Page 27 of The Write Off

“Maybe you’re just really bad at apologizing.”

We stare at one another from across the boardroom table, neither blinking. When I can’t fight it any longer, I let myself laugh. A genuine bark of laughter leaves me. I can’t even remember the last time I found anything so amusing. I’m trying to tell her I’m sorry and it turns into an argument.

Rilla grins at me, obviously pleased with herself. “You don’t need to apologize,” she says sheepishly. “I guess I am a bit of a mess.”

“No,” I start, but then stop. “I mean, yes you are.” She tosses her pen at me, but she’s smiling. “I admit that when we first met I didn’t have high hopes for us getting along. Our methods are very different and I couldn’t imagine us finding much common ground. You’re undisciplined, stubborn, and occasionally downright petty.”

“I was right. You suck at apologizing.” She appears to be scanning her surroundings to find more things to throw at me.

“But I don’t think you should change a thing. However unpredictable your creative process is, it works for you and that’s all that really matters. To be honest, I think working with you has made me better at my job. So,” I pause, unsure at this point if I’m helping matters or simply digging myself in deeper, “keep being a mess. It looks good on you.”

She stares at me for a few moments with an unreadable expression and I’m certain I’ve once again endangered our tenuous working relationship. But then the corners of her lips turn up and her eyes sparkle.

“Aww, Logan. You like me exactly as I am.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes you did. We’re having our own little Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy moment, right here. You like me just the way I am.” She pushes herself up to stand and starts gathering her things.

“I don’t know who those people are. All I was trying to say–”

“I think we’re becoming best friends.” After her coat is buttoned, she wraps the red wool scarf around her neck, ignoring all my protests.

“That a bit of a stret–”

“Okay, best friend. I’m going to go home and work on my book in the perfectly imperfect way you love so much.”

“I definitely never said you were per–”

“Bye, bestie!”

She exits the boardroom with an exaggerated wave and I sit there staring after her with a dumb grin on my face.

Chapter 13

Logan

“You killed him?”

The gray-haired man sitting across from me doesn’t look up from the New York Times Crossword he’s puzzling over when he answers. “You told me to raise the stakes.”

Tossing the manuscript across the diner table, I pick up my now empty cup of coffee. “I meant for you to increase the tension. Build the suspense. Not start killing off main characters.”

Stuart gives me a sheepish smile. “Change is good.” A waitress approaches the table and he gives her a grin that is surprisingly boyish for a seventy-six-year-old man. “Florence, could we get a refill on our coffees, dear? Maybe switch my young friend to decaf.” He whispers the last part, earning a giggle from Florence and a scowl from me.

“Regular is fine, thank you.” I reach for the thick stack of paper and start thumbing through it again. Stuart is the only author I work with who gives me physical drafts. It used to irritate me, but I’ve come to appreciate the simplicity of ink and paper. I like leaving physical notes in the margins with my red pen like a grade school teacher. It’s surprisingly satisfying. “Don’t you think your readers are going to be upset when they find out that you’ve killed off their favorite constable?”

“Sometimes the story that needs to be written isn’t the story people want to read.” Stuart has returned his attention to his newspaper. The collar of his heavy flannel shirt is flipped up on one side, making him look slightly disheveled. I know if I were to point it out he’d tell me that’s how he likes it. He frowns at the paper in front of him. “‘Animated British piglet of kids TV.’ Five letters.”

“Peppa,” I answer without hesitation. Anna went through a major Peppa Pig phase a few years ago. At one point, she spent half her time speaking with a British accent. “Your publisher is more concerned about what people want to buy.”

This earns me a guffaw. “Since when have sales been a concern, Logan?”

He’s got me there. The grandfatherly man has turned out two detective mystery novels a year for the last two decades, and every one of them has been a bestseller. I read my first Johnny North novel when I was fourteen years old and it changed my brain chemistry. Suspenseful storylines that keep you on the edge of your seats with twists and turns that rival Agatha Christie. One of the primary reasons I started working at Thompson And Daye was because Stuart Maxwell was on their roster. I never thought that just a few years later he’d not only be my most important client, but also my mentor and best friend.

One would think that a guy in his twenties would not have much in common with one in his seventies and they would be wrong. Stuart and I have very similar tastes in books and television shows. We follow the same sports and cheer for the same teams. And now that I’m in my thirties, I’d much rather share an early dinner and a conversation with my good friend than go to an overcrowded bar with a bunch of people my own age.

College had been painful for me. Once I switched majors, I enjoyed my courses, but the social aspect felt like a never-ending job interview for a position I was not qualified for. I could show up to parties, drink the flat beer, and damage my eardrums from the unrelenting bass-filled music, but I couldn’t pretend I was enjoying it.

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