Page 58 of Script Swap
“I was totally out of line,” I said.“I overreacted.I was in a weird headspace.”
His hands stilled, and the whisper of cloth against skin stopped.“I feel like we should talk about what happened.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”I kept my tone light, easy.“We’re good.I’m so sorry, and I appreciate you trying to help, and did I mention the part where I’m sorry?”
Lamplight streaked along Bobby’s dark hair.Shadow fell in the hollow of his collarbone, where his T-shirt hung askew.The dark, earthy bronze of his eyes gave back a tiny, mirrored version of Dashiell Dawson Dane, the original, not-yet-improved version.
“We’re good,” I said in a softer voice, and I crossed the space to him and kissed him and brushed his hair back from his forehead.“Everything’s good, sweetheart.I promise.”
Chapter 14
Spoiler alert: everything wasnotgood.
But, I mean, I didn’t want to tell Bobby that.Especially not after that marriage-carriage debacle.
Once we got in bed, Bobby fell asleep quickly.I did not.Ishouldhave fallen asleep quickly.Iwantedto fall asleep quickly.I was so tired, physically and mentally, that I kept dropping to the edge of sleep.But every time I did, I felt like I was falling, and I’d snap awake again.When I finally did sleep, it was like I only skimmed the surface, and it made the hours impossibly long and, at the same time, too short.Bobby’s alarm went off at six.Usually, I fell right back asleep; instead, I drifted in and out, moving with the quiet, regular sounds of his morning routine.
When I woke up for real, it was half past noon, and my head was pounding.
Normally, a lie-in (as the Brits like to say) was one of my favorite things to do.(Wait,isthat what the Brits say?) In fact, a lie-in was pretty much my default way for starting my day.Nothing good happened before eleven, as I was fond of saying, and nothing great happened before noon.Ben Franklin never included that bit of wisdom inPoor Richard’s Almanack, probably because he was too busy electrocuting himself.
(Who—who—honestly says with a straight face thatearly to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise?Early to riseis the absolute worst!The health effects are catastrophic, as my soon-to-be-released one-man scientific study, titled, “Why Twelve Hours of Sleep Isn’t Enough: A Case for the Eight-Hour Waking Day,” will inevitably prove.)
(What is wrong with me?)
Today’s lie-in, though, was accompanied by the aforementioned headache, not to mention general body pings and pangs and aches and bruises.I did a lot of groaning and moaning and whimpering until I remembered Nurse Millie’s liberal ministrations with the iodine, and after that, I settled for sulking in a hot bath until I felt halfway human again.
When I finally made it downstairs, the house was empty.I texted Fox to see how Terrence was doing and got no reply.I tried Indira next, who responded right away.Terrence had pulled through the surgery and was in critical but stable condition, and Fox had gone home to get some rest—and, I suspected, figure out what to do about their upcoming show—while Indira stayed at the hospital.Keme and Millie had apparently been drafted into delivering some of Indira’s orders.With Bobby at work, that meant I had the house to myself.
Awesome.Excellent.Perfect.This couldn’t get any better.This was exactly what I needed so that I could buckle down and make some serious headway with my revisions.Bobby was right, even though I hadn’t been able to say as much last night.I’d been faffing around.(Is that the expression?Or is itfaffing off?Althoughthatsounds like something boys don’t start doing until middle schoole.I wrote schoole with anebecause that’s the British spelling.)
(Have I been watching too much ofTheGreat British Baking Show?God, please don’t ask Bobby because he might say yes.He claims I moanedpavlovaat an inappropriate moment, which I totally didnot.)
(AGAIN: WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?)
I let myself out of Hemlock House.It was one of those dramatically beautiful August days: the sun warm, a strong wind cutting in against the heat, the stiff saltiness of the sea, and puffy white clouds tumbling overhead.
So, this was it.My perfect opportunity.I was going to close the door, sit in the den, turn off my Wi-Fi (to prevent anyCrime Cats-related distractions), and get to work.I was going to revise until my eyes bled.(Or, less gruesome: until I finished this dang book.)
The coach house smelled like motor oil and cold concrete and grass clippings.I hoisted myself up into Bobby’s Pilot, which he was still letting me use until I got a car of my own.At my current rate, I’d be able to afford one by the time I got my first Social Security check.The garage door rattled up, and I backed out onto the drive.
Yep.Today was the day I was going to get to work.
But, since I was already in the Pilot, it made sense for me to do a few other things first.
At the top of my list: figure out who had tried to kill Terrence.
One text to Millie got me Terrence’s address—along with seventeen other texts.Some of these messages were endearing (I HOPE YOU’RE FEELING BETTER TODAY!Followed immediately by KEME DOES TOO!Which was then followed by KEME SAID NOT TO TELL YOU THAT SO DON’T TELL HIM I TOLD YOU!) (God, so many capital letters.) Some of these messages, on the other hand, fell into the upsetting-and-potentially-war-crimes category (I SHOULD PROBABLY SEE HOW THOSE CUTS ARE HEALING.)
I could practicallyseeher reaching for the iodine.
Just to be safe, I gave the Pilot a little extra gas as I drove north.
Terrence lived on the far side of Hastings Rock—across the bay and outside the city limits.The old-growth stands of spruce and pine gave way to coastal prairie, which was a lovely name for the sandy, scrubby grasslands that weren’t all that lovely themselves.My Maps app sent me down a narrow two-lane, where I eventually reached Terrence’s driveway: a mixture of gravel and crushed shells that crunched under the Pilot’s tires as I followed it toward the dunes.
The house was…very Terrence.It wasn’t a normal house.It wasn’t a rectangular house.It was kind of a sphere, if you chopped off part of it.And if you made another side of the sphere flat and angular.And if you covered the sphere with wooden shingles and stuck not one, not two, but three chimneys on top.I wasn’t sure if the term coastal modern applied (kind of likecoastal prairie, it’s something of a euphemism), but my gut feeling was that the architect who designed it had not passed all their required courses.
Two vehicles were parked in front.One was Fox’s van, which was literally a Toyota Van (the most amazing name for a vehicle ever).Here’s the thing about Fox’s van: it’s kind of like a roller coaster.Riding in it is simultaneously exciting and terrifying.It makes lots of noises that you’re fairly sure suggest mechanical problems that fall in the serious-to-life-threatening range.And there are some weird smells from previous occupants.(Also, one time it was full of mannequins, and Kemescreamedwhen he got in.It’s still one of the five happiest moments of my life.)
