“I’m not looking for a mentor. Especially not one as young as my daughter. I’m perfectly happy writing my trashy little stories.” He pushes off the table, his body lifting to its feet and this can’t be it; he can’t leave now.
“Wait.” I reach out and grab his wrist, the motion an unplanned lunge, one that causes a sharp pain in my chest, my breath to wheeze, my face twisting in pain for a moment before I regain control. “Sit down.” His eyes drop to my hand around his wrist and I release it. “Please.” I add, and don’t like the way he peers at me, his gaze skating across my face, my body. In preparation for battle, I had covered up, worn layers. Put makeup on, and brushed my hair. I fear, in his new and more critical appraisal, that I haven’t done enough.
“You sick?” He stays in place, his palms flat on the table, stiff arms that support strong shoulders, the hunch of him intimidating. Still I return to my seat, needing the distance from him even if it puts me in a weaker position.
“Yes.” I shouldn’t have to say more. A polite individual would let that sit.
“What kind of sick?”
“I have three months. Maybe less.” I hadn’t planned on telling Marka. I don’t plan—with Kate already aware—on telling anyone else. Yet, with this man, for some reason, I do. I think part of it is desperation, his refusal still fresh off his lips, my heart still panicking in my chest. Part of it is because, in his eyes, there is something there. An edge of grief that I recognize, a pain that I understand. I don’t know anything about him, but I know—suddenly—that I need him. Even if he is a man. Maybe he will understand.
He finally sits, a heavy lumber into his chair, the back of it creaking as he settles into place. He is a much bigger man than Simon, the largest the chair has ever held. His eyes stare off, in the direction of the fridge, and there is a long moment of silence before they return to me. “People outlive those prognoses all the time.”
I make a face. “I’m not that type.” I know those types. The kind with families and children, the kind who must live longer because there is simply no other option. They do acupuncture and juice, they try meditation and have thousands pray for their healing. They abandon stress and devote everything, everything, to beating the odds. Everyone’s journey to death is different. The contrasts between them and me are numerous.
“Is this a publisher contract thing? You accepted the advance and can’t pay it back?” He looks around the deserted kitchen, and if I thought he missed my empty foyer and dining room, I was wrong. “Hell, you been selling furniture to pay your medical bills? Because I can—”
“No.” I snap. “This isn’t for a publisher.”
“So, it’s just a book.” He delivers the sentence slowly, as if trying to understand the concept.
“My books aren’t like yours.” I shift in my seat and try to think of the nicest way to put it. “They aren’t just books. The characters are special to me, and their lives are living, breathing stories. This story in particular—it’s one I need to write before I go. It’s important to me.”
“You can’t pull out the dying card and just expect me to jump on board.”
“I’ll pay you.” I name a sum, one that catches his attention, his brows rising. I don’t know what kind of advances Random House is paying him, but I know what Kate gets me, and I’ve matched that figure.
“And you want me to ghostwrite? Not co-author?” It is an important distinction. As a ghostwriter, readers will never know about his involvement, only my name listed on the cover.
“Correct.” When I prepped for this discussion, it was with Marka Vantly in mind, a woman I was convinced loved the spotlight. I had been concerned over this part of the negotiation, certain that she would want her name in gold print along the spine. I have no idea how this man will respond. He’s published for all this time in secret, hiding behind some blonde Barbie, his real name and identity a secret. Is ghostwriting any different?
He runs a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp, the resulting effect wild, a man with little thought for appearances. I want to slice through that hair and open up his skull. Feast on his thoughts and taste his motivations. Why does a man like this write smut? Why has he agreed to this meeting? Why did he ever email me to begin with? And what, right now, is he thinking?
His hand falls from his hair and he turns his head, fixing me with a stare. “Tell me about this story you have to tell.”
“You’ll do it?” The words rush out too eager, and I try to collect myself, to calm my features.
“Maybe. I need to know the story.”
I’m not ready to tell him that. I can’t even manage a decent outline, my pen still stalling over the white page, my mind unable to yield despite the urgency of my timeline. How can I pitch him on a story I can’t even work through in my mind?
“It’s about a family.” I pause, and I need a shot, a plug off the bottle above the fridge, the one that I hide from myself, the one that makes me think of her and him and ending it all. I don’t move to my feet, I don’t grab the shot glass, the one that sits in the bottom drawer, all by itself. I should. I shouldn’t. He is watching me, and I am past due for a sentence. I clasp my hands tightly together, knotting them in my lap. “Well, it starts earlier than that. A love story. Guy meets girl, they fall in love.”
“And then?”
I twist my hands, my knuckles bending, and maybe I could break them. That would distract from this painful conversation, could buy me hours of time and possibly a few more sympathy points. “They marry and have a child.” I take a breath and the next words rush out in one long line of vowels. “It’s a tragedy. In the end, the wife loses them both.”
He blinks. “Loses? Define that.”
No, thank you. “I haven’t pinned down every detail yet.”
His pupils don’t move, their fix on me almost disturbing in its focus. “What—”
“Those are the bones of the story. I’ll fill in the holes for you later. I’m still working them out.” The response snaps out of me, and I clutch to the sharp tones of the words. Yes. This I can do. Abrupt. Snarky. This will keep my fingers from breaking and my eyes clear from tears.
“It sounds…” His eyes finally move, a slow sweep away as if in search for a word. The one that finally comes out would disappoint thesauruses everywhere. “Sad.”
“Duh.” I straighten in my seat, and can feel the end of this conversation approaching, the drone of its finality growing louder. “I know it’s sad.”
“Something’s missing.” He leans back, his arms crossing over his chest. “What else?” I watch his eyes narrow, as if suspecting me of something.
“That’s it.” I haven’t lied so much since that night.
“It’s not going to be successful.”
“I don’t care.” There is a freedom in that. This will be the first book that I won’t fret over. The first book where I don’t wait by the phone, nauseous over where my latest release comes in on bestseller lists. I’ll never know if this book sells five copies, or five million. I’ll never know if readers, or even the editor, loves or hates it.
He is struggling with something. I can see it when he leans forward, one hand closing over the other, his eyes down on the table before he lifts them to mine. When he speaks, his question is the last thing I expect to hear. “You really want to spend your last months writing?”
“Yes.” He’s asking a druggie if she wants another hit, an overweight child if they’d like more cake. There is nothing in my final days I want more than to create worlds. There is also nothing I dread more than to dive further into this particular book.