Or at least, that’s what I decided in that moment.
Will threw me an expressionless glance. For a few seconds I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but finally he said, “Embolism.”
“Oh.” I winced. “That’s awful. And your dad?”
“My dad.” Will said the word like it tasted bad. “My dad. He was—how can I put this?—ill-prepared to assume the responsibility of single parenthood.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “Like Johnny’s dad?”
Now the look he threw me was startled. “Johnny?”
“Yes. Johnny Kane. From The Moment. Or are you telling me that’s not an autobiographical work?”
Slowly, he began to grin. “So. You’re reading it.”
“Of course I’m reading it. It’s a free book that someone left in my hotel room. How could I not read it?”
The grin widened. “And what do you think of it?”
“Well.” It was always so delicate when another author asked what you thought of their book, especially when that author was your sworn enemy, and yet you couldn’t put their book down. “Johnny and Melanie certainly seem to have had a lot of trauma in their lives. But that isn’t stopping them from having a lot of sex with each other.”
The grin froze. His gaze became very still—almost wary—on mine. “And what do you think about that?”
“Well, on the whole, I’m a fan of sex, as long as it’s between consenting adults.” What was happening here? Why was he looking at me that way? “But since I haven’t finished the book yet, I’m reserving judgment. I presume you’re going to kill Johnny off at the end, since you’re such a big fan of catharsis.”
The wary look left Will’s face, and the grin returned. “Oh, you never know. I might surprise you this time.”
“I doubt it. Anyway, I thought we were talking about your dad. I hope he didn’t die in a mine collapse like poor Johnny’s father.”
“Not exactly. But like poor Johnny’s father, my dad only loved three things: his wife—my mother—gambling, and alcohol. After she died, he threw himself into the latter two with impressive abandon.”
I was genuinely shocked. Not only because the normally tight-lipped Will Price was suddenly opening up to me, but because none of this matched what I’d assumed I knew about him. “Will. That’s … that’s really horrible.”
He gave a nonchalant shrug of those enormous shoulders, as if nothing he was saying mattered. “I suppose. But however bad it was for me, it was much worse for Chloe. At least I got to spend a dozen years or so with a loving parent, who introduced me to so many wonderful things—books and reading. My mother loved them. Chloe didn’t have that. I tried as best I could in my mother’s place, but—”
He shrugged again, this time with a helplessness that almost broke my heart. I couldn’t believe I was feeling sorry for Will Price, of all people.
“That’s a lot of pressure,” I said gently.
He didn’t look very convinced. “I suppose. When I got into university, I didn’t even want to go. Who was going to take care of Chloe?”
This sounded so much like something Johnny Kane would wonder about his sister, Zoey, I began to ask myself if The Moment wasn’t slightly autobiographical after all.
“My dad agreed,” Will went on, staring sightlessly off into the sea. “He thought university was useless. He wanted me to take over his construction business, which was failing thanks to his betting habit. What a mess I would have made of that, eh?”
I blinked. I couldn’t believe how wrong I’d been.
Not about everything, of course: Will Price really had been raised by wolves. But only one of them, and not exactly in the privileged luxury I’d always imagined.
Feeling like it might be appropriate to lighten the mood a bit, I said, “I can sort of relate. My dad is great, but he’s a musician. He’s still devastated I didn’t go into the family business.”
“Really?” Will glanced back at me and smiled. “Did he try to force you to learn the piano?”
“Worse: violin. Even with all my literary success, my dad is still holding on to the hope that someday I’ll come to my senses.”
“You do understand, then. Parental expectations can be … difficult.”
“Yes,” I said. “But look how well you’ve done for yourself.” I gestured widely at the boat. “Your dad can’t still think that you made the wrong choice.”
The smile disappeared as his gaze shifted moodily back toward the windscreen. “Well, I’ll never know. He died before I graduated university. Heart attack.”
For once I was the one rendered speechless.
I understood now why there wasn’t any mention of this in any of his bios. It was something every single journalist he’d encounter would want to ask him about: What was it like to have suffered so tragic a loss at such a young age, then gone on to become so meteorically successful writing books about survivors of equally terrible loss? (Although Will Price would never allow a character to die of something so mundane as a heart attack. Being hanged for running over your lover’s husband would be more likely.)
Deeply regretting all the times I’d gouged out his eyes in photos in airplane magazines, I finally managed to stammer, “I … I’m so sorry, Will.”
So original. But then, what else were you supposed to say upon learning something like that?
Then, because I didn’t know what else to do, I added lamely: “My mother died when I was young, too.”
Oh, God, why? Why had I told him this?
Will looked startled. “I thought she was a homemaker who loves baking cookies for you and your dad.”
Now I was the one who was startled. “No. Where did you—Oh!” Comprehension dawned. “No, that’s Kitty Katz. Her mom is a homemaker who loves baking cookies and cup-cakes for—”
“Kitty and her three little baby brother kittens. Right.” He was grinning again. “And Mr. Katz supports them all by working nine to five at Katz Savings and Loan.”
I gaped at him. What was going on? Will Price had read my books? Obviously I knew he was familiar with them. He must have seen the bits that Nicole Woods had stolen, since they’d been quoted in every article about her plagiarizing the two of us.
And since he was on the selection committee for the book festival, he’d have to at least heard Molly talking about them. Or possibly his sister had left Kitty Katz #15: Kitty Quinceañera, lying around the house, and he’d picked it up and learned about Kitty’s best friend Felicity’s rockin’ fiesta de quince años.
But read one? Actually read a whole book of mine, the way I was (finally) reading one of his?
“But in your interviews,” he went on, looking confused, “you always say Kitty’s family is based on your own.”
“Yes. Well.” I twisted uncomfortably in the co-captain’s seat. Wait—he’d been reading my interviews, too? No. Chloe had probably read them to him over the breakfast table or something. That made more sense. “Sometimes it’s easier to say things like that when reporters ask you questions about your personal life, don’t you think? Because the truth is such a bummer.”