Page 101 of Trip Me Up

Even my fertile imagination couldn’t dream up a scenario where I didn’t crumple at her feet and forgive her. Because, despite her betrayal—goddamn foolish heart—I still loved her.

“No. No lawsuit. But after this book, we’re done with Happy Troll.”

“Yeah, yeah. After this win, you can write your own ticket.” Uncharacteristically, she dropped her gaze to the floor. “I also got a call from your—from Paul.”

“About the fucking A.I.? Of course he’ll be interested in that. He’ll find some way to monetize it. And I fucking hate that the wordmonetizejust came out of my mouth. This—”

“He called to congratulate you on your win. He wants to see you.”

“Oh.” I dropped into the armchair. I reached inside myself for a reaction. Any reaction. But I was empty. It was what I’d wanted all my life: recognition from my father. I toed the Tower Prize where it stuck out from under my tux jacket.

“Do you want me to set something up?” she asked.

“No. Thanks.” I didn’t need his approval anymore.

Gabi stooped to pick up my tuxedo jacket from the floor, uncovering the glass trophy. She laid the jacket over the back of the desk chair and then traced her fingers over my engraved name and book title. She set it gently on the desk where it caught the light from the window and scattered rainbows across the room.

Her voice was gentle. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” The scent of the roses crawled up my nose and slid into my turbulent stomach. I jumped up and crossed to the bed, where I flopped back and covered my face with my hands. “Everything is so fucked up. I’m supposed to be on top of the world today. I got the validation I’ve been looking for. But it all feels so…hollow.”

“Oh, honey.” The bed dipped, and Gabi rubbed circles on my shoulder. “You should be proud. You worked hard for this. Sure, Sam was a phony. But that shouldn’t diminish this win for you. Hydrate and pop some aspirin. Then we’ll get you cleaned up and go out on the town, show them you’re Niall-Fucking-Flynn, Tower Prize winner, and that bitch hasn’t brought you down.”

“But she has.” Ignoring my pounding head, I levered up and strode to the window. I forced myself to stare out at the blinding Nevada sunlight, ratcheting my headache up to DEFCON1.

“She destroyed me. I thought—I thought she cared about me.” Before the shit hit the fan last night, I’d thought she might’ve loved me, if she’d only admit it. But I couldn’t confess how stupid I’d been, even to my best friend. “She—she used me to build her own credibility. And that fucking computer’s. I never should’ve trusted her.” Certainly not with my heart.

“When I get back to the farm, I’m going to rip out the wifi. And you can keep that.” I waved to the phone on the bed. The one I’d used to message Sam. I’d take the most pleasure in smashing my new laptop with a sledgehammer.

“I’ll figure out some way to write without her. Back at the farm—”

“Niall.” Gabi’s voice was soft. “You can’t go home. Not even to find your muse again. Certainly not to lick your wounds. You have to take advantage of this win. You’re going back out on tour.”

“But—but I—”

Her voice was steel again. “You know I’m right.”

I did. I had to ride the wave of my success. The prize win would boost my sales, and schmoozing with readers would lift them further. With that and the prize money, I could afford to hire more help for Grandpa.

“Qiana’s setting it up now,” she said. “You should be ready to go in a few days.”

“But what about the third book? You told me I need to rewrite the end.” Did I even remember how to write without Sam? I turned my back to the window and its blinding sunshine.

One side of her mouth kicked up. “You do. It didn’t resolve anything. But you’ll only write crap while you feel like this. Remember all that shitty poetry you wrote after we broke up?”

“To be fair, all of my poetry is shit.”

She shrugged. “In the last pages you sent me, Nieven’s love song to Lobelia wasn’t so bad.”

“Thanks, I guess.” I’d written that the night after Sam and I made love in the hayloft, after she sneaked off to her room. I’d ridden a wave of endorphins and inspiration to write into the early hours.

Now I’d have to find inspiration somewhere else. Gabi was right. Again. Feeling like I did then, I’d probably kill off Lobelia with a crossbow bolt to the chest. The readers would choke on it. Heidi would make me rewrite the whole thing.

“So. The tour?” Gabi stared me down.

I’d show the world what a real writer did. “The longer, the better.”

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