Page 103 of Breakout Year
As he walked, he cut past the slower advance of pedestrians. A couple was walking just ahead of him, ungloved hands loosely linked together. They didn’t drop their fingers even as they moved out of his way. I want that. Maybe it was the weather or the uncertainty of whatever Sue had summoned him for. Maybe it was just having been so close to the edge of a decision, it didn’t take much to knock him over. But for a second, all he could think was that simple declaration. He wanted to hold Eitan’s hand on a sidewalk, to be so close that dropping each other’s hands felt like too much of a separation.
Eitan would go. Akiva would follow. Perhaps things could be as simple as that.
When he arrived at the correct address, Sue was waiting for him in a stiff lobby chair, weighted gloves on, purse under one arm. She had a paperback splayed face down on her lap, not the slick new advanced reader copies that sometimes came in the mail, but one with a furrowed spine. A favorite then. She gave him an assessing look, frowning at the scuff marks on his sneakers. “Well, I suppose I didn’t tell you to dress up.”
So they weren’t going to the podiatrist.
They rode the elevator midway up the building, arrived at a law office whose name was familiar to Akiva. Sue’s lawyers, who he’d corresponded with a few times via email, mostly to ensure that Sue’s dead husband’s family had no claim over her earnings. Questions rose, but Akiva squashed each of them as they were escorted down a hallway and into a midsize conference room with a view of the long drop to the street.
They were seated, offered a provision of coffee. “Do you have tea?” Akiva asked; they didn’t.
Sue was eyeing him with the expertise of someone who’d spent the past forty or so years writing mystery books. “Tea? That’s new.”
“I’m trying not to be jittery.” Even as Akiva’s stomach leaped with nerves.
They didn’t have to wait long. Sue’s agent, Willow, came in; she offered him a small wave, the various bracelets on her pale arms chiming.
An attorney joined them, a woman perhaps ten years older than Akiva, who introduced herself as Kanitha.
“Oh, good,” Sue said, “now that everyone’s assembled, I’m hoping we can do this with a minimum of theatrics.” She turned to address Akiva. “Spencer, you’re fired.” But her eyes were glittering amusedly. “I’m rehiring you as a co-author.”
Akiva’s brain made a noise, possibly a thud. “What?”
Sue waved a hand at Willow. “Details, please.”
Willow passed him a stack of papers. It took a moment for Akiva’s eyes to focus. Here was a contract or the beginning of one. A full co-byline. An even division of advance and royalties. “This is too much.” His voice was tight in his throat. This had to be happening to someone else, some other Akiva who was a much better writer.
“You’ve been doing the work already,” Sue said. “It’s time that was reflected in your compensation.” She adjusted one of her weighted gloves. “This is only for five more books. After that, we’ll talk about transitioning the series over to you, if that’s what you want.”
“You don’t want to write anymore?” he asked. Because Sue always seemed indefatigable, though in the morning light, he could see that her hair was coming in gray at the roots.
“I’m too old to be pushed around by deadlines,” she scoffed. Then added, more quietly, “I’d like to get some rest now and again.” Her hands shook, and she placed them on the surface of the table and frowned at them as if willing them to stop.
Briefly, Akiva wished he could go back to walking with the sun on his face. He was ready to leave. He’d decided to leave. And yet…
Five books. Five books with his name right on the cover. Five books with his words in them, words other people would know were his. Five books, with the corresponding money in his bank account. He’d worked for Sue long enough that he was well-versed in her financials—mostly double-checking royalty statements and logging things for quarterly taxes. Half of that for one book would be enough to pay back Mark and put a dent in his student loans. That times five and he could maybe, perhaps, possibly take that money to his parents. See if their old house was on the market. At least not go to them empty handed.
He skimmed through the papers again. “What’s this about a new series?”
With that, Sue sat up a little taller. Even her hair seemed to fluff up. “I’ve decided to launch a line of mysteries. Fortunately, my publisher agrees.” Though from the way she said agrees, it sounded like they hadn’t had much choice. “We’ll feature new authors—undiscovered talents, really. People with unique points of view.” She paused. Akiva was familiar with that pause—he’d seen it bring rapt audiences to attention enough to know when he was being gently manipulated. Still, it worked because with each passing second—one, two, three—his heart accelerated that much more.
“I want your book to be the first one we publish,” she said. “With a few edits, of course.”
“Edits?” His belly dropped.
“It’s a good book. With some work, it could be a great book.”
Akiva waited for the accompanying but. If he’d learned anything in the past seven years, it was that certain things came with catches.
“I’d like to see more of you in the story—for whatever that means to you.”
A book. His book, with whatever parts of himself he decided to share with the world. Mentally, he started revising all his Roses back into Raisels. For whatever reason, the thought made him blink, then blink again. He would not give into this feeling welling in his chest, the one that indicated he might cry, mostly in case Willow attributed it to his moon sign. “Isn’t this favoritism?” he asked.
Sue tossed him a smile. “That’s what happens when you’re someone’s favorite.”
Now Akiva really did need a tissue. He sniffled, and Kanitha took pity on him and pushed over a box of Kleenex. “I don’t know what to say,” he said.
“You could begin with ‘yes’ for starters,” Sue said.
