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.
When I push through the heavy door, Anna’s gaze finds me in less than two seconds, her evil eyes narrowing a fraction. I give her nothing because I don’t know exactly how I feel. The right words still don’t exist.
“Oh, hey, Eric.” Freya gives me a stiff smile.
“Hi.” I nod.
“This is my fiancé, Adrian.” She tugs on the short, dark-haired kid’s arm. Yes … he looks maybe sixteen. I’m sure he’s of legal age.
“Hi.” It’s my best, non-confrontational greeting. I’m not here to bring trouble. Not yet anyway.
He returns a similar nod of acknowledgment.
“Everyone take a seat,” Anna beckons everyone to the sofas.
My ass plants itself at the far end.
“Okay. Let’s go around and give our one-word impression of the ending.” Anna’s eyes lift from her book, her gaze sweeping to everyone but me.
“Unexpected.”
“Shocking.”
“Perfection.”
“Satisfying.”
Everyone shares their words. Anna’s posture builds into a statue of pride with each passing second.
“Eric, your turn.” Ashlee nudges my arm. I stare at the book on my lap. “Ambiguous.”
“Huh … so you felt the ending was open to interpretation?” Freya asks.
I shrug, keeping my head down. “Something like that,” I murmur.
“Well, anyway …” Anna jumps in and starts a specific topic of conversation.
I let my gaze find her, and I don’t look away—not when she risks a glance at me, not when she laughs, not when she sips her wine and nods in agreement with the discussion. I just … watch her and wonder why.
After it’s over and everyone starts to make their way toward the exit, I don’t move.
“We’ll give you a few minutes,” Freya says to Anna before she and her fiancé exit the rooftop leaving just the two of us.
Anna tries to ignore me, picking up trash and gathering the wine bottles.
I watch her.
She lowers the umbrellas and sets the trash bag by the door.
I watch her.
“Why are you here?” She parks herself beside me, hands planted onto her hips.
I toss my book onto the table in front of me along with a Sharpie. “Thought I’d ask B. Ashton to sign my book.”
“W-what are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I grunt a laugh, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hands through my hair.
“How …” she whispers.
“Roseland Publishing. Roseland was my grandmother. She was a poet. My parents named their publishing company after her. My dad sent me some manuscripts from his slush pile to read through. Can you guess whose manuscript was in that pile?” I glance up at her. “With a copy of the query letter and the author’s real name?”