Page 55 of The Words We Lost

“Who?”

“Allie Spencer, she’s been helping me search for the manuscript, as well as keeping the cottage organized, the groceries stocked, and my transportation needs sorted.”

“So she’s basically the Washington version of me.”

“Actually, in a couple years after she graduates she might be exactly you.”

“Okay, well, I don’t think it’s a good idea to mention the contents of that package to anybody else.” There’s a warning in his tone that sobers me. “It’s just, if the wrong person was to discover there’s an unpublished manuscript written by Cece Campbell in your possession... I don’t even want to imagine the media circus that would ensue.”

I picture the pages tucked away in Joel’s backpack. “It’s safe, Chip. I promise. You don’t need to worry.”

“I really hope you’re right.” He pauses again. “People do crazy things for treasures far less valuable than the one in your possession.”

18

I’ve circled the living room coffee table where my laptop sits open four times now. And all four times, I’ve found a reason not to click on the file Allie emailed me roughly thirty minutes after I arrived back from conducting a thorough manuscript hunt at Wendy’s house. I’ve braided my hair, spot-cleaned my daisy shorts for a second-day wear, retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge, and applied a thick layer of sunscreen to my arms and face for the on-location reading excursion Joel planned for us in t-minus ten minutes.

My palms are damp as I drop to the edge of the chair and pull the laptop toward me. Never in a thousand lifetimes would I have thought I’d ever be scaredto read a story. Then again, never in a thousand lifetimes would I have imagined many of the events that have taken place over the past five years.

When I offered this trade to Allie, I felt confident, as if I’d left all my reading issues behind me in California. I’m not so sure anymore. Light editing on the pitches Chip sent me last night is not even in the same stratosphere as reviewing a piece of fiction.

I hold my breath and double-click on the file.

It opens immediately.

Allie’s youthful font choice tugs at the corners of my lips, and the pressure inside my chest eases considerably. I re-envision theimagery and world-building her words created in my mind yesterday and try not to think of the next few minutes as a test. I scroll past her working title—The FaerieHuntress—and engage my cursor on the first line.Only the first line, I coach myself,and then the first paragraph.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

In my experience, most humans define thefaeas a flock of flirtatiously clad Tinkerbells with pockets full of pixie dust. Millions of trusting parents read bedtime stories to their children, marveling at the illustrations of mystical gardens and magical streams where fairies grant wishes for nothing more than a smile. But in my line of work, I find most humans to be irresponsibly naïve. They do not fear the veil that divides our worlds because they do not seek to understand our world. Not as it truly is. And therefore, they understand nothing.

I pause and review the words in my head, rolling them around in my mind’s eye to make sure all are accounted for. That none have defected.

To my shock, they’re all here.

I continue on, the assertive voice behind the narrative tugging me forward until I lose myself in the action.

After a person is forced to watch their soulmate plead for life as the hand of evil mercilessly steals their last breath, one’s moral compass shifts. Four hundred and thirty-two days ago, I experienced such a shift. I sheath my weapon and step into my boots, glancing once more at the sketch taped to my wall: a face I’ve vowed never to forget. Or to forgive.

I manage to read all the way to the end of the paragraph before the fatigue hits like a brick wall.

And then, just like that, the film reel in my head clicks off and ejects.

It’s as if a director in a different hemisphere of my brain has just calledcut!,banishing all actors from the set despite my internalscreams for them to stay. I slump against the padded chair and stare out at the tide slipping away. Nothing has changed. Whatever progress I thought I’d made yesterday hasn’t translated to the page. I’m still just as broken here as I was in California.

Before I can feel the full weight of this revelation, I slam the laptop closed and stand, giving my daisy shorts a swift tug south before tightening the tie at my waist. Then two shrill rings coming from the direction of the driveway pull me through the kitchen to the door.

The instant I step onto Cece’s porch, I stop at the sight of a seafoam-colored bike propped on its kickstand in the middle of the driveway. Joel is just a few steps behind it, unloading a slate-gray version of the same bike from the back of the hotel’s utility truck. He sets it down next to the first and rings the bell on the handlebars. His lazy grin coils around my insides and in an instant, I’m picturing his fingers wrapped around mine the way they were last night.

“Thought we could try these out.” He points to the cruiser closest to me and slips on his backpack. “Take a test ride to the lighthouse. This one’s yours.”

The sleek, trendy design captivates my full attention. There’s not a single scuff on the paint, and the fat black tires show no sign of tread wear. It’s brand-new. I walk around it, grazing my fingers along the broad chrome handlebars and the woven basket that sits sweetly behind the wide leather seat. It’s then I see the black rectangular box on the adjustment bar just below where I’m to sit.

“Is that a motor?” I lift my eyes and meet Joel’s studious gaze.

“Yes. It’s electric with a pedal-assist option so you can utilize the motor as little or as much as you want. We have a dozen or so on order for next summer. Our plan is to offer them as day rentals for our guests who want more of a true beach-town experience.”

“That’s a really smart idea,” I say, imagining the appeal for tourists.

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