Page 96 of Business or Pleasure

“We can get you on the phone with Michael’s people, if you like. He’s wonderful, really lovely guy. Lots of inside-Hollywood info—he’s been in the business for so long. And while I love their initial offer, I think we could get them to go even higher.”

“Great.” I am capable of only one adjective. A skill befitting a writer. “My mind is still pretty wrapped up in Finn’s book, so... do they need an answer right away?”

A pause. “These kinds of offers don’t just wait, Chandler.” She says it gently. And I know she’s not wrong. Stella’s been nothing but good for my career, and I trust her.

“By the Nocturnals reunion. I promise.”

“Excellent. I’ll let them know.”

When we hang up, I sit there for a few moments, blinking out into the café. I should be flooded with relief that another gig is waiting for me. The money from Finn’s book was going to act as a cushion, keep me from needing to rush into the next project. Now I could even move out of Noemie’s. Get a place of my own.

And yet... all I feel is heavy, as though there’s something physical yanking me toward the table. Chaining me to my laptop. Telling me how soul-sucking this project sounds, the way it was with Maddy and Bronson, the personal trainer. Because even if Michael Thiessen has some fascinating hidden depth, I’m not sure I want to be the person to unearth it.

I open up Instagram and swipe over to Maddy DeMarco’s profile, trying to remember if I felt anything but agony when I was working on her book. I scroll back, back, back to when I was drafting. There’s a photo of her at some upscale cabin, a mug of coffee beside her on the table, where she sits with her laptop, next to a window with a stunning mountain landscape.

Hard at work on edits! I can actually hear myself think out here, says the caption.

I’m not sure how much longer I can be invisible.

Finn has a late-afternoon media blitz, a handful of podcast and YouTube interviews, and doesn’t get home until after dinner, after a dozen apology texts and a dozen replies assuring him that it’s fine, that I can fend for myself.

And it is fine, but it’s also given me too much to think about.

About the job.

About the future.

About us.

Because that’s a fun side effect of Stella’s call: now that we’re officially together, I have to wonder what happens to us when the book is done, when I go back to Seattle and he prepares for the next round of cons.

I save some veggie Thai takeout for him, pouring some wine and managing to figure out his sound system only to discover it’s set to a jazz playlist. Finn likes jazz—something I didn’t know about him until just now. I shouldn’t have a strong reaction to this, since we’ve only barely talked about music, but still, it makes me realize I only met him a few months ago. There is still so much I don’t know.

When he tosses his bag into his office and spots the wine and food on the dining room table, the grin on his face is enough to take those worries down from an eleven to a four. There’s a coziness here, a domesticity that’s almost a bit too comfortable. I could just slide right into his life, the way I’m doing now, and maybe my career would matter a little less.

And the anxiety is back. My cuticles are a war zone.

“So... I got an interesting job offer today,” I say, after he tells me about rehearsals, about the YouTube interview that had him respond to the most popular Google search queries about himself.

“Oh yeah?” he asks between spoonfuls of tom yum soup.

I explain it to him, laying out as many details as Stella gave me. “And apparently he’s like, really nice? So that’s a plus.”

“Hmm.” More soup. More silence.

“I told my agent I’d think about it,” I say, because something about his silence sounds like disappointment, and I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. “But... it’s really good money.”

“You’d be ghostwriting again, though.”

“Well, yes. That’s my job.”

Another bout of quiet. At the beginning, I used to love how Finn took his time to answer questions, but now all I want is to shake his shoulders until the words spill out. Finally, he says, “I thought you didn’t want to do that anymore. I thought that’s why you were working on your mystery.”

“That’s hardly a sure thing. Even if I sell that book, I’d probably still need another part-time job. I have some savings now, but I can’t live on that forever.”

“What about how much you loved getting back into writing? Your writing.” His gaze is hard on mine. “And how you always wanted to become a novelist.”

“I can still do it.” My voice is thin. Even my vocal cords know I’m lying. “I’d have free time.”

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