Page 59 of Rivals to Lovers
He rarely had people in his life he cared enough about to be honest with. He had to stop putting it off. He would tell her about everything when he got back to the couch—the agent, the editor, and most recently, Gary’s email about Talia’s and Flor’s responses to Maureen’s book. He was ready. He could tell his face looked strange when Ilsa frowned as she handed back the pot. “Are you okay?”
He said he was fine, and she gushed that the soup was more than fine—delicious. Her husband had washed the stainless steel pot before returning it. Ilsa caught him for a few minutes to talk about happenings in the neighborhood. Wes tried to track her conversation as he built a script in his head for the next few minutes. Both the pot against his hip and the conversation waiting for him on the couch felt heavy by the time Ilsa said goodbye.
He put the pot on the front table, unwilling to take any more trips to the kitchen or distractions from Maureen, but when he reentered the living room, Wes saw her with his laptop perched on her lap. He couldn’t believe her disregard of his private space. He breathed deeply, willing his shoulders to relax before he said anything. Computers were more private than underwear drawers. Annoyance clenched his stomach.
“Hey, need something?” he asked, hand out to receive the laptop.
“The truth would be nice,” she said, placing the computer on the coffee table and regarding him with a serious expression.
“About what?” Wes looked more carefully at her face and realized she was crying. He sat next to her on the couch. She pulled her hands away, moving them to brush the tears from her cheeks, and scooted farther toward the arm. Wes froze, not willing to move closer when it seemed like he’d done something horribly wrong.
“I saw the email,” she said. “I shouldn’t have looked. I know I wasn’t supposed to see it, but—”
Shit.Wes had known that Gary’s email was sitting right in his inbox, and of course she had clicked, because who wouldn’t? She had probably also heard from him this week how Estelle’s health had declined, and of course she would want to know what Gary, or the rest of the family, thought. “Look, Talia and Flor have no insight into this kind of thing. I bet neither of them reads more than a book a decade. It doesn’t matter that they say your book is unmarketable—”
“Flor and Talia said my book is unmarketable?” Her face, if it was possible to fall further, had done that. It looked like a crumpled version of itself. He looked away from the wreckage of her expression only to glance at his laptop screen, which had a different email pulled up, one that had just arrived.
He scanned the email from Elena, which was about his book, with her thoughts. He wanted her praise to buoy his heart, to live in the current of her exclamation points and italicized flourishes, but he pulled back, focusing on Maureen. He was aware she was getting up from the couch while he’d been skimming.
“Hold on,” he said, reaching toward her again. He needed to stop this, to explain the full situation. He had given an editor at Wildman his book, yes, but he had also given Elenahermanuscript as well. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake he had with Estelle early on. At the beginning of all of this, he’d thought that by not introducing Maureen into Estelle’s life, he could save himself the trouble of ignoring her talent. He couldn’t, professionally or personally, allow that to happen. As much as he wanted his book to land in front of an editor, he wanted Mo’s to have the same chance. How could he want anything else? Her book was incredible. It had shifted tectonic plates inside him. The manuscript had been the weather-worn copy Mo had left at his place, since he had revealed his personal copy when she came over that night. And Elena had laughed at the state of it, emailed a picture of herself with an umbrella next to it and, in fact, read it first.
But how to explain? He had crafted a full monologue, but instead this was a debate. It was a fight. It was him angry at her betrayal of his privacy and her angry for, well, everything. He had planned to pull up the email from Elena in response to Mo’s manuscript, the praise from someone who had read and understood her book like he had. The words of admiration and care, the probing consideration of what might be tugged and rearranged in the publication process. In short—Elena had fallen in love with Maureen’s book, and he couldn’t blame her. Wes had too.
And, unfortunately, with the author of that book, he realized.
“You don’t understand,” Wes said.
“What don’t I understand?” She wheeled from the hallway where she had been leaning against the wall, putting her shoes on. “This isn’t some simple misunderstanding like not knowing I’m allergic to something, Wes. This isn’t a little white lie about your past with Yuri. This is you, using your connections. Usingyour power. Sending your book out to an editor at a major publishing house when you know that things aren’t set yet.”
She wouldn’t look at Wes, directing her rage at the floor. Wes wanted to pull her face up to look in his eyes and see the good intention there. “If you hang on for a moment, I can tell you the whole thing.”
“There shouldn’t be awhole thing, Wes.” She looked at him directly, tears still shining in her eyes but not falling. Her jaw was set, mirroring the line of her blunt bangs. “I shouldn’t have read your email. Sorry for that. I am.”
Wes nodded, unsure how to receive the apology when it was clear she had more to say.
And she did. She continued, hotly, as she made her way to the door. “I was stupid for thinking my project had any shot against yours. I know I was. I don’t have a powerful family, and I don’t have a million connections. I have student loans, for God’s sake. Do you even comprehend what that feels like? I don’t even know the names of people I’m supposed to rub elbows with, and even if I did, my elbows would never make their way into the rooms where those elbows were. I don’t work in the publishing business, and I don’t have the direct emails of the top editors in the country. My agent does, but she isn’t off shooting a book that we can’t sell to them yet.” She paused by the front closet, taking a breath while removing her coat from a hanger. “I can’t be here anymore. Thank you for the sandwich. And the chips.”
“Mo, wait—”
She was already at the entry, her pink coat on. She glanced back as she turned the knob. “Good luck with the book. It’s good, and I’m sure you deserve all the success in the world.”
And then she was gone, the door slammed behind her.
Wes ran out to the front step, feet bare on the cold concrete. He would run after her, but he didn’t want to waste time getting his shoes on. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone, shooting off a text to her.Please come back. I need to explain.
If she came back, Wes could tell her he was sorry. Yes, he had stepped beyond his normal bounds as estate representative, as a professional, and definitely as a friend, but he hadn’t cheated her out of her opportunity. The way he’d gone about everything had been unprofessional, especially since he wasn’t Mo’s agent. Even though Wes had known Elena would love Maureen’s book, it wasn’t his job to pass off the manuscript—not without Yuri’s okay, not without Mo’s okay, and not without the estate’s okay. But he’d known the way he would feel if Elena had only his book to read and consider. He’d known that the decision of which of their books got produced wouldn’t be based on its likely reception by the editors at the big presses: it was in the hands of Estelle and her family alone.
Wes waited for Mo to text back, or for her soft knock on the door. He didn’t want to sit on the couch, staring out the window like a dog for her, so he fell back on the couch and tried to watch the show that Mo had been watching. Astronaut lovers, unscrewing their bubble helmets to look in each other’s faces for the first time. Their eyes meeting, the camera zooming in on their lips. The soft press of space suit against space suit as they came together for a passionate embrace.
The fucking fake astronauts were going to get laid for a reality show, and he couldn’t even get a text back to explain and apologize correctly. He chanced a second text with moreinformation, praying that it would be enough to get her to come back and talk.I sent the editor your book, too.
But the message went undelivered. She had blocked him.
He sighed, then scrolled through his contact information to find a number he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to use. The phone rang, then clicked into the call. He took a deep breath. “Hi, Yuri. I’ve got some explaining to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mo
