Thankfully, however, Diana did. She put out her feelers to a few different publishing houses, and eventually, it managed to find a home.
Nevertheless, I still had tons of leftover notes from that time; random scraps of paper or envelopes or napkins, thoughts jotted down on whatever writing surfaces were at hand whenever a memory struck. Most of the compilation read more like diary entries as opposed to an outline for a book. Once I sat down to actually write, however, I hardly had any need to consult my factual notes while getting lost in the fabricated story.
But that day, I dug it all back out and revisited it. I suddenly had the inexplicable urge to tell Trip’s and my story in all its many details, get it all down on paper. Not to publish, of course, but I was thinking that it would be a special gift for him. I wasn’t much of a scrapbooker, but I could document our life with words. It’s not like I didn’t have the time.
I got pretty lucky when that first book took off as well as it did. Because of that, Diana was pretty understanding about letting me work at my own pace. I’d made a few friends in the book world, and from the sound of it, some other literary agents weren’t quite so lax. It helped that Diana was not only a pit bull, but on my side. She was a champion for all the “artists” under her tutelage and didn’t take kindly to being told how to manage her talent.
So, it was pretty phenomenal that I was afforded a fairly long leash in regards to my career. Essentially, I was self-employed, a circumstance I’d never had during my working life and one in which I found an unexpected discipline.
Not so disciplined that I couldn’t take some time to swim through some writer’s block every now and again, however.
I had a membership at a nearby full-service gym just so I could use their indoor pool. I knew it would be a great way to keep fit over the winter, but I hadn’t been there more than a few times. Now that Trip and his marble-carved muscles were back in the picture, I figured it was high time I got myself back into shape. Over the seventy-two hours he’d been back in my life, I made it a point to hit the pool every day since the wake. I could already feel my body coming back to me, which was a good thing, because I refused to let my boyfriend be prettier than me.
Who am I kidding? Even if I were in top form, he’d still be prettier than me, dammit.
So, there I was, back in my office after my morning swim, a big, fat, personal folder screaming for attention, an entire as-yet-to-be-determined novel waiting to be written… and what was I doing?
Organizing my desk drawer.
Granted, with my obsessive tendencies, such a task was a weekly undertaking, but with two huge projects hanging over my head, it wasn’t the most pressing matter at the moment.
The one thing that stole the highest priority in my mind finally took precedence as I allowed myself to dial the phone.
Trip’s mom answered.
“Hi, Mrs. Wilmington. It’s Layla. May I speak to Trip please?”
Oh my God. I’m seventeen.
“Sure, honey. Hey, I’m sorry we didn’t get much chance to talk the other day.”
The woman was a bit preoccupied dealing with the death of her husband of almost forty years. It’s not like I blamed her for not taking time away from that to catch up on our gossip. “Umm. You were a little busy.”
“It was still good to see you. I’d like to catch up.”
It was a sweet thing to say. She and I had always gotten along pretty well back in the day, and I guess I didn’t realize how much I’d been missing her until she said that. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll be around from now on.”
I could hear her smile on the other end of the phone. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Hang on, I’ll get him. Terrence!”
There was a fumbling on the other line, then I heard Trip’s voice. “Hello?”
“Hi!”
“Hi there.”
“What’s up?”
“Hang on.” He held the phone away from his mouth and yelled, “Ma! I got it! Hang up!”
Click!
“I can’t believe I just had to say that.”
I laughed. “Well, if you’d just join the rest of us in this millennium, you’d get yourself a cell phone.”
“Never.”
“What’s the matter? Big strong guy like you afraid of a little brain cancer?”
“No. Big strong guy like me is afraid of an even bigger and stronger Big Brother.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“As a brain tumor.”
I rolled my eyes at that one. “So… Guess what?”
“What?”
I wrapped the cord around my finger and sing—songed, “My father’s going out tonight… I have the house to myself…” I was only half-kidding. It was getting ridiculous with the both of us living at our parents’ houses. We came this close to screwing in his truck in my driveway the other day. But then my father started flicking the porch lights to bust our chops and we just died laughing. Kinda broke the mood.