Page 123 of Ominous: Part 1
I keep my hold on her wrist, but I jerk her body closer, so she’s forced to face me again, her legs halfway down mine in her lame attempt at a getaway.
“Why wouldn’t it get published?” I search her face for answers. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
She gapes at me. “What? What the hell do you know about publishing?”
“I know anyone with a computer and a single brain cell can upload a book on the internet, Eden, come on.”
She stares at me like I’m a monster. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anyonereadsit.”
“Okay, so, no one is reading it now in your journal, or on your laptop, or whatever.” I shrug. “What’s the difference? At least they’d have a chance if you put it out there, right?”
She hasn’t lost that look on her face, like she thinks I’m foolish. “I want to be a professor. Professors can’t self-publish books.”
I consider that a moment, then ask, “What do you want to be more? Professor or writer?”
“Professors write.”
“Not romance novels.”
“Theycan,”she insists, and I guess she sees from my smile she’s now the one fighting for her dream. This time, I let her clamber down from my lap, turning her back to the storm as she presses the heels of her hands to her eyes and sighs. I’m not sure why she’s so bent out of shape about this, but it’s like I’ve exposed a nerve or something.
I mean, imagining Eden as a professor is hot as hell, but so is thinking of her hunched over a desk, scribbling down plot ideas and chugging coffee, something I’ve caught the scent of on her breath in the mornings after Latin when we walk together in the hallway.
She could do anything she wanted.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
She drops her hands, sighing. “Whatever,” she says. “Can we just go inside?” She gestures toward the storm, then my room. “I don’t want to talk about my writing.”
“I don’t see what the big deal—”
“Do you want to talk about your mom?” she snaps.
I curl my fingers over the arms of my chair, the slick, cool wood grounding me.
I feel a hand on my chest.
I see my mom’s eyes.
I don’t panic for long seconds, until my lungs ache. Until fear like I rarely experience creeps in.
She loves me, though. I’m nothing like Dad, but I’m just like her.
We’re the same, Mom, can’t you see?
My pulse pounds in my ears.
I squirm, my spine hitting the porcelain bottom of the bathtub. My bladder feels suddenly so full.
She just doesn’t know. She doesn’t realize I’m uncomfortable. That my lungs are burning. I need to take a breath, but she doesn’t know and I’m not sure how to tell her and—
Thunder cracks across the sky loud enough to make me jump.
When I blink, Eden is pressed against the railing, like she’s scared of me. I check I’m still sitting. I am. My hands are still lodged over the wood, my knuckles white with my grip, my palms aching. My chest is heaving.
I slowly look up, confused.Why did you run?
She’s still staring at me, her arms crossed over her chest.What did I do?But I couldn’t havedoneanything. I’m sitting. I’m still. I’m not close to her. Nothing is thrown, the ashtray still on the glass table.
