Mom’s body bounces as she chuckles. “Oh dear. Did this guy you like call you stupid for liking the book you chose?”
“Well, no. But by degrading the book and the writing, it was clearly implied.”
“Or just a difference of opinion,” Dad shrugs, closing the lid to the grill. “I love mushrooms and your mom hates them.”
“Not the same thing.” I frown. “When you love a story, it’s because it resonates in some way with your heart or maybe even your soul.”
“Wow! What’s the title of this book? Maybe I need to read it?”
I smile at my mom. “I have my copy in my bag. You really should read it.”
“But for the love of god … if you don’t like it, keep that shit to yourself.” Dad thinks he’s funny.
He’s not.
Chapter Twelve
Eric
Anna left.
I didn’t chase her.
If we can’t be ninety-nine percent amazing together and let that other one percent (the book) fade into the background, then I’m fighting a losing battle. After all, I can’t turn back time and pretend I loved something I didn’t.
“Hey! What’s up?” I answer my phone, seeing my dad’s picture pop onto the screen.
“Can you thin my slush pile?”
I laugh. “Do I have to?”
“Yes. I already sent five. They’ll arrive later today. I sent them to your store so you can sign for them.”
“And how long do I have?”
“A week.”
I shake my head, standing from my desk as the front door to the store rings with someone opening it. “Just fantastic. About a book a day.”
“You didn’t have other plans anyway. Right?”
“No, Dad. No plans. Gotta go.”
Two hours later the package arrives and I grab dinner on the way home.
As soon as I open the door to the lofts, Anna glances up from the bike rack. There are two other residents in the entry, so I don’t feel any obligation to acknowledge her. She didn’t want to sleep with anyone in the building because things can be awkward.
Well, here I am … smiling at everyone, including her. Same smile. Nothing special. Not making anything awkward as I carry my package and my dinner past her. She tips her chin down and slips off her helmet.
That’s right … you shouldn’t hide your face in shame. You crazy book lady.
Four days ago she kicked and shoved me like a toddler having a tantrum. I didn’t appreciate her making me feel like I was forcing myself on her. I wasn’t.
After I get my dinner set out on my table, I open the package of manuscripts. The slush pile of unsolicited crap—at least ninety-nine out of a hundred are complete garbage. Occasionally, there’s a hidden gem. Dad’s looking for that. He must be feeling indifferent about his current client’s work. My parents have owned a publishing company for twenty years. I’m expected to take over when they retire. In the meantime, they use me for fun stuff like the slush pile. My head already aches and I haven’t even started.
All five manuscripts have tags on them. They’re the ones my mom peeked at—maybe the first three chapters—and didn’t hate it.
I thumb through them, deciding which one will ruin my night the least.
Elenor’s Boyfriend
Hard pass.
Waking Up In His Arms
Hell no.
Journey to The Missing Planet
It’s a possibility. I’d rather go to the missing planet than meet Elenor’s boyfriend or wake up in some guy’s arms.
Sex on Medicare
What the fuck? I remind myself that my mom read at least a few chapters and saw something. She might need to get new glasses.
The Last Person
I chuckle. Great. Another book with that title. Sadly, it’s probably better than Anna’s obsession. My gaze slides an inch lower to the author—B. Ashton.
Fuck. My. Life.
Really. How did Anna pick an indie book that ends up being submitted to my parents’ publishing house? I envision myself recommending this be the one they publish. B. Ashton gets her book in major bookstores and airport gift shops. I take Anna to the locally owned bookstore on the corner and show her the huge display of The Last Person in the window. Then I tell her it was because of me. I made it happen. She takes me back to her place. We fuck like rabbits. The End.
I laugh out loud. Yeah … there’s no way that’s happening. If I run out of toilet paper, I might use pages of the manuscript to wipe my ass, but that’s the most appreciation this book will get from me.
Truth? I didn’t originally hate it. I just didn’t see a wow factor. The writing is good. There’s potential. But after weeks and weeks of it cock blocking me, I detest it.
“Looks like I’m taking a journey to the missing planet,” I push the manuscripts aside and slide my plate in front of me. As I try to enjoy my dinner, the stupid manuscript haunts me.
How does this happen? Millions of books. Millions of manuscripts. And this one lands in my lap.
I grab a red pen and start marking up The Last Person. My dad only wants my opinion. He’s not expecting me to return an edited manuscript, but I need to do this. I need to get it out of my system … the book out of my system … her out of my system.
By five the next morning, with no sleep for my wary body, and pages of red marks and long notes, I turn to the last page. The words wait for me to swallow them, to make sense of them as I read a copy of the query letter.
I can’t. They lodge into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I feel … No. There are no words to describe how I feel.
Anger.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
Resentment.
All good words, but not the right ones.
Dragging my exhausted ass into the bathroom, I shower and go to work. It takes four espressos to get through the day. By the time I get home, I’m ready to collapse.
“Going to book club?” Piper asks when she starts up the stairs behind me.
I stop midway to the second floor and glance over my shoulder. “That’s tonight?”
She nods and smiles. “Yes. We’re finishing the discussion tonight. That ending … Gah! Did you finish it?”
Even the muscles in my face are too exhausted to pull into a readable expression. I nod. “Did you like the story?”
“Loved it!” She passes me, clicking her heels on the stairs to the third floor.
“Can I ask how many books you read in a year?” I yell up to her.
“Twenty to thirty.” She stops and peeks her head over the railing. “Why?”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I shake my head. “No reason.”
“Did you not like it?”
I continue to shake my head, my feet dragging my ass the rest of the way to the second floor. “Doesn’t matter,” I mumble to myself.
Setting the alarm on my phone, I give myself an hour to sleep just to take the edge off so I can start another manuscript before bedtime. When I wake up, I stare at the time. It’s thirty minutes until book club … until Anna’s friends praise her for her great book pick. There’s a one hundred percent chance she doesn’t want me there.
If my brain were working properly, with more than an hour’s sleep in the past day, I’d eat, read, and go to sleep without giving that woman or her favorite book a second thought. Sadly, it’s not working right. So I change my clothes, grab my paperback copy of the book, and head to the rooftop.