by Mara Jacobs
He glanced away and I knew I’d made another hit. Shit, a couple more and I’d probably sink his battleship.
“Christ, she would have done it for you, wouldn’t she?” He looked back to me for a second, then down at his feet. Hit. “She’s the one who even gave you the idea to have someone help you. She asked to help you, didn’t she?” He continued to stare down at his feet. I stood up and put a hand to his chest, still so warm and solid like the first time he’d held me, right here in this small office, in this exact spot. God, how I’d loved how solid, how real, how…mine it had felt all those times. And now, today… It was still the same chest, his body heat seeping through his shirt and sports coat. But it wasn’t mine any longer.
And I wasn’t going to let him forget that it once was…and because he’d wanted me as much as I’d wanted him. That I was no Folly Dolly. (I’d Googled it. Wasn’t impressed.)
“Didn’t she?” I said more loudly, giving his chest a push, but keeping my hand on him, unwilling—unable—to pull it away.
“Yes,” he said, still not meeting my gaze.
Hit. I visualized the smoke rising from the ship as it went down, Titanic style.
“So don’t give me any crap about only lo—wanting you because of your book, or how you write. Or being a damned Folly Dolly. There’s more to it than that, and you know it. There was more to it.” I gave his chest another tiny push, and then it was as if the weight of my arm, the weight of my feelings for Montrose, the depth of complications we had, were just too much to bear, and I started to drop my hand.
Which was quickly stopped by Montrose slapping his hand on top of mine, holding it to his heart. “Yes, okay? Yes to all of it. I read your stuff and it, I don’t know, it moved me in some way. Little by little, paper by paper. And there you would be, in the front row, three times a week.” He squeezed my hand and—finally!—looked up, his grey eyes still turbulent, his face still stony. He didn’t like this confession, not one bit.
And I loved every word he would offer.
“And there you were, sitting with Jane and Lily.” He swept his free hand in front of me, as if encompassing me. “Looking like…looking like…you,” he whispered the last.
“I Googled you at the library the day after I finished Folly for the first time, when I was fourteen.” It was probably the wrong thing to say. I was just feeding into his issues with me having been a crazy fangirl before we ever met. But it needed to be said, the point needed to be made. “I even got the librarian to print out your picture for me, even though I didn’t have any money to pay for the copy.” A tiny rising at the corner of his mouth, but nowhere near a smile, and certainly not the full grin he gave me months ago. “I didn’t have many girlfriends, but those I did had their walls plastered with posters of hip-hop singers and movie stars, even some Justin Bieber.”
“Jesus, no wonder you didn’t want too many friends,” he said, the corner of his mouth inching a fraction higher.
I didn’t mention that it wasn’t because I didn’t want more friends. Friends who would ask questions about my home life. That would throw him back into my past, and I didn’t want to go there again, except to tell him…“I didn’t have posters on my wall. I had that one picture of you, from the interview you did with The New Yorker, propped up next to my lamp, held in place by my copy of Gangster’s Folly.”
“Syd,” he said, caution in his voice, afraid of what he assumed was Folly Dolly possibly emerging.
But there was so much more to me—more to us—than some Dolly.
“I read Folly over and over, I told you that. And I would look at your picture after I’d finish, and think that I…knew you somehow.” He seemed to get uncomfortable and I quickly went on. “And yet, I didn’t know you, not really. And you did the same thing with me.”
He quirked a brow at me and I tried to tug my hand out from under his, but he held on fast. That gave me the courage to go on. “Okay, so not for five years, and not as…”
“Obsessively?”
“Strongly,” I offered instead, though he was probably closer to the truth. “But you were first…drawn to me because of what—and how—I wrote, and then by seeing me so frequently, like I did with your picture.”
Now. Now a smile, though just a tiny one, and tinged with a little sadness. I’d take it. “Well, it might have been a little reversed for me, if we’re being honest. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you from the first day of class. I didn’t read your first paper for a couple of weeks after that.”
“Seriously? ’Cause like you said, we’re being honest here.”
He nodded, still holding my hand to his chest, the warmth enveloping me from both his palm and through his shirt, as somehow our hands had slipped inside his sports coat.
“Seriously. From day one.”
“Not Lily? She’s the one every guy went for when we’d go to parties.”
He shook his head, the movement so tiny it was almost nonexistent, but I saw it. Felt it.
“Not Jane? Guys are drawn to her, though I don’t think they even know why. And the way she would flirt with you—”
“Not Jane. You, Syd. You.”
I could feel the lump in my throat as I swallowed, trying not to fall into his arms, to pull him close and bury my face in his strong chest. I wanted to get this out.
“So, yeah, that came first, with both of us. The initial attraction from the writing and the physical. But, those first couple of days, on the phone, without seeing each other? That’s when I knew you were so much more than just the author of my favorite book.”
“Even though we were basically talking about my next book.”
“Were we? Really, that’s all? I remember feeling like I knew you so quickly, so intimately, and not at all as just someone with a book to write.” I flexed my hand under his, against his chest, and he flattened his more heavily on mine.
“So did I,” he admitted softly.
“And what we’ve become since?” I asked, holding my breath. “What we were?”
He seemed to be searching for a word, the man who could string words together so beautifully and effortlessly.
“Real,” I offered up to him. “It was…we were…real.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “You’re speaking in past tense,” he said.
“You put us in that tense.”
Another tiny nod, though his eyes never left mine. I tried to convey the depth of my feelings with my gaze, but knew my plain brown eyes could never let him know how much I loved him. Him the man, not the writer, though the two were inextricably connected.
“I know,” he sadly said. “But I think…Syd, I agree with everything you just said, and I’m glad you pointed it out. But…”
God, the dreaded ‘but.’ I knew this was not going to go the way I wanted it to.
But maybe it was going to go the way it needed to.
“I think that’s the tense we need to stay, for a lot of reasons. A lot of other reasons.”
“Okay,” I said, “I understand.”
And I really did.
That didn’t mean I could stop the tears from falling down my face and from doing what I’d wanted to do for the past ten minutes.
Hell, since I’d first seen him.
I burrowed my head into his chest, not caring that my tears were wetting his crisp white shirt, probably leaving mascara stains. He could afford a new fucking shirt.
“Syd,” he whispered, finally letting go of my hand so he could wrap his arms around me and pull me close.
“Goodbye, Billy,” I said, but put my arms around his waist, hanging on to him, like I’d never let him go.
I would, but just…not yet.
“Goodbye, Syd,” he said, placing a soft kiss on the top of my head.
We stood that way for a moment, but it wasn’t long enough. Finally I stepped back. It was important to me that I be the first to let go. I didn’t say another word or look back at him as I left.
Walking back to
Creyts I let the tears flow down my face, not worrying about what anyone might think if they saw me. That in and of itself was probably a first, and a cause for a small celebration.
Yes, I had grown up this freshman year. A new strength, a new sense of self, insecurities in check.
And a broken heart to go with them all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Montrose
“Billy, this is Nora. Are you sitting down?”
Well, shit. That could mean good news or bad news. I was just entering my office, having finished a class. “Yeah, give me a sec. I need to put my stuff down.”
I heard a sigh from Nora. I’m sure she didn’t mean that I literally needed to be sitting down. But I wanted to have a hand free to write details down. I threw my bag on the guest chair, and my sports coat on top of it. Quickly making my way around my desk and sitting down, I pulled out a pen, grabbed a tablet and put Nora on speaker.
“Yes, okay. Shoot.” I looked down at the empty tablet and wondered how big of a space “no deal” would take up.
“Adina loves it. They met our price.”
Holy shit. “They’re going to pay two million dollars for a preempt?” The amount came out on a part choke, part chuckle of disbelief.
“No. Three million. She offered for it so quickly I knew that we could get more than what you and I were originally thinking. She came in at one-point-five with a first offer. I got her up to three.”
“Christ, Nora, you’re amazing.”
“Just doing my job,” she said, but I could tell she was particularly pleased as well.
“I…I’m…speechless,” I said.
She snorted. “That’s a first. Listen, they want to fast track it, have it available for Christmas gift season. She already has her marketing team working on a sales pitch for retailers. She’s going to call you later today to talk cover art thoughts and edits. She and I are going to meet next week and talk a book tour and appearances. We’re behind the curve for this season, but they don’t want to wait. They know they’ve got a hit.”
“Wow. They’re really moving on this.” It had taken well over a year from the time Gangster’s Folly sold to it being on the shelves. Publishing was not a fast moving machine.
“They really think they can capitalize at Christmas. A great gift idea for anyone who read Folly, and all that.”
“Great. Sure, yeah…” I looked down at my tablet. I’d written down “Three Fucking Million” without even realizing it. But it wasn’t all about the money to me. “Did Adina like it?”
“Billy. She just paid three million dollars for it. I think she liked it.”
“Well, there’s a difference between knowing a book will sell well, and actually…liking it.” God, would the insecure writer in me ever shut the fuck up?
“She liked it, okay? She loved it. She said if it were a person she’d fuck it. Happy?”
I couldn’t picture Adina saying those exact words, or anything even near it, but I just laughed and dropped it.
After getting off the call with Nora I tried to do normal things, so that I wouldn’t obsess about the book deal. There was a lot of work to do before I saw Flames on the shelf this fall.
I unpacked my bag, putting the new stack of students’ papers on the credenza, now box-free. There were stacks of papers throughout the office in various stages of completion. Some read and graded, but not entered yet, some still untouched.
I sat in my chair and looked around the tiny office. A room that had given me such joy this year. And also pain.
After getting some closure with Syd last week, it was easier to remember only the wonderful times in here when we would talk books, eat Peking Delight, and make love.
And this was also the room that brought me back to writing, and remembering that I could write a complete novel, not just a bunch of beginnings.
Because every good story had a beginning, a middle and an end. Even if I didn’t want my story with Syd to end, it had to. It was just too hard. There was just too much in our way, not the least of which was I was leaving Bribury in two weeks.
Yes, there would be times that she’d be in the same city as me, but as she’d pointed out many times, her New York was not my New York. I just wished I’d realized it earlier.
No. No, I didn’t mean that. It was worth it, even though it had been so hard. Yeah, definitely worth it.
I debated calling my parents, or my sister, to tell them about the book deal, but I didn’t. I wanted Syd to be the first to know, but after we’d said our final goodbyes last week it didn’t seem right. Besides, I wasn’t sure how happy she would be for me.
I decided to settle in and grade some papers, but wanted to first grab a soda from the machine down the hall. When I stepped into the hallway, I saw Jane Winters walking away from me, toward the exit. Most of the Bribury girls all looked the same from behind—long hair up or down and straightened, those legging things, brightly colored running shoes and, now that it was spring, small knit tops and light zippered hoodies. But not Jane. You could easily pick her out in the sea of Bribury co-eds.
And Syd, of course. I’d know Syd instantly even though she tried to fit the mold.
Seeing Jane reminded me of Caro Stratton’s recent passing and an interview that Caro, Joe Stratton and Jane had done, which I’d seen the other night. “Hey, Jane. Got a minute?” I said to her back, loudly enough for her to hear.
She turned, not looking shocked to see me. Yeah, she probably knew where my office was from first semester. “Sure,” she said, then made her way back to my office and through the door, which I held open for her.
I watched as her gaze quickly moved around the room, seeming to take everything in. I’d bet not much got past Jane Winters.
“The ‘Who I am Right Now’ papers?” she asked, pointing to a stack of papers yet to be graded.
“What? Oh, yeah. Not as entertaining as last semester’s batch, I’m afraid.” Jane and Syd in particular had written really insightful pieces that I still distinctly remembered. I’d felt so strongly about Jane’s that I’d talked with her briefly about it the last day of class. I’d felt so strongly about Syd’s that I’d offered her a job.
I motioned to the couch, the guest chair still having papers on it, and Jane sat down. My leather jacket was on the arm, had been there for weeks, since it had warmed up and I’d stopped wearing any jacket or coat over my sports coat. I made to move it for her, but Jane pushed it aside. A piece of fabric had obviously been underneath and it fell to the floor in front of Jane. It was the scarf I’d given Syd. She must have left it one of the last times she’d been here and it’d gotten into a crack in the couch during our lovemaking. A burst of pain swept through me. I wanted to snatch it out of Jane’s hands but didn’t want to tip her off to anything.
Which probably wasn’t going to work, given the way Jane seemed to recognize the garment. Of course she did, she lived with Syd. And the scarf wasn’t one that anybody else on this campus had. And certainly wasn’t a man’s piece of clothing, not with the feminine design. Then she brought it to her nose and I knew she was smelling Syd’s perfume.
God, did it still have her scent on it? Now I really wanted to rip it out of her hands. She handed it to me, not saying anything (yeah, Jane Winters not saying anything!), but lifting an eyebrow at me.
Busted.
“It’s, um…” Where to start. How could I possibly put my feelings for Syd into words? Me, who made my living by choosing words, who found great joy and solace in words…I just couldn’t begin to explain to Jane what I couldn’t explain to myself.
“Complicated? I’m sure it is,” Jane said.
I looked down at the scarf in my hands and willed myself not to bring it to my nose in front of Jane.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I won’t mention that I was here…to anyone.”
I nodded, getting her meaning. She wouldn’t mention to anyone about Syd and me. And she wouldn’t mention to Syd that she’d seen me nea
rly come to tears over a pretty piece of fabric. I put the scarf on my desk and turned back to Jane, attempting to put Syd out of my mind. Not possible, but I did want to talk to Jane about Caro.
“I saw the interview you did with the Strattons,” I said. “And I was sorry I couldn’t make it to Caroline’s funeral.” The truth was I had been so engrossed in finishing Flames that I wasn’t aware of it until a few days later. I had gotten together with Jason for drinks a couple of days after the funeral, while he and Betsy were still in Chesney.
“It was a nice service,” Jane said.
Jason had said the same thing. “I’m sure it was.” I leaned against my desk and crossed my ankles. “I just wanted to tell you…and I know this sounds kind of…trite coming from me. But seeing you in that interview? I was really…proud of you, Jane.” I meant it. When I’d watched it, I no longer recognized the brash and brazen girl who’d outrageously flirted with me last fall. Jane had…found herself, as I knew she could. As I had suggested to her.
“Thanks,” she said. “Your words to me…they meant a lot. They really helped me out.”
I think she was sincere. At least there was none of her old biting sarcasm or anything. “I’m glad,” I said.
She nodded at the scarf sitting beside me. “Now maybe it’s time to take your own advice? Make it less…complicated? ‘Let the rest of the bullshit go?’” she said, throwing my words to her back at me.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said.
After she left I sat at my desk for a long time. “Let the bullshit go”, “Syd”, “teaching” and “happiness?” all joined “Three Fucking Million” on my pad of paper.
As Nora said she would, Adina called later in the afternoon. I hadn’t left my desk, hadn’t graded any papers, or gotten that soda. Had just stared at the tablet and thought.
Could I let it all go?
Adina not only liked Flames, she couldn’t stop gushing. Not one to interrupt a gush, especially about my book, I let her go on. We talked about cover art ideas, of which I didn’t have many, but really liked the ideas she had. We then talked about her edits. She’d be sending me her full edit letter next week, followed by her marked-up copy of the manuscript. But she said, “It’s not a long letter, Billy. And it’s mostly quick fixes—a few things need a bit more explanation, some clarifications, things like that. We can talk about turn around time then, but I think once you see it you’ll agree that the changes are minimal and we can have this book ready soon.”
