They were going to go to the midnight release party at the Bookworm, back in Omaha. Levi wanted to go, too.
“Are we gonna dress up in costumes?” he’d asked the other night, up in his room.
“We haven’t done costumes since junior high.” Cath was sitting on the love seat with her laptop. She could write with him in the room now; she was so focused on Carry On, she could have written in a room full of circus animals.
“Damn,” he said, “I wanted to do costumes.”
“Who do you want to go as?”
“The Mage. Or maybe one of the vampires—Count Vidalia. Or Baz. Would that make you wild with desire?”
“I’m already wild with desire.”
“She said from across the room.”
“Sorry,” Cath said, rubbing her eyes. Levi had been needling her all night. Teasing her. Trying to get her to come out of her head and play. “I just need to finish this chapter if I want Wren to read it before she falls asleep.”
Cath was so close to the end of Carry On that every chapter felt important. If she wrote something stupid now, she wouldn’t be able to fix it or rein it in later. There was no room left for filler; every chapter meant the resolution of a plot line or a character’s last big scene. She wanted all of them to get the ending they deserved. Not just Baz and Simon and Agatha and Penelope, but all the other characters, too—Declan the reluctant vampire hunter, Eb the goatherd, Professor Benedict, Coach Mac.…
Cath was trying not to pay attention to her hit counts—that just added more pressure—but she knew they were off the chart. In the tens of thousands. She was getting so many comments that Wren had taken to handling them for her, using Cath’s profile to thank people and answer basic questions.
Cath was keeping up in her classes, but just barely. All her other assignments felt like the hoops she had to jump through to get to Simon and Baz.
One thing about writing this much … her brain never really shifted out of the World of Mages. When she sat down to write, she didn’t have to wade back into the story slowly, waiting to get used to the temperature. She was just there, all the time. All day. Real life was something happening in her peripheral vision.
Her laptop snapped shut, and Cath pulled back her fingers just in time. She hadn’t even noticed Levi moving over to the love seat. He took her computer and gingerly set it on the floor. “Commercial break.”
“Books don’t have commercials.”
“I’m not much of a book person,” he said, pulling her into his lap. “Intermission, then?”
Cath climbed onto him reluctantly, still thinking about the last thing she’d typed, not sure she wanted to leave it behind. “Books don’t have intermissions either.”
“What do they have?”
“Endings.”
His hands were on her hips. “You’ll get there,” he said, nosing at the collar of her T-shirt. His hair tickled her chin, and it broke the spell in Cath’s head. Or cast a new one.
“Okay,” she sighed, kissing his head and rocking into his stomach. “Okay. Intermission.”
*
“You’ve got to give Penelope her own chapter,” Wren said. They were walking back to the dorms, sloshing through puddles. Wren had yellow rubber boots, and she kept jumping into puddles, soaking Cath’s legs and ankles.
“Where would I put it?” Cath puffed. The snow was melting, but she could still see her breath. “I should have written it two weeks ago. Now it’ll seem forced.… This is why real authors wait until they’ve got a whole book before they show anybody; I’d kill to go back to the beginning and rewrite.”
“You’re a real author,” Wren said, splashing. “You’re like Dickens. He wrote in installments, too.”
“I’m going to destroy those boots.”
“Jealous.” Wren stepped in another puddle.
“I’m not jealous. They’re gross. I bet they make your feet sweat.”
“Who cares, nobody can tell.”
“I’ll be able to tell when you get back to my room and take them off. They’re disgusting.”
“Hey,” Wren said, “I sort of want to talk to you about that.”
“What.”
“Your room. Rooms. Roommates … I was thinking that next year we could room together. We could live in Pound, if you want; I don’t care.”
Cath stopped and turned to her sister. Wren kept walking for a second before she noticed and stopped, too.
“You want to be roommates?” Cath asked.
Wren was nervous. She shrugged. “Yeah. If you want to. If you’re not still mad about … everything.”
“I’m not mad,” Cath said. She remembered the day last summer when Wren told her she didn’t want to live together. Cath had never felt so betrayed. Almost never. “I’m not mad,” she said again, this time really meaning it.
Wren’s lips quirked up, and she stamped a puddle between them. “Good.”
“But I can’t,” Cath said.
Wren’s face fell. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I already told Reagan I’d live with her again.”
“But Reagan hates you.”
“What? No, she doesn’t. Why would you say that?”