“No,” he says, draping his coat over one of my antique-white dining table chairs. “We need to read this book.”
“I’m not reading that book. Take it with you because I have absolutely no interest in that book.”
“Do you not understand what this means, Kiera?”
“I didn’t write the fucking book, Connor.”
“Then who the fuck did?”
“How do you even know it’s about us?” I say, picking the book up from the counter and flipping it over to scan the back cover.
Connor snatches it out of my hand. “‘I’m gonna warn you,’” he says, reading the back copy out loud. “‘Our story isn’t for everyone. It’s not even for us. So if you’re looking for the fairytale and the stupid fucking prince on his dumb white horse, you’ve got a hold of the wrong book. Move along. This is not your story, this is not your life, and this is not your opportunity to dip your frightened little toe into the dark pool of water and “try new things” and then pull it out and decide… #NotForMe. When you go in with us you go all in. So make a decision before you turn this page. Because I’m making one promise with this book. Just one. It’s the truth. We are the dirty ones and this is our story.’” He slams the book back down on the counter and stares at me. “‘We are the dirty ones and this is our story?’ Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
I take a step back because his rage is very clear.
“We, Kiera, are the fucking dirty ones. That is literally the name we gave ourselves.”
Our eyes meet. Hold there, suspending time. I pick up the book and thrust it at him. “I didn’t write it. And if you think Sofia and Camille don’t ‘write this shit,’ as you put it, then I guess you don’t know them as well as you think.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means they write this shit, Connor. The only difference between me and them is that they hide behind pen names and I don’t. So maybe next time you find your deepest, darkest secrets splashed all over the New York Times bestseller list by an anonymous source, you should hold your fucking preconceived notions in check and wait to hurl those accusations until after you ask all your dirty writer friends if they’re the author. OK?”
He’s holding his breath. I only know that because there’s silence as I finish and then he lets it out in a long rush of air. “Well… fuck!”
He shouts the curse word.
“Who cares, anyway. It’s a stupid story.” I pick the book back up and start thumbing through it.
“It’s a true fucking story, Kiera. You know what we did. You know what’s in there. And if you didn’t write it then who did? Because when I find out—”
“There are no names in here,” I say.
Connor is doing a two-fisted grab of his hair, staring down at his feet like there’s some magic answer on his soaking wet shoes, when this comes out. “What?” he says, releasing his grip and taking two steps towards me to grab the book from my outstretched hand.
“Look,” I say, grabbing the book back and opening it up again. Does he really have to be such an asshole? Now I have to find the page again.
“Give it to me.”
I ignore him and thumb through until I see them again. “Look. It uses initials. CA. KB. SA. HF. BW. Right there.” I stab the page and hold it out for him.
“Holy shit,” he says, doing that hair-grab thing again. “Thank God. You know I’m in the preliminary stages of running for US senator, right?”
“No,” I deadpan. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t own a television.”
He looks around, taking in my home. And I find his scrutinizing stare to be uncomfortable. “You don’t own a TV,” he parrots back. “Do you even have internet here?”
“Nope. I get cell coverage if I walk down to the end of the driveway. But here in the house it’s hopeless.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Kiera?”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t just… live somewhere without phone coverage.”
I make that little noise you make when someone is being stupid and you just can’t take another moment of it. You know it when you hear it. Calling it a laugh is far too generous. And a huff isn’t enough. Something between a snort and a sneer, I think. “This cottage is a hundred and twenty years old, Connor. And as far as I know, none of its occupants have ever died from lack of cell phone. Besides. The landline mostly works.”
He glances over to an old-fashioned rotary wall phone in my tiny kitchen and makes that huff-snort again. Only it comes out like relief instead of sarcasm. Then he looks down at the book in his hands and says, in a very quiet voice, “What do you think it says? Everything?” But I can hear hope in his voice. Hope he’s wrong.