Page 81 of Script Swap
“I guess that’s a no,” Bobby said.
“Maybe we can work up to it.”
His chest rose and fell evenly under me, and he shifted his weight, freeing his arm so he could hold me closer.The sound of the rain rose and fell, and deeper, below it, came the crash of the waves.
“You told me what you loved about writing was that it was fun.Pure creation.And that you loved telling stories, and that you got to explore ideas, and that it meant something to you, finding ways to talk about big ideas in ways that were also exciting and thrilling and suspenseful.You told me you discover things about yourself when you write.What you said tonight, about writing to find me.”
I nodded into his chest, the smell of his deodorant, the hint of his body.
Bobby’s silence was a hesitation again, but less…fraught this time.More trusting.But when he spoke, he was careful to phrase his words as a question.“But you also want your writing to earn you money.You want it to be something you can live off.You want it to—to sell, I guess, for lack of a better word.And I keep wondering if that isn’t a lot of pressure to put on something you love so much?”
I didn’t know what to say, but I lifted my head.
“I mean—” But Bobby stopped again.“You wouldn’t say that to me, would you?You wouldn’t say that I need to provide for you, or you’re going to stop loving me, and if I don’t make a hundred thousand dollars a year, I’m a waste of your time.”When I didn’t answer, he pushed some of the hair away from my forehead.“Right?”
“No,” I said.“But it’s different.”
“Is it?”
I didn’t answer because—was it?Bobby was right.I had loved writing for a long time.I’d loved it before I’d ever needed it to make me money.Before I’d ever hoped it would be a career.I’d loved it because it was a natural extension of reading, which had been my first love.Adventures and new worlds and other lives.For the joy of it.
“I don’t know,” I finally said.
“What if you let me carry us for a while longer?”
“Bobby—”
“Our expenses actually aren’t that high.The house is paid off.We don’t have any major repairs.All we have to do is keep the pantry stocked and cover your tab at Let’s Taco Bout Tacos.”Bobby frowned.“And the Cakery.Wait, do you still go to that candy store in Seaside?”
“Bobby, no.Thank you, but no.That’s such an amazing, loving offer, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, but I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not fair to you.”
“Dash, Iwantto do it.”
“It’s not right.I waste so much time.”
“Then think of it as an opportunity for career exploration if that makes it easier.Some breathing room.”
“It’s not sustainable.”
“It is, actually.Indira helped me run the numbers.You can keep teaching if you want—I know you enjoy it.But I want you to have some time when you can enjoy writing because you enjoy it.Reconnect with that.No pressure to produce.No need to sell stories you’re not ready to let go of.You can be Hemlock House’s writer-in-residence.”
Tears sprang to my eyes, and before I could blink them away, they fell to stain Bobby’s shirt.“Bobby, I don’t want you to have to do that.I want to be your partner.I want to help you.”
“I know, babe.And I love that about you.You help me in so many ways; that’s not going to change because you let me pay the bills for a while.Listen, I know this is a touchy subject.I know you worked hard to be independent, not to rely on your parents.I’m so proud of you for that.But we’re a team.This is the whole point of having a partner, so we can do this for each other.If I got burnt out, or if I needed to change careers, we’d find a way, wouldn’t we?”
I nodded, but I was crying harder now—not sobbing, but the tears running steadily down my cheeks and drip-dropping on Bobby’s chest.“I feel like such a failure.And you deserve better than that.”
“Dash,” Bobby said, fingers strong and tight against my nape as he gave me a little shake.“I wantyou.I love you.I don’t want you to be anyone else.I don’t want you to be different.I want you exactly as you are.”
Eyes stinging, I pressed my face into his chest.Bobby stroked my hair.
When I had myself under control again—kind of—I said, “Can I think about it?”
“Of course.We can talk about it, you can think about it.Whatever you need.”
