Page 74 of The Words We Lost

After we confirm the logistics for dinner, I take a deep breath and work to steady my mind on the story in front of me. My concentration is far from perfect, and my speed is reminiscent of Princess Rita right before she plopped her hindquarters on the ground for the final time last night. But my progress is steady, nonetheless. I stop a few times to give my eyes a rest and have to reread multiple sections a second time for comprehension, but the difference in my absorption rate is undeniably better. For the first time in months, I feel more than the struggle. I feel thestory,and I can see it playing out in my mind’s eye the way I haven’t for so long.

In just over three hours, I manage to read and add notes to the margins of nearly thirty percent of Allie’s fantasy novel. I send her an email with my initial thoughts and feedback, explaining that I’ll send her a much more exhaustive report once I finish reading her manuscript.

When I finally slide my dying laptop onto the covers beside me, all I can do is stare in awe at the sunshiny walls of Cece’s bedroom, trying to make sense of what just transpired for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

For the better part of a year, I’d been on a downward spiral when it came to my reading paralysis. I feared I’d lost the one thing I’ve carried with me since I was a girl. But this emotion breaking through the surface of all my rationale ... it’s more than relief, it’s hope.

I pick up my phone and send out a brief but somewhat ecstatic email to my therapist and then an over-the-top text to Chip saying simply,The fog is lifting!And then I study the contact name illuminated near the top of my screen, the only other person I want to update with such a victory: the man I’ll be dining with in only a matter of hours.

I can wait.

I may not be able to articulate the how or the why of it all, but the where is obvious. Here, in the one place I’d vowed never to return, and yet now I can’t imagine walking away from again.

As I ready myself to meet Allie at the storage unit, I work my hair into an inverted braid, inspired by the courageous protagonist she created inThe Faerie Huntress. I think about the gifted storyteller she is—how her talent is raw but her instinct is beautifully uncluttered by mechanics.

More than once as I’d highlighted passages to add suggestions and feedback, my chest tingled with the remembrance of those early days in my career. The days as a young intern paid to read through the slush pile of unpublished works in search of anything worthyto pitch to the acquisitions team. It’s how I was able to present Cece’s manuscript to Barry all those years ago, and it’s what made me believe in this industry in the first place: the infinite possibility and potential inside each new first draft.

As I ride leisurely across town on a bike I barely have to pedal, there’s not a single frantic thought in my head tied to today’s search. Despite this being the last known lead we have, I’m not panicked about the results. I still want the conclusion of Ember and Merrick’s love story to be read by Cece’s devoted fans, but I no longer feel the prick of SaBrina’s claws around my neck to deliver it by the end of the week.

Though I can’t imagine ever wanting a career apart from books, there are other things I know I could part with—editorial dictators for starters. I don’t need a fancy title or a corner office. I simply need dedicated authors and a proverbial red pen. And Chip.

As I weave my way through a maze of tin-roofed storage units, I find Allie sitting in the hotel club car in front of unit number 199.

“Hey!” she calls out, beaming and waving at me with an energy level that just might rival Chip’s. “I finished cleaning the last rental house on my list today in half the time—thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?” I ask, surprised.

Her nod is so vigorous I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, as soon as I got the notification on my phone that you’d sent an email with your initial thoughts on the beginning ofThe Faerie Huntress, I stopped everything I was doing and took my lunch break right then and there, next to a dirty mop-water bucket. I think I read your notes over three times, maybe four.” Her eyes grow bright and misty. “You liked it? You honest and truly liked it?”

“Honest and truly,” I confirm.

And before I even have time to dismount from my bike, Allie is rushing toward me with arms stretched wide. Her embrace is more of a tackle, and I don’t doubt for a minute that she’s a phenomenal athlete. “I feel like I just won the lottery without ever buying a ticket.” She pulls back. “Thank you. Thank you so, so much. I’ve only let acouple of my writing friends read it, but none of us really know what we’re doing.”

“You know more than you think you do. It’s obvious you’re a dedicated reader inside your genre. Like I said in the email, writing mechanics can be learned, but what you possess in story instinct...” I shake my head. “That’s much harder to be taught. Your writing is sophisticated—and I don’t just mean for your age. It actually reminds me of someone we both admired.”

Allie falls back a step and clutches her chest as she mouths, “Cece?”

The smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth also tugs at my heart. “That’s exactly who I mean.”

She only blinks, her silence indicative of all that must be going on in her brain.

“Just promise me you won’t give up,” I encourage as I slip off the bike seat and kick the stand in place. “I think you have a lot more stories inside you if you’re willing to do the work to explore them.”

She nods. “I promise.”

I move to the keypad on the outside of the unit and punch in the code Wendy texted me earlier.

“I’ll get the door,” Allie says, gripping the handle on the roll-up door and yanking it up.

The minute the unit is exposed to the daylight, it’s my turn to take a step back.

“Whoa,” Allie says, her cheery mood sobering. “This is ... a lot.”

There are three tall stacks of sealed Rubbermaid storage containers to the left side of the unit and several loose items on the ground I’m having a difficult time diverting my gaze from. Baby keepsakes—a dusty rocker and bassinet—along with a couple of older bikes and scooters Cece likely used as a child. Wendy has obviously been storing these things here since their move from Nevada. She wouldn’t have had room for them in her little house or in her shed out back. These are the physical belongings that make up a person’s entire life, not just the final year of it.

Allie meanders inside on her own, giving me a moment to reflect. Aftera few deep breaths, I’m able to direct Allie’s attention to the storage containers on the left. If Cece’s notebooks are anywhere inside this space, it’s there.

We’re two dust-covered stacks in, our foreheads damp with sweat, when the corner air conditioner finally kicks on to a low whisper. Allie fans the front of her shirt and breaks the reserved atmosphere. “Do you think she had a plan? I mean, you knew her way better than I did, but it just doesn’t seem like she would misplace something this important.”

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