Page 43 of Truly, Madly, Deeply

Colin (9:36 a.m.): I was up until two finishing your book.

Colin (9:37 a.m.): Never really understood what all the fuss was when people talked about having a book hangover.

Colin (9:37 a.m.): Now I get it. Thanks to you.

Colin (9:38 a.m.): You’re so good at what you do, Truly.

When the New York Times called her debut compulsively readable, Truly had felt like she’d chugged a bottle of champagne—restlessly giddy and a little sick to her stomach because what if this was it? What if this was as good as it gets? What if she couldn’t live up to everyone’s expectations? What if her next book left something to be desired? What if she was a one-hit wonder? What if this moment right here was the pinnacle of her career? What if everything else was downhill?

Colin’s praise was like swallowing the sun. It left her hot all over, flushed not just in the face but from her hairline down to her feet, damp in the creases of her elbows and her knees, uncomfortably sweaty all over. It was too much, but she’d be damned if she didn’t want to bask in it, if she wasn’t greedy for more.

Colin (9:39 a.m.): I don’t mean to sound surprised. I knew you were talented.

Colin (9:40 a.m.): But it’s something else, I guess, losing sleep over someone’s words because they’re that fucking talented. Because you just can’t get enough.

She wasn’t sure how her hands managed to be so steady as she typed when her stomach felt like a washing machine set to spin.

Truly (9:41 a.m.): Book hangover, hm?

Truly (9:42 a.m.): Just a thought, but have you considered trying pizzle?

She bit back a smile, staring at her screen, waiting for a reply.

Colin (9:44 a.m.): Ha freaking ha.

Colin (9:45 a.m.): Bet you think you’re real cute, huh?

How had he put it?

Truly (9:46 a.m.): You happen to look in a mirror lately, sweetheart?

Never let anyone say Truly couldn’t give as good as she got.

Colin (9:49 a.m.): Well played, St. James. Well played.

Her thumbs felt sloppy as she tapped at her phone’s screen.

Truly (9:50 a.m.): Thank you. I’m glad you liked my book.

A strange way of saying thank you for liking my weird brain and the stories it birthed. Because everything she wrote had a teeny-tiny piece of her embedded in it. If Colin liked her books, he had to like her, right?

She snorted. Stupid question. It didn’t matter whether he liked her. She didn’t care.

Colin was just some guy she worked—consulted?—with. It didn’t matter that he had thighs she wanted to bite or beauty marks she wanted to play connect-the-dots with using her tongue or that she’d been waiting with bated breath to know whether he liked her books since the moment he’d texted her that picture of his Kindle.

She didn’t care.

She didn’t.

***

Friday, he sent a screenshot of his email inbox showing 122 unread messages along with a string of upside-down emojis. She sent back a screenshot of her word processor’s stats window showing her target word count for the day along with several skull emojis. She’d written a measly four hundred words and had two thousand more to go. He replied with—

She fumbled her phone.

Jesus Christ.

It was a selfie.

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