Page 97 of Business or Pleasure

“Bullshit. We both know the other book would come first. And you were burned out even before you took on my book.” He moves his bowl toward the center of the table, gives me his full focus. “Chandler. How many times have you told me this isn’t what you want to be doing with your life? You’ve been using someone else’s name to guarantee a certain level of success—and that’s okay. That’s exactly what you’ve been hired to do. But that’s just it: it’s what you were hired to do, instead of standing on your own. You can hide behind someone else’s fame without risking a goddamn thing. Ghostwriting is your crutch—a way to keep yourself from getting out of your comfort zone.”

Even if that’s true, hasn’t he been with me this whole trip? Hasn’t he seen me out of my comfort zone, again and again and again?

“That’s not fair.” It’s too difficult, having this conversation while sitting so close to him. He said it himself—he can read me, and I don’t want my face to give away anything I haven’t found the right words for. I get to my feet, striding into the living room, over to his Return of the King sword. “You don’t think journalism itself is a risk? Newspapers started folding before I even declared my major. My career has always been a risk. And forget health insurance—I abandoned that dream a long time ago.”

“I know there isn’t a guarantee your fiction would lead to a stable career, even if I think it should. I know it’s just as much of a gamble as Hollywood. But if you don’t try, you’re always going to wonder, what if. What if I took that chance.” He stands, too, stepping closer. “The way you did with me.”

The way he’s pushing me—now that he’s my boyfriend, is it just something I’ll have to accept?

“It’s not the same thing,” I protest, though every word of his slips between my ribs and stays there. “If I did this, I’d almost certainly be making less money. I’d probably have to take another part-time job to pay my bills. It’s easy for you to tell me to just go do what I’m passionate about—you did it, and you succeeded. You wanted to be an actor, and you are.”

“Sure, I got lucky early on. But you forget, I didn’t have a safety net, either. My mom was back in school, and my dad was gone. I was taking a huge risk, too,” he says. “And you wouldn’t be able to write full-time? Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

I let out a snort. “I can guarantee I’d be making a lot less for my original books than for what I’m doing for you.” Then, realizing the way it sounds, I try to backtrack. “I mean—not just you. All of you, all the books I’ve written so far.”

He props a shoulder against the wall, mouth forming a grim line. “Glad to hear I’m lumped together with the rest of them.”

“You know you’re different,” I say. “In a million ways. But at the most basic level, I’m still doing the same thing. I’m writing for someone else—not for myself. And even if I took all of that out of the equation...” Then I ask in a tiny voice: “What if I fail?”

“What if you don’t?” he counters.

We’re quiet for a moment, breathing hard.

“So that’s what I should do then—write my book, and what? Keep following you around from con to con, city to city? Or just visit you when you’re back home? Would that even be enough?”

Even as I say it, I know it wouldn’t be. The idea of that much time away from him after this trip makes me miss him already. The jazz was completely new to me. What else would I miss out on learning?

“I can cut down on the cons. I wouldn’t have to be traveling all the time.”

“I don’t want you to do that just for me.”

He gives me this lingering look, a thumb grazing my wrist. “Chandler,” he says in this gentle, measured way. “You’re the only thing that’s made it bearable this time around.”

It’s nearly impossible to ignore what those words do to my heart. Even in the midst of a conversation about things I don’t want to hear, I’m falling for him. Over and over and over.

I just wish it could erase all my uncertainties.

“What did you really think was going to happen when the book was done?” I ask. “Be honest with me.”

A deep breath, a rake of his hands through his hair. “Hopefully my whole life won’t be the con circuit at that point, but yes, there will be some traveling. It’s unavoidable, especially when promo starts for the book and the nonprofit is launched. But I don’t know why we can’t try a long-distance relationship,” he says, sounding more hopeful. “It’s not that far. We’d see each other all the time.”

“Those flights would get expensive.”

He frowns, as though this would never have occurred to him. “I could pay for them.” Before I can protest, he adds, “Or I’ll move to Seattle and commute down to LA. Because I’d do it, if that’s what you want. Or you could move in with me here.”

“I—hold on a second.”

My head is spinning, and I have to sit back down, dropping onto his couch with a soft thud. Moving to Seattle. Moving in with him in LA. It’s all too much, too fast. I’ve only ever lived in Seattle, and the thought of suddenly uprooting my entire life is terrifying.

Two nights ago, he said he wanted to be with me—whatever that looked like.

Why is that image suddenly so unrealistic?

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” I say honestly. “Moving in together.”

“Just throwing out ideas.” He lifts his eyebrows at the couch, as though asking my permission for him to join me. When I give him a nod, he sits down, cupping my shoulder with his palm. “I haven’t been this close to anyone in a while. So I don’t know if I’m doing any of this right, but I care about you so much. Can’t you trust me that we’ll figure it out?”

“I want to. I do.”

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