I laugh. “If only. Emerson Whittaker.” Even his name gives me goosebumps.
“Wow! That’s great! But . . .?” She watches me apprehensively.
“I have to move out for six months,” I say slowly, waiting for her reaction. I’m not sure how she’ll take it. I’m pretty independent, but she’s the kind of person who needs someone around. We’ve known each other since we were eleven, and she’s the extrovert of our duo.
She doesn’t say anything at first. I think it’s because she’s about to cry, but then she gives me a small, guilty smile. “Geoff wants to move in together.”
Now I’m the one who’s stunned into silence. “What? Really?” Hannah never keeps secrets from me. I know her intentions weren’t conniving, but I am genuinely surprised. I know she loves Geoff. However, I had no idea they were serious enough to consider cohabitation. We’ve lived together for almost eight years—since our freshman year of college. In the ever-changing atmosphere that is the East Village, we’ve always remained constant—even our rent has stayed the same thanks to rent control.
And now it seems like everything is being flipped upside down.
“When he brought the new coffee table over yesterday, he asked me. He wants to move in.” She looks at me with wide eyes. “I wanted to ask you last night, but I chickened out.”
I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m really happy for you guys. I’m glad you won’t be alone.”
Thinking about it, this might actually be a blessing in disguise. Geoff can take care of Hannah, and I can keep my room here if need be, rent paid.
“You’re not moving out permanently,” Hannah says, and at first I think it’s a question. She glares at me, and that’s when I realize it was a statement. “You’ll come back, right?”
I laugh. “As long as you guys will have me. Emerson is paying my rent, so if Geoff is moving in, you guys can pay less.”
“That’s a relief. I didn’t get the Annie job, by the way.” She studies me apprehensively. “So, why exactly do you have to move out?” She finishes her coffee and curls up under the covers again. I envy her ability to sleep late. I’ve never been able to.
“He wants me to move into his house in the Hamptons.”
“Shut the front door,” she gasps, sitting up again and taking my hands. “Can I come visit? Please?”
“I think that might violate the nondisclosure agreement I signed an hour ago,” I reply, laughing. “But it’s not entirely off the table.” For some reason, I don’t think Emerson would mind if I told my best friend. Speaking of . . . “Oh, remember that guy who paid for our drinks last night? The one who humiliatingly watched both of my cards get declined?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“That was Emerson Whittaker.”
“Shut. The. Front. Door,” she repeats, grinning from ear to ear.
“I know.”
The smile drips off her face as realization sets in. “Wait, so you happened to run into him at Remedy less than twelve hours later?” Her eyes are narrowed in concern.
I shrug. “He found me because I checked myself in on Facebook. He lives somewhere in the East Village,” I add defensively. But, she has a point.
“That’s creepy,” she mumbles. “Remind me to stop checking myself into places.” I laugh. “So, when are you leaving?” She phrases it in such a way that I figure she doesn’t really want to know the answer.
“I don’t know.” She gives me a small, sad smile. “But now you have Geoff.”
“He’s not the same.” She throws her covers off and stands. “He doesn’t know to bring me coffee in bed.”
“I’ll leave him some notes before I go.” I walk over and hug Hannah tightly.
“I’ll miss you,” she whispers. “But I’m so happy for you.”
“I’ll miss you too.” I pull away and take her hands. “This is a good thing. At least I think it is.”
*
After a ninety-minute writing session, where I got no writing done, I decide it’s time to quit my day job. My hands shake as I dial the number to Diptyque in the West Village. I know it’s shitty to quit without giving two weeks’ notice, but to be honest, I’m not sure they’ll want me to return once I tell them I’m leaving. Samantha, my manager, has a tendency to burn bridges when she’s scorned. It’s like she’s personally offended when people don’t love the suffocating smell of burning soy like she does.
“Welcome to Diptyque, this is Miranda. How can I help you?”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Hey Miranda, it’s Finley. Can I please speak to Samantha?”
“Sure.” Her voice is overly perky, and I begin to feel guilty about leaving my awesome co-workers. “Hold on one second.”
The background music begins to play, and it’s The Black Keys. I sing along to Fever for a few seconds before Sam comes on the line.
“Finley? Please tell me you’re not calling in sick. We’ve been swamped, and we really need you this week.”
I gulp. Talk about a guilt trip to the max. “Umm, I’m actually calling to be taken off the schedule. I booked a writing job, and it starts next week.” Silence meets me on the other end. “I’m sorry,” I add hopefully.
“I’m just finding this a bit unprofessional,” she says slowly. My heart drops. I hate disappointing people.
“I know. But it all happened this morning, and I wanted to tell you as soon as possible.”
“You can’t come back,” she barks. “When this whole writing thing doesn’t work out.”
I don’t know what to say, so I mutter, “O-okay. I understand.”
“You’re screwing us over, Finley.” She sighs. “But I guess I have no choice.”
I feel like crying. “I’m sorry.” I mean it. I didn’t mean to screw things up for everyone.
She hangs up without another word, and I blow a breath of air out of my mouth and fall back onto my bed. Shit. Am I crazy for agreeing to this? The money is good, but the terms? I’ll miss Hannah. I’ll miss the city. I’m giving up a steady job to write for someone else.
Again.
This was always supposed to be temporary. I was lucky enough to get a meeting with Madeleine right out of college at NYU. One of my writing professors referred me, and when I began to write for other people, I loved it. The pay was good and the work was easy. That was four years ago. It was my ticket out of the strong, controlling grip of Mary and Gabriel Matthews: my parents. I gratefully accepted their financial help to get through college, but the second I had my diploma in my hand, I cut off all contact with them.
I wanted to make it on my own. Without them. Without their influence. Without their money. Money was all they knew. I wanted more. I still want more. I wanted to make a name for myself.
So is writing for someone else again really the best way to do that? Maybe in this case, it is. It could lead to good things if all goes well. And why wouldn’t it go well?
I groan and turn onto my stomach. Just then, my phone rings. I glance at the screen, still in my hand. It’s Emerson, and he’s FaceTiming. Shit.
I answer hesitantly, holding my finger over the camera. It takes a few seconds to connect. And then Emerson’s face pops up.
“Finley? Hello?”
I’m not ready for him to see me. I sit up. “Yes, one second,” I say quickly. I throw the phone facedown on the floor and stand, studying my reflection in my mirror above my bed. I tame my long hair, tucking it behind my ears. I smack my lips together and pinch my cheeks. I grab the phone and quickly hold it up, standing against the pale blue wall in my bedroom to ensure neutrality. I don’t want him to see my filthy room. He already knows too much about my depressing life.
“Hey,” he says, smiling. Aaand he’s not wearing a shirt. “Don’t mind me. I just got back from the gym.” A tribal tattoo creeps along his left collarbone. I want to know the story behind it. Also, hello biceps. They’re nice and meaty for someone who spends most of his life sitting at a desk.
“Oh. No
worries.” I give him a tight smile. Not interested in your chest, I think, hoping to convey my indifference. Or the way I find tattoos extremely attractive.
“I hate phone calls. Luckily, there’s this thing called FaceTime.” He smiles even wider.
“Yeah,” I say, agreeing nervously. “Technology is cool.” Technology is cool? Could I be any more awkward?
“Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about everything.” He’s walking somewhere—it’s too bright to see what it is. The beach maybe? “First of all, can you come out here tomorrow?”
My mouth hangs open. Tomorrow? “Uh, yeah. What’s the address?”
He scrunches his brows together and scowls. “I’ll send my assistant to get you,” he adds flippantly. “I don’t want you to have to worry about transportation. Just text me your address.”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Also, I don’t think I mentioned this earlier. You have weekends off. I’ll let you borrow my other car. That way you can drive to and from the city, and you can continue to hit up Ace Bar and Remedy Diner.” He winks.
I laugh. “You caught me,” I joke, throwing one hand up in surrender. I want to ask him if he followed me to Ace Bar, too, but that’ll have to wait until another time.
“I’m going to hook you up with Brady, my assistant. He’ll need your bank account and routing number. I’ll transfer the twenty-five thousand tonight, and if everything works out, once the book releases, we can work with the publisher to distribute your share of the royalties.”
God, this is really happening. In less than two hours, everything changed.
I nod, and when he looks at the camera expectantly, I realize I’ve been staring at his sweaty neck. “Yes. Fantastic.”
“Umm,” he says, looking away in thought. “What else . . .?” His eyes widen. “Oh, right. So tomorrow, come prepared to do some writing exercises. I want us to get a feel for each other’s writing. It might get a little intense.” He chuckles, waiting for my response. I try to act nonchalant, but a nervous smile appears on my lips. I study my reflection in the small square. Is that what I look like? Afraid and worried? I relax my face and smile like a real person. “I’m not afraid of a challenge.”
“Good.” He laughs. “Do you have any questions for me?”
I look up and touch my finger to my chin. Only about a thousand . . . “I don’t think so.” I want to plead, Why do you have to be so good-looking?
“Okay, righteous. I’ll have Brady pick you up at nine, if that works.”
“Yep,” I say cheerfully.
“Oh, and Finley?” He’s walking into a house now. “Bring a bathing suit.”
The smile drops from my face. I hate swimming in the ocean. “Why?” I blurt. Before I can correct my rudeness, he just laughs harder.
“We’re right on the beach.” Just then, he rotates the camera and I get a glimpse of a wooden patio looking out onto the ocean. White sand, blue water, sea grass . . . what more could I need?
“That looks incredible . . .” I say quietly. The truth is, I love the beach—just not the water. My parents had a house in Montauk growing up, and my summers there as a child are some of my favorite memories. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He winks again and salutes. “Have a good day, Finley.” And then he disconnects the call.
I’m still smiling when I set the phone down on my nightstand.
“Oh, hell no.” Hannah’s voice reverberates from the doorframe. I jump.
“Shit, Hannah. I didn’t see you there.” I clutch my chest. She saunters over to me slowly.
“That’s Emerson Whittaker?” She says it interrogatingly. I assume she means because he’s so handsome. I nod. “One, that man’s a sexy beast, and two, you’re already smitten.” She places her hands on her hips and raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to challenge her.
My cheeks redden. “No. It’s not like that.”
“You’re such a chicken-shit liar. You were grinning like a crazy person.”
“He’s funny,” I exclaim, grabbing a pillow from my bed and throwing it at her. “I smile when you’re funny, too.”
She giggles and throws her hands up in the air. “Not like that. You’re acting mighty defensive. But I digress.” She watches me for a second, as if she just learned something new about me. Her scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, and I shift my stance. “You hungry? Geoff wants to get Pho, and I’m inviting you.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I won’t miss being the third wheel on your dates. And I’m sure Geoff won’t either.”
“You’re not a third wheel,” Hannah says, turning to leave. “We’re attached at the hip, so technically we’re conjoined fraternal twins. One person. Be ready in five.” She closes the door behind her, and I look around my room.
I like my room—I’m proud of the simplicity and efficiency, and the neutral colors. My walls are a light blue and the furniture is white. Hannah and I scored our matching vintage, white desks at a thrift store when we first moved in, and the white iron bed frame is a hand-me-down from Hannah’s cousin’s best friend. Over the years, the room has accumulated things I’ve come to love. Floral-scented candles adorn many of the shelves, and quotes from my favorite books are taped onto the walls. One of Emerson’s quotes is up there.
You are a driving downpour of all my forbidden desires.
It’s from his first book—my favorite. I take it down from the wall and tuck it into a pocket in my wallet.
I glance around at my surroundings. My eyes go to the one picture on my white dresser. Chloe’s shining face smiles back at me, her blonde hair wavy from being in the ocean water. I took the picture one summer at our beach house. Her light eyes are fading—it’s an old picture, printed on a piece of computer paper a long time ago. I don’t even remember when.
I wish I could tell her about Emerson. I wish I could tell her a lot of things. Big sisters are supposed to be your sounding board. You’re supposed to ask them about men, makeup, weird things you can throw together to eat when you’re poor. I know Chloe would’ve had great advice for all of those things.
Nostalgia washing through me, I pick up my phone and draft a text to my mom. I edit and re-edit the same two sentences over and over. Finally, I decide on something.
I don’t know why I’m texting you. But sometimes I need my mom.
I decide to delete it. There’s no point. Besides, it’s not her who decided to forego communication. It was me. I have no right to start up a conversation, not when I’ve gone over four years without a word. I close my message app and throw my phone onto my bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Emerson
After I hang up with Finley, I walk into my house, leaving the back porch door open. It’s rare that sunshine inspires me, but it’s June, the sun is shining, and why the fuck not? I hop in the shower and rinse off quickly. After I’m done, I make another cup of coffee. I carry my laptop to the table on the deck overlooking the ocean.
I open the outline document I’ve been working on for months. Now that Finley has agreed to write for me, I’m feeling hesitant to share everything—especially chapters 23–25. I highlight the large chunk of text, debating whether or not to delete it.
I decide to keep it.
Besides, if I didn’t include those chapters, I wouldn’t be telling an honest story. And I would be leaving out a very important part of my life—perhaps the most important part of my life.
I do make some final tweaks here and there. It’s a lot of information, and I’m not sure how she’ll react. A lot of people can say they’ve had a crazy life, and I’m definitely one of them. Embarrassment creeps up my neck as I realize Finley will know so much about me—a pretty, young girl will carry my many secrets. Is that what I want? Especially from Finley Matthews? I’m not so sure anymore. I was so sure I wanted to do this.
And then I met her. Formally, at least.
Bright, attractive, effervescent. Three words to describe her. Maybe it’ll be a good thing. Maybe she’ll fuel
her talent into me. Maybe she could even be my muse—Lord knows I’ve done it before. I think of her long, blonde hair; her petite, athletic-looking body; and her peach-colored lips. Anything is possible.
I certainly never expected to hire ghostwriters for all of my novels. After my first book, nothing else came. I had the idea, but sitting in front of the computer for hours, trying to string sentences together stopped appealing to me. It was a difficult time, and I lacked the motivation to write. My publisher wanted another book, so I went out and found a kid to help me write.
And then it became really easy to keep doing that.
I know that makes me sound like a jackass. It’s like a mental block. I do the best I can with what I have: I create very detailed outlines, leaving little to the imagination. Then, I hire someone who’s writing style is similar to mine. I like to use someone different every time. It keeps things interesting. Usually, I ask Madeleine for a recommendation. It’s all very secretive. Nobody likes to admit they use a ghostwriter, but in this industry, it’s prominent.
In this case, Finley fit the bill. Not only is she extremely talented (according to my writer friends), but she seems like she needs a little help right now, and I’m more than happy to help her. I’m a big softie when it comes down to it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of her before today. Of course she would be the perfect person to write my autobiography.
Once I’ve groomed her to fit my writing style, she writes while I provide outlines. And afterward, I’ll go through and edit extensively. I guess you could say they do all of the hard work, and I get to do all the fun stuff.
And I guess that does make me sound like a jackass. I compensate by paying my writers well and treating them like family. I’m still good friends with my first two writers. Allen and Harriet are going places, and I’m happy to have helped them get there. As for Penny, my last writer, well . . . she was a little crazy. I hope Finley isn’t crazy.
Between the Pages: A Novel Page 3
