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)
Must focus.
“We’re both here,” I tell Michelle, holding the phone between us.
“I am calling with delish news,” she says. She’s well trained. I hate being blindsided, even more so after last year, so Michelle knows to preface her calls with whether the news is good, bad, or ugly.
“I like good news,” I say.
“Guess who got you two cuties a twenty percent raise?”
I blink. Axel’s jaw drops. “Wow,” we say in unison.
“Apparently that disappearing act made your next book even more valuable. Fans are clamoring, and Lancaster Abel wants to put the preorder up soon. So they’re offering to pay you a bigger advance on the book. And they want you to deliver it in four months. What do you think? Can you pull it off? If you do, there will be a bonus on delivery, and the usual bonuses for bestseller lists, which you’ll hit because everyone, and I mean the whole dang Internet, is talking about you two being back on. It’s like vodka and tonic got back together after a terrible year apart.”
I gulp.
Holy shit.
This is real.
We’re truly doing this.
I knew that. Of course I knew that. But now everyone knows. And even if Michelle is exaggerating a tidge, this is a reality check.
As in, we’d better deliver, or our careers are toast.
I look to Axel first. My answer hasn’t changed, but I want to hear him say yes again. I kind of can’t get enough of it. “Thanks, Michelle. That’s a lot, and it’ll let me keep writing,” he says, sounding honest and grateful.
He’s still amazed he gets to do what he loves for a living. I am too. To tell stories is heady and humbling all at once.
I chime in with a cheery, “Send the contract anytime.”
“Great,” she says, and it sounds like she’s about to hang up, but then she adds, “And by the way, The I Do Redo is a bona fide hit in France. The U.S. too, but your French publisher is très, très happy. They called, raving about how it’s selling there. Just wanted to pass that along.”
“Good to hear,” I say, briefly flashing back to Veronica’s advice when I FaceTimed her in Rome—focus on work. In a way, I did focus on work. On being fully present for every moment of the tour, on listening when the readers shared ideas, then on plotting new stories with Axel and revisiting old ones. Somehow, that all worked out, and here I am, lucky enough to still write for a living. Pinch me. Just pinch me.
It’s almost all too good to be true. But somehow, it’s real.
We finish up, and when I end the call, I’m still in a state of shock and wonder over the Axel news. “We’re really doing this,” I say.
“We’re really doing this,” he repeats.
I’ve wanted this reunion badly. But now, I’m also starting to want something else. Something beyond the characters, beyond the coffee shop camaraderie, beyond the partnering in crime.
But my track record sucks. I guess you can’t have everything.
A little later, we arrive at Gare du Nord for the final leg of the train trip. As I roll my luggage along the platform, Amy by my side, I glance at the clock on the station wall. It’s early evening. This is our longest train journey—fourteen hours to Denmark.
Axel’s behind us, chatting with others, while Amy rattles off details of the last night of the tour.
“And I checked and double checked. You’ll be all set with lots of space,” Amy says as we near the car. We’ll have separate compartments on this journey north. That should make me happy, but it doesn’t. I can’t rely on a reservation snafu this time around to bring me closer to Axel. I’ll have to take the step.
“Thanks, Amy,” I say.
I shift the conversation to her, asking about her kids in Los Angeles, if she misses them, if she’s excited to see them. I listen attentively, even though my shoulders feel heavy. Time feels too fast. It’s running out for real.
This is our last night on a train. Then Axel and I will spend tomorrow night in Copenhagen before we leave for the airport to return to New York.
Less than forty-eight hours, and this brief and lovely tryst on a train, in a hotel room, under the table in a brasserie, will end.
But it’s been more than the best days of my so-called sex life. It’s been boat rides and meanderings in foreign cities. It’s been games we love playing and wishes in fountains.
When we return to New York, it’ll be contracts and deadlines. It’ll be keeping the promises we made to our readers. I won’t break those again.
But we made promises to ourselves too—to finish the story. To see our characters all the way through. That’s what we do. We write.
It’s how I understand the world, and I don’t want to break my understanding of myself either. I want to finish what we started.