Page 53 of By the Book

That part did make me wonder, though. InThe Maltese Falcon, the actual falcon itself is worthless. It’s thebeliefthat the statue is valuable that drives everyone to commit murder. Was that what had happened here? Maybe George had been desperate. Maybe, after the auction had failed, he’d been frantically trying to find a way to appease Wanda. George had spun a story aboutAstor’s Arcadiato try to buy himself time, and then—what?

There was always that one twist. The thing you looked at in the story and accepted at face value, and then it turned out to be totally different from what you thought. So, what was it this time? And why couldn’t I see it?

You can probably guess: I had a very productive morning.

I futzed around with the manuscript. I didn’t make any progress. I had a moment of heart-wrenching panic when I heard Bobby moving around upstairs, imagining all the things that we were going to say to each other. And then, somehow, itwas even worse when I heard him leave, and the sound of his car driving away.

The next couple of hours, I can’t even explain what I did. There was a lot of lying around. A lot of failed attempts to readCrime Cats. A lot of nausea, alternating with bouts of adrenaline-fueled anxious pacing.

By the time I heard the Pilot coming up the drive, I was ready to do anything—confess, beg for forgiveness, demand my immediate execution.

Bobby went straight upstairs, and a few minutes later, the shower came on.

Even through my guilt and my anxiety, and my shame, I felt a flicker of irritation. Did he think he could avoid me forever?

And then I realized, with the horrified awareness of someone on a sinking ship, that this was Bobby we were talking about.

Iwas going to have to talk tohim.

Chapter 14

I gave him a few minutes after the shower stopped, and then I knocked on his bedroom door.

The silence that answered me was so deep that it felt like I had vertigo.

I worked my throat a couple of times, trying not to squeak like I was on the brink of puberty, and finally managed to say, “Bobby?”

Again, the silence. And then his voice painfully neutral, “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?”

It felt even longer this time before he said in that affectless voice, “Yeah.”

I opened the door. He stood at a tallboy, looking through one of the drawers, with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. I forgot why I’d come up here. Bobby isn’t a meathead, but he is definitely…solid. And defined. And strong. And beads of water glistened on his shoulders and in the defined cut between his pecs. He had a scattering of freckles above his hip. I could see the little trail of dark hair below his navel.

Apparently, I was being enough of a creeper that he noticed, because he looked over at me. His normally carefully parted hair was wet and tangled, and it made him look younger, vulnerable. His expression was wary. You did this, I thought. You put him in this position.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I cleared my throat, stepped inside, and shut the door behind me. “I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry about last night. I’m sorry I went to that beach house even though I told you I wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, Bobby. I know I promised. AndI feel like such an idiot for—for all of it. I shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong, and I’m really sorry.”

He nodded, and then, turning back to the drawer, he said, “It’s okay.”

And that was it.

He pulled on a T-shirt. It was like the one he’d bought me—good quality, simple, and a fantastic fit. It was white, and he was practically glowing inside it. He opened another drawer, lower down, and started rummaging through his shorts.

“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t feel like it’s okay. It feels like—I mean, I understand that when I promise something, and I don’t keep my promise, it makes it hard for you to trust me. And your trust means so much to me, Bobby. I love you, and I respect you, and I’m so happy being with you. When I’m not screwing everything up, I mean. I’m ashamed of how I acted, and I want you to know that I’m not going to do it again. And whatever I have to do to make it up to you, I’ll do it. I hope you’ll give me the chance.”

He gave me another of those nods, this time without even looking over at me. He found a pair of black shorts, shut the drawer, and started a search for underwear. His voice was controlled when he spoke. That was the best word for it. Quiet, yes. Even, yes. But mostly controlled.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to wait. I should have called in.”

“What? Bobby, no.”

“It’s okay. Next time, I know what to do.”

I shook my head. “That’s not—no, I’m the one who messed up. I made a mistake.”

“It’s okay,” he said again. “It won’t happen again.”

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