Page 130 of One More Chapter

“Deborah Ellis, I know when you’re holding back. If you want to say something, just say it.”

She sighs, and if I strain my ears enough, I can hear her fingers drumming across the kitchen countertop.

“Make things right with her, alright? She’s a good girl. She deserves a happy ending outside of the ones she writes.”

I want to ask how Mom knows. As far as I’m aware, Pen only told her mom, me, and the group from school about her books. But my mom does have a way of seeming to know everything. Instead, I just nod. She is exactly right.

“I’ll figure it out,” I promise, pulling into the garage.

“Oh! You’re coming next weekend, right?”

“To knit my ass off?” I laugh. “Sure. I’ll do what I’ve done every other year: Take the finished hats to the done bin.”

“As long as you’re there. I like having you around.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

I disconnect, and sit in the front seat of my car for an extra minute, rubbing my palm over my chest where my heart is feeling real fuzzy all of a sudden.

fifty-one

penelope

My heart hurts.

There’s no better way to say it. No goofy metaphors or fluffy figurative language can substitute the ache in my chest that won’t disappear. It’s a combination of symptoms: My unsigned contract. The fight with my mom and all of the messages in our text thread I’ve left on read. Most of all, it’s the big grey blob of ambiguity hanging over Ant and me like an impending storm cloud.

If it hasn’t even spilled yet after all we’ve been through, I’m afraid we might not survive the deluge.

We haven’t seen much of each other lately. Work has really amped up for him, and when he isn’t there, he’s at the new house. Part of me hates that I haven’t been able to talk to him—about his progress on the house, or his feelings on taking the assistant principal job. It’s like the moment we would’ve started digging into the real life stuff, our progress came to a grinding halt.

Today, I’m spending a snowy Saturday in a VFW Hall with Debbie Ellis and her knitting club. They host an annual hat knitting day after the new year, and donate all of the hats to the NICU at Mass Gen. There are snacks, raffles, and knittingcompetitions with all sorts of prizes. My prize today is getting out of my head.

I won’t be at the house that holds the ghosts of Anthony and my “almosts,” and I won’t face either the edits on my current book or the blank outline for the next one. The unsigned contract sits on my office desk too. For today, real life gets to be paused while I busy my hands and mind making tiny hats.

I wish I had any clue as to what to do next. I want it all: The contract, the signings, the events, and all that comes with being a full-time author. And, I want Anthony.

I don’t know if he’ll still have me after seeing the truth of us right there on the pages for all the world to see. We need to stop avoiding one another. I’m as guilty of it as he is. I don’t think either of us are really doing it on purpose—we’re giving each other space. But last time, that space lasted almost two years. I don’t want long separations to be our norm.

Anthony’s ears must be ringing, because no sooner am I making up fantasy conversations with him in my head than I hear his voice from across the hall.

“Wow. Teacher, author, andknitting extraordinaire?Can the famed PJ Layne really do it all?”

I lift my eyes from the half-finished hat and my breath halts in my chest.

It’s one thing to see him from across the school building or to know he’s at home by the rumbling of his steps and the breadcrumbs of his to-do list that he leaves in his wake. It’s another to have his presence wholly consume me for the first time in over a week.

Something about Anthony Ellis has softened. It’s there in his eyes, the weight on his shoulders, the edges of his smile, the tone of his voice. It’s as if the bees that he says are always in his head have dulled their buzz. His brows lift ever so slightly—asking without words if we’re okay—and I tilt my head toward the vacant chair beside me.

“Let’s just keep this secret between you and me. We don’t want the readers to meet therealPJ Layne and be insanely jealous of all that she’s accomplished in her secret life.”

Lifting my finished hat, I hand it to him. He smiles warmly, then inspects my handiwork. Staring down at the baby beanie in shades of pink, his shoulders hitch again.

“Cute.Tiny.”

“Very. We make them for NICU babies.”

“How big for a newborn?”

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