Page 6 of The Words We Lost

“I hope I’m not interrupting something important.” SaBrina’s eyes skirt to Joel, and she extends her manicured hand as if she expects him to kiss a signet ring. “SaBrina Hartley. I’m the Editorial Director here at Fog Harbor Books.”

“Joel Campbell.” Though he’s the picture of well-mannered professionalism, I fail to miss the way his eyes narrow at her ever so slightly. “I’m an old friend of Ingrid’s.”

And like a collision one can see coming from miles away, I watch the exact moment SaBrina connects the dots and registers Joel’s full name.

“It’s a privilege to finally meet you in person, Mr. Campbell.” SaBrina shoots a brief but pointed glance my way before steering her attention back to him with rapt interest. “Does the rest of your family happen to be joining you in the city? I would love the opportunity to host a VIP luncheon for—”

“I’m afraid it’s only me.” His smile is unnaturally tense. “I had some family business to discuss with Ingrid.”

In the lull that follows his explanation, there’s an awkward dance of gazes, as if each one of us is trying to figure out the next steps. Only there are no next steps to be choreographed between the three of us. Joel has never been a part of Cece’s publishing life, just like SaBrina has never been a part of Cece’s personal life. And I see no reason for the two to intermix now.

I twist the ring on my finger and rotate to face Joel, panic slippinginto my voice. “Thank you again for taking the time to stop by today. I don’t want to keep you from your flight. Traffic in the city is never predictable.”

“Not much in life is.” And then, as if the two of us were still on casual touching terms, Joel reaches out to still my nervous hand with his, the same way he did a thousand times in the life we shared a thousand years ago. Every rational thought in my brain vacates in a single blink as his voice lowers. “For the record, I’m not the only person who’ll take note of your absence if you’re not with us on Saturday. You were her family, too.”

He dips his head to SaBrina and then to me as he lifts his hand from mine and slips out of my office almost as suddenly as I slipped out of his life five years ago.

3

My legs feel as boneless as if I’ve just ridden an extra ten miles on my virtual circuit. Every nerve ending in my body screams for a reprieve, only there’s no time for one because I’m now at the mercy of a woman who has only ever seen me at my worst—and by the way she’s eyeing me now, it doesn’t seem likely that will change any time soon.

“It seems a visit from one of Cecelia’s family members would be something you’d think to mention to your editorial director, Ingrid.” SaBrina’s voice holds an unnerving amount of calm, though her meaning is razor sharp.

“I wasn’t aware he was coming.”

She tilts her head to the side as if weighing my statement. “This family business matter Mr. Campbell mentioned—it wouldn’t have anything to do with a missing manuscript, would it?”

“No,” I rush to get out. “He only came to invite me to a birthday gathering on Saturday—one I won’t be attending.” Of the two invitations Joel extended involving Port Townsend this weekend, this is the only one safe enough to mention to SaBrina. She never needs to know about Cece’s letter or the mysterious package Cece left behind for reasons I still can’t comprehend. Only once had I overshared the details of a private conversation held between Ceceand myself regarding the deadline ofThe Fate of Kings, and SaBrina hadn’t let me forget it.

“In Port Townsend?” she asks.

At my obvious confusion, she tries again, this time at an irritatingly slow pace. “Is the birthday event you declined taking place in Port Townsend with the Campbell family?”

I nod. “Yes.”

Her face remains contemplative, her silence dragging from one minute into the next. It lasts so long that I begin to think it’s a test—a waiting game to see if I’ll step up and take the lead. Perhaps this is the moment I should come clean about my reading issues and beg her for a pardon. Only, instead of a polished speech I had zero time to prepare, what comes out of my mouth is a simple: “I can do better.”

Her gaze flashes with renewed interest as she continues her study of me for a few seconds more.

“I still remember what I was doing the day I heard about Barry Brinkman signing a twenty-one-year-old debut author in the San Francisco office for a five-book fantasy series.” She takes a turn around my office, her eyes skimming my sparsely decorated walls. “The rumors spread like wildfire. Some people thought Barry had lost his pulse on the market, while others began to question his moral integrity, especially after the story broke on how he’d secured that first manuscript—or perhaps I should say,whohe’d secured that first manuscript from.”

My stomach sours at the careless way she speaks about the character of a man who quite literally scraped me off my office floor and put me in a cab home the day Joel called to tell me the outcome of Cece’s surgery.

“As a senior editor working in New York at the time, it was easier for me to believe the rumors than the hype about some small-town writer from nowhere Washington with an affinity for pirates.” She chuckles to herself. “But I’m not too proud to admit I was wrong—about that series, about Cecelia Campbell’s talent, and even about you.” A soft wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. “Ingrid Erikson,the legendary college intern who took this office by storm, seemed to be the whole package—beauty, brains, ambition, and story instinct.”

It’s the first compliment SaBrina’s ever paid to me, and yet I know it won’t be without a catch.

“Which is the reason I’ve put off this conversation for as long as I have. But I can’t put it off any longer. You may have struck literary gold for Fog Harbor Books when you discovered Cecelia Campbell, but your sales numbers have taken a nosedive since her last release. Barry cautioned me about your bleeding heart when it comes to debut authors looking for their big break, and if that was your only issue, I might have been willing to overlook it. But we both know your performance this year has been abysmal. Your lack of sales, your lack of professional discretion—not to mention your gross overuse of your editorial assistant—has made you a liability to Fog Harbor Books.”

The finality in her tone causes my throat to burn as I try to imagine what it will feel like to walk out my office door for a final time, or to email a professional farewell to the coworkers I’ve collaborated with since I was an intern, or to take the elevator down to the lobby and buy one last Americano from Chip’s pink-haired crush, or to say good-bye to an assistant who became an unexpected friend when I’d had so little to give in return.

And then the scariest feeling of all begins to quake through me: What will become of me?

Working in editorial is the last piece of myself that still resembles who I was before so much of my world went black. In the short span of five years, I’ve lost my father, my closest friend, my ability to escape into fiction ... and the man who promised me a future secured by trust and love.

With the bone-chilling clarity that only comes after one’s life has been upended, I know I will not survive losing one more thing.

“Please, SaBrina,” I say, throwing whatever pride I have left at her feet. “I know I’ve fallen short of Fog Harbor’s standards—of my own standards for that matter. But a life in publishing is where I belong, it’s what I know best.”And it’s the only thing I have left.“Ican do better. Please, give me another chance to prove that to you and I will. I swear I will.”

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