Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
“Bro.” She scrunches up her nose at me. “You’re kind of being a drama queen. It’s unbecoming, to say the least.”
“I’m not being dramatic, Mo. One of literature’s great stories is on the line here—and oh yeah, so is my job, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“You’re such a book dork, putting the fate of the story ahead of yourself. I love it.”
I ignore her mocking. “We’re going to fall too far behind on edits. There is no way we can make the deadline if she’s on a three-week fucking tour.”
“So…go on the stupid motor home tour thing with her, then?” She shrugs like her words make actual sense. “Drive the bus like you used to on Dawson family vacations. Stay on top of it. Work on edits in between tour stops and shit like that.”
I scoff. “That’s highly irregular. Editing is kind of a remote job. Not traditionally done while living together on a damn motor home.”
“And Brooke Baker turning in a book the publisher wasn’t expecting is highly irregular too, wouldn’t you say?” she retorts back. “Pretty sure you can take your job at Longstrand on the road for a few weeks in the name of the fate of the story.” She’s still mocking me, but I’m also considering her crazy solution.
However, I only consider it for one foolish moment. “No way.” I shake my head. “I can’t do that. That’d be crazy.”
“Sorry, I thought you were worried about your job, having just upended your life in Nashville to move to New York with a roommate who I’m pretty sure is just an illegal squatter or a paranormal entity with a penchant for liquid, but hey, if you’re not, that’s cool.”
I stare at her. “I’m struggling to remember why I thought living close to you would be such a good thing.”
She has the audacity to laugh. “This is what they call a shit-or-get-off-the-pot moment, Chasey-wasey. What’s it gonna be? Undeniable relief or chronic, painful constipation?”
I snort and scoff at the same time. “I really hate how much sense that just made.”
“No, babe. You don’t.” She pats my knee. “Do the damn thing, okay? And send me a postcard while you’re at it.”
Mo gets up from the coffee table and heads down the hallway toward the bedrooms, leaving me to sit here and ponder my choices all on my own.
My stomach churns and my throat burns… Am I really going to do this?
I’ve got the phone in my hand before my brain even answers the question.
The man of the hour picks up by the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Wilson. Chase Dawson here. I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Brooke
Benji pulls at his leash in an uncharacteristic fashion as we stroll the Mall in Central Park, and for the second time this week, I give myself a mental lashing for being so deep within my own head that I’ve been neglectful. Benji needs his exercise just as much as I need my wine, and yet, I’ve only managed to give him two walks to my three bottles.
Don’t judge me, okay? I’m going through a whole new level of a personal crisis.
Maybe that’s why I’ve taken us this far from home, deep into the center of the park to the historic promenade through statues of literary figures, to turn one walk into four by proxy of length.
Or maybe it’s because of the comfort I get from being surrounded by the memories of like-minded people. Surely, I convince myself, American poet Fitz-Greene Halleck also spent most of his days alone, shut in with nothing but his pajamas, his words, and a big bottle of wine. And William Shakespeare had to have had a crush on someone he shouldn’t have, right? I mean, isn’t that the whole freaking basis of star-crossed lovers?
“I’m sorry, Benj,” I tell him again when there’s an opening in the hordes of people around us. It’s not that I’m embarrassed to talk to him in public, or that a crazy lady talking to herself in New York is all that uncommon, but whatever twinge of personal responsibility I have for my outward appearance usually shows up in the most public of locations with people I don’t even know. As if strangers’ opinions are somehow the most important.
Caring what people I’m undoubtedly never going to see again think is twisted. But it’s real. I’m sure if I pursued it hard enough, I could find a mental illness diagnosis that supports it.
Benji, thankfully, seems unaffected by my slight.
His step is high, and his mood is a strut as we pass by several other sexy dog babes and their owners. His pleather Batman costume is really working for him in this lighting, and the dramatic cast of the sidewalk-lined trees makes him seem like the true superhero among canine commoners.
“I’ll admit it, Benj. You look good. I wasn’t convinced this getup was the right move, but as always, you were right. I’ll try to make myself listen to you sooner next time, but I think we both know that’s not exactly likely.” I laugh at myself. “Hardheaded runs in the family.”