Page 95 of Business or Pleasure

“Let’s just forget about it,” he says. “I have to be back at set in twenty and I’d much rather talk about you.”

Still, it refuses to leave my mind the rest of the day.

poisonedpen-real-REAL.docx

The shop was a mess.

Pens were uncapped and paper was strewn everywhere, inkblots bleeding into the new carpets. And the journal section, which Penelope had lovingly, painstakingly arranged the previous day, appeared as though someone had fed those gorgeous bound planners through a shredder. January-February-March confetti.

Of course, all of that was nothing when she took into account the body in the middle of the room, just under the banner declaring, Buy One, Get One Free.

chapter

twenty-six

LOS ANGELES, CA

This is the way books were meant to be written: a café on a tree-lined street, chai latte and blackberry-lemon scone on the table in front of me. Sunlight pouring in, washing the whole place in golden light.

When I was a kid, imagining growing up to be a novelist, this was almost what I pictured—though there was a lot more rain. And people wearing Patagonia.

Last night when we got home, Finn was so exhausted, we fell right into bed. All the traveling must be catching up with me, because I slept in much later than usual. A kiss on my forehead, “No, no, don’t get up,” and he was gone.

So I made myself at home in this café while he went to set, my denim jacket draped over the back of the chair, intent on polishing the middle chapters of the memoir and, if I have time, sketching out the reunion. That’ll be the last chapter I write before turning in this draft.

After that... maybe I’ll open up The Poisoned Pen again.

I’m fine-tuning a chapter on Finn’s bar mitzvah when my phone rings. It was the first time he experienced one of his compulsions, though he didn’t have the words for it then—he refused to eat because so many people had touched the challah, and his dad yelled at him for being an entitled brat. Writing it in Finn’s voice breaks my heart all over again.

“Don’t you check your email?” Stella says when I pick up the phone. “Also, hello. How’s LA, how’s the book going, how are you?”

I hit save and navigate over to my email. “Sorry, I was in a writing trance. Had the Wi-Fi turned off. I’m good, book’s good—it’s all going well.”

“Ah. I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to get started, once you see it...” She trails off, giving me time to read through the email that’s at the top of my inbox.

It’s a new offer—another ghostwriting gig. Another actor, Michael Thiessen, a midfifties guy who’s been on some iteration of CSI for the past twenty years. I’m pretty sure my dad is a huge fan.

The money is double what I’m making on Finn’s book.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re jumping for joy.”

“I’m in public,” I say, forcing a little laugh. I hate needing to spontaneously react to this. Ideally, I’d have had a moment to process by myself first.

And this is what the processing looks like:

I’ve never been outright offered a job like this before. There’s always been a call or interview beforehand, either with the writer themselves or with their team. Even with Finn, I’m sure they wouldn’t have offered the book to me if I’d massively bungled that lunch. This is a clear sign of success in my field, and yet I can’t shake the feeling that if I take it, I may never write something just for myself, whether that project lasts two months or twenty. I am always going to have an excuse.

I love what we’re doing with Finn’s book, but I don’t know if I can keep disappearing into the work like this. I don’t know how much of myself will be left at the end of it.

Even if he said he could hear me in those books—I don’t know if I can.

“It—it sounds great,” I manage, the words like chalk in my throat.

“The timing couldn’t be better. Finnegan’s book is due soon, and you could jump right into a new project. It’s exactly what we’ve wanted for you.”

Exactly what we’ve wanted.

What do I want?

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