouTube or TV.”

“I get that a lot.” I grin at her as we stop to wait for the elevator. She doesn’t seem dangerous or creepy, just enthusiastic. She pushes the down button. “Who are you?”

“Rivers Montgomery.” She looks into my eyes. When that means absolutely nothing to me she nods to herself before clarifying, “I’m the Rogue Peach.”

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Thanks so much for reading. If you liked what you read, you can preorder here.