Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Steven laughs. “Does that work?”
“I’ve abstained from review searching for three weeks. Never underestimate the power of scotch.”
He sighs, seeming relieved, then winds himself up again. “I’d be too worried that I got something wrong in the story. Some detail.”
Everything about this guy added up. I thought I could write his character bio easily—assertive dude who likes to find flaws, take copious pictures as evidence of said mistakes, and then dissect those errors alone with his wife before she says enough already, just shut up and fuck me.
But he’s got a vulnerable underbelly. I suppose we all do.
“Look, you’ll make mistakes. You won’t make everyone happy. But everything you write is a choice. Think about why you want to make that choice, and then when you put your book out there, let it go. Anyone who creates something has to do that—a singer, an actor, a dancer, a poet. Hell, athletes have to deal with this all the time,” I say, thinking of Carter. He has to deal with reporters and sports analysts Monday morning, analyzing him week in, week out. “It’s part of the job. You learn to listen to the people you trust, and you try to filter out the rest. Or put your head in the sand—the ostrich strategy works too.”
Steven nods, taking that in. Maybe that’s enough for him, because we shift topics and talk about the best and worst parts of the law until we arrive in Barcelona.
The chat with him keeps Jackie’s questions about Ten Park Avenue on the back burner.
For now at least.
Today is my day to shine. Barcelona is my place and Gaudí is my companion. You can’t write about the Spanish city without knowing the architect whose work defines it.
In Barcelona, I don’t need to play mental tricks like I did in high school, or like I did at the reader expo back in New York. I’ve spent countless hours researching for the novels I’ve set in this city. Here, my knowledge is my trick.
But as I show the group around Casa Milà detailing how my hero slipped into an apartment in the private residence at night using the physics of the undulating walls of the building itself, an unexpected, new idea taps on my brain.
It won’t let go. Like at the podium back in high school English class, I’m in two places at once. I’m speaking while I’m picturing something else.
I’m talking to the group about how my hero climbed up the side of the building while I’m thinking about another guy.
Someone back in New York.
Someone I just can’t get out of my head.
26
A COMPETITIVE MONSTER
Axel
I’m close, so damn close, to putting all the pieces of the puzzle together, but I can’t snag a private moment to tell Hazel as we traipse all over the city with the group. We eventually stop in the Sarrià-Sant Gervasi neighborhood for dinner, eating charred artichokes and drinking wine at a sidewalk café.
Hazel lifts a glass of her rioja red. “Because it’s Wineday.”
“May every day be Wineday,” I second, then take a hearty swallow of a wine that tastes like plums. I sit across from her, but there’s no chance to talk at the table. We aren’t boarding the train until late in the evening, but maybe I’ll grab some quiet time with her on the way back to the station.
At the end of the meal, Amy clinks her fork against her wine glass, then says, “We have a surprise for Axel and Hazel.”
I tense.
A surprise is usually something that blindsides you. Like your dad saying Surprise, we're going to Atlantic City for the weekend so you can work on some short cons.
Or, when you discover your love is cheating thanks to a social media post, like what happened to Hazel with Max. She mentioned it this morning, and I wince over that too, and my role in it. That’s another reason I need time alone with her. I have to tell her.
“Since our train ride to Paris is a short one,” Amy continues at the head of the table, “I put together a scavenger hunt for you two.”
Well, shit.
Welcome to my Hunger Games.
I don’t actually mind scavenger hunts. Carter dragged me on one when he visited me in Vienna in the off-season. My brother loves escape rooms, riddles, treasure hunts, and all that stuff. “Don’t care if I win,” he’d said. “Okay, that’s a lie. I love winning, but this is no-pressure winning, unlike, say, my Sundays.”
Made perfect sense. On Sundays, he plays pro football.
Scavenger hunts are fun for him because they aren’t part of his job.
But they feel like part of mine. Like I’m supposed to be good at them. That’s why they aren’t my thing. At least, not like this. With a group.
As we leave the restaurant, heading toward a nearby square, I try to develop a game plan for clues I don’t even yet know. That’s how badly I feel pressured to win.