Page 25 of Trip Me Up

She shook herself and turned her wide eyes on me. “No, Niall. You can’t.”

“I can’t leave you and Grandpa here. Not while his arm’s healing. He’ll try to do too much. You both will.”

“We’ve got some money saved. We can hire one of Frank Turner’s boys to come help with the chores.”

“That money’s for the spring seed. And Grandpa’s hospital bill.”

She traced the embossed title of my book. “The best way to help is to go on your tour. Sell books. You’re always so generous with—”

“It’s not generosity to make sure my family has a place to live, food to eat. To want to help. I’m not like—not like him.” Not in the way he’d abandoned his family nor in his success. It’d take more than a couple of books and a TV show to become a name everyone knew as well as my father’s.

She smiled, but pain shadowed her eyes. “You’re more like him than you know.” She stroked my shoulder. “Handsome. Talented. Full of fire and determination. Everyone who meets either of you falls in love.”

I snorted. “If that were true, I wouldn’t be—” I’d almost saidalone.But I wasn’t alone. I had Mom and Grandpa. My friend Gabi.Alonemade me sound ungrateful for the people who loved and supported me.

“You can be surrounded by people—people who love you—and still be lonely, Niall.”

“Are you lonely, Mom?”

She tucked her leg under her and rotated to face me. “Sometimes. But I have friends. Your grandpa. My son, when he’s not off being a famous writer.” She grinned and squeezed my shoulder, but then her smile faded. “I’m never as lonely as I was when I was with your father. Even when he was with me, he held a piece of himself back. He was always thinking of his work, of the future.”

When he used to come visit, he’d seemed enormous—though I knew I was taller now—and full of life. Speaking his foreign technology language, he was so alien to the quiet of the farm, where we didn’t have a television or a computer. The only time I missed technology was when Dad came and spent most of his time huddled over his laptop. Maybe if I’d had one, too, we could’ve sat side-by-side. Maybe he wouldn’t have decided I wasn’t worth staying for.

I’d been so naïve I hadn’t thought, even as his trips to the farm became as infrequent as once a year, that he’d stop coming, so I’d never considered each time I saw Dad might be the last. If I had, would I have tried to save up the memories? To make the last one special?

Mom’s warm palm cradled my cheek the way she’d done when she broke the news that Dad wasn’t coming back. He’d married a Hungarian model ten years younger than my mother, and they’d bought a mansion in Monterey. “He loved you in his way. I know it wasn’t the way you wanted to be loved. And that’s made you hesitant to give your love away. Someday you’ll find your person. The person you can trust with your heart. And I hope you’ll let yourself be open. That you’ll risk the pain. Because love is worth it.”

“Is it, Mom?” It was a cruel question to ask, but I couldn’t stop it from bursting out of me.

A light shone in her eyes. “Those early years, when we first met, when he was so charismatic, so full of passion and grand ideas? Those were the most exciting years of my life. And then we had you. I saw him every time I looked into your face. Felt him every time I held your little fingers in mine. You grew up and became your own person, one I love with all my heart. I wouldn’t have missed any of it. Not the love, not even the hurt. The hurt is part of it, you see. Without it, I wouldn’t appreciate the happy times.”

I stared into the fire. Did I believe that? Finding someone who wouldn’t hurt me seemed like a more sensible strategy. Someone who’d be happy to live a quiet life here on the farm. Who didn’t need the fame—my fame—or even her own.

“Right now, I’m happy to be here.” My smile was almost genuine.

“But you’re still going on tour? You won’t cancel?”

She was right about a lot of things. Promoting my book was the best thing I could do for her and Grandpa. That, and writing the next book. “I’m not canceling. As long as I know you two will be all right.”

“We will. I’ll talk to Frank tomorrow about an extra pair of hands around here. Don’t you worry about us. Just enjoy the tour. Do you know much about your tour partner? Have you met him?”

“No. And his book…” I’d brought it with me to the hospital. Maybe it was the anxiety and distraction there that kept me from sinking fully into the story. The language seemed disjointed, each sentence open to multiple interpretations, more like a work of literary fiction than genre fantasy. “His book is unusual.”

“Should be an unusual tour, then.”

Probably not. Cities and tours were all the same. Bookstore after bookstore, reading the same tired words until they lost their meaning. I couldn’t wait to leave it behind me and return to the farm where I belonged.

Only this time, I had something to look forward to: seeing Samantha in San Francisco. And getting my muse back.

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