Chapter 20
Message Sent.
Just two little words, and how the earth quakes beneath my feet.
Message. Sent.
I stare at the words in the bubble in my in-box and for a long moment sit in silence.
My manuscript is now in the in-box of Claire Donovan. My hopes entirely in her hands. It all comes down to this.
I suck in a deep breath and look around the room. Something feels different about the space. The same late-afternoon sunshine
makes the floating dust specks glitter; the books all around still hold their musty, leathery smell. But the air is cooler,
and the February chill rattles at the sparrow glass in a solitary way unlike before.
It’s funny. When all this first started, I was angry at discovering someone else was using my haven. I treasured the privacy
of my little cove. I treasured the solitude and the time I had it all to myself.
Now, I can’t help feeling alone. Like I’m on my own in a chilled room in a musty old attic space where the strands of lights wait cold and lightless.
For three days I’ve kept the lights off, waiting to see a sign of his return. Holding off on sending this final email in hopes
that I could do it after we’ve had that talk.
But so far, nothing. No coffee brewing. No lights glowing. No candlewick flickering and the scent of gardenias filling up
the room.
No notes.
Nothing.
And while I wouldn’t take back what I said, every run-in with Sam in the flesh only confirming our lack of chemistry, I can’t
help but wish he would write to me here. Again. If not for a relationship, at least as a friend.
Worst of all, it pains me to think he could’ve felt I took advantage of him.
That’s the hardest thought of all.
That I just took all his time and energy for my own gain. That I let eager conversation fill up the margins. And the moment
the manuscript was done I left him waiting up here, alone. I never intended that. Never in a million years. And everything
within me wants to make sure he knows.
It hasn’t been easy, though, to get the message across. Sam has avoided me like the plague these past three days. And while
I’m trying to respect his wishes, I can’t help but feel like it would be best for the both of us to clear this up. I won’t
keep it long. I won’t overstep. But he needs to get a proper thank-you from me.
And as for the manuscript itself, I never did get that final kiss right.
I read through a dozen classic scenes, watched four iconic eighties rom-coms, and read a dozen articles on the topic. And still the words fell a little flat. Better. But still . . . flat.
And I wasn’t about to ask him to help me.
Anyway
, I think, snapping my laptop shut and standing,
what’s done is done
. It may not be the best kissing scene in the world, but the story as a whole is truly the best I could give. Kisses can be
edited in the end if it’s acquired.
All I can do now is wait for her answer.
* * *
“You’re wanting . . . to include a photograph of your son . . . riding a go-cart . . . on the cover of this book.”
Even as I walk into the office I can hear the slow, long intake of breath through Lyla’s nostrils. When I look, her eyes are
screwed up so far toward the ceiling her false lashes are brushing against her newly waxed brows.
“Dr. Shaw. Sweetie.”
My antenna rises as I hear Dr. Shaw’s name.
My
author, Dr. Annabelle Shaw, revered professor of anthropology, to whom I sent the cover for her new release,
Extraterrestrial: How Theories of Life Beyond Earth Have Affected Culture
. (And yes, after editing her book, I do look up at the sky a little more warily these days. And I do sometimes get a little
nervous as I brush my teeth while looking back at myself, and the shower curtain behind me, in the mirror.)
The point here is Lyla is talking. To my author. On my phone.
Lyla pinches the crown of her nose with her eyes closed. “As adorable as your son is in your family albums, this isn’t the
vibe we’re going for with your book.” There’s a pause. There’s silence as she listens. Then Lyla opens her eyes. “Because it’s a book about extraterrestrial theories through culture and history. Now, unless you want to inform me that your son is actually an
alien
, I don’t know how slapping a picture of your son across the cover applies—”
I scold Lyla with my eyes and hold my hand out for my phone.
She sees me and swivels in her chair toward her computer. “And I understand that you are a respected anthropologist in the
field. But I know
my
market
.
”
I step forward and swivel her back toward me. She digs her heels in on the floor so the chair won’t budge.
“And I understand that your son is also a human being. But what I think you
don’t understand here is that while
you
may think your son has the most endearing smile, nobody else in the world cares.
Nobody
—and I cannot emphasize this enough—is going to buy this book because a random eight-year-old with a cheeky smile is sitting
inside his
Christmas present
on the front cover. And can I be frank?”
“
Lyla!
” I hiss and yank at the chair. Grab the long, twisting cord connecting the base of my office landline to the phone clasped
tightly to her ear.
Her brow wrinkles as she hears some clearly distasteful words on the other line. “No, I’m
not
saying that because I’m reacting to a male-centric society and hoarding anti-Y-chromosome thoughts. I’m saying it because
this book is about extraterrestrial theory in culture and your son has nothing to do with it!
”
Her voice has risen now, so much so that Marge and Rob in the office directly opposite have looked up from their computers.
And with no other options, I lunge for the phone.
She clings to it as tightly as a mother protecting her young. “
Stop
,” she whispers sharply, holding it to her chest. “She has to
know
!”
“That you’re
bat crazy?” I shoot back, trying my best to yank it from her chest.
“This woman wants to put her family members on the cover like some
family album
!”
she barks.
I put my elbow into it and, centering squarely on her rib cage, leverage myself with another yank. Just as I do so, I register
her glance above my head and feel her fingers releasing the phone. It’s like slow motion: her long, pink nails letting go,
the phone pulled into my stomach by my own strength, and then the force of my momentum throwing me back.
Back, back, back, until I become fully aware that my feet are unable to catch up with my body and the only place I’m headed
is to the floor.
With a
thump
.
Followed shortly by the
thump
of the phone being yanked off the desk, the line itself ripped from the wall.
For a moment I sit there, wondering about internal injuries. When nothing but a painful throb begins on my backside, I move
to stand. As I do, I register the shoes beside me.
Will’s shoes. Will Pennington’s black, shiny, emotionless oxfords.
And my reaction is a confusing mix of elation and fear.
Professionally: fear.
But on a personal level . . . Well, obviously this isn’t the most attractive way to see him after three days, but the point
is he’s back. Back from another trip to NYC.
I rush to my feet, the phone still clutched to my chest. “Will.
Hi.” My voice comes out a thousand times more breathless and wanting than I intended.
Pull it together
.
But, a bit to my surprise, the grin—and the glance my direction, for that matter—is such a short flicker, it hardly counts.
His eyes move back to Lyla, who, with her dramatic red lips open to reveal an
Oops
smile, looks as guilty as ever. “My office,” he says, pointing down the hall. “Now.”
I open my mouth. “It’s good to see you again,” I say, butting myself into the conversation as Lyla stands. “I was, um, thinking
through some more ideas for staff while you were gone. I’d love to talk them over with you and get your opinion—”
“I can’t right now, Savannah.”
“But I was just thinking—”
He stops me. And, for the first time, really looks me in the eye. “Please. Later.”
I pause, my brow creasing. His eyes are grave, serious, as though he’s doing me a favor by taking the briefest moment out
of his busy day to cut my advances off then and there.
He keeps his eyes on me until he seems sure he’s gotten his point across and then turns his attention back to Lyla. As they
turn to go, he calls over his shoulder. “Email me your ideas. When things clear up, I’ll read them.”
Email him.
Later.
Don’t meet him. Don’t sit in his office or drive around town on his business errands or chat while playing darts in some saloon.
Just wait, like I’m nothing more to him than his employee.
Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am.
And he couldn’t have made it clearer that that’s all he wants.