Page 83 of The Words We Lost

He’s quiet for so long I’m not sure if he’ll respond again, but when he does, I feel the impact of his refusal like a blow to my heart. “I won’t sell our story, Ingrid.”

“I’mnot asking you to sell it—I’m only asking that we submit it for verification, not a contract. We just need to use it as proof to get SaBrina off our backs, off the idea that we’re harboringThe Fate of Kings.” But even as I speak, I hear the blaring weakness in my argument. Because the minute it’s out of our hands, we’ll never have complete control of it again.

“You’d trust a digital record of our lives to SaBrina?”

When I don’t answer, he tugs at his shirt collar until a third button frees itself, exposing the dip in Joel’s throat and a sliver of tan skin just below it. As much as I want to believe in the integrity of the publisher who gave my best friend her big break, the same publisher who took me on as an editor when I had little reason to keep going, it pains me that I can’t answer a question about their confidentiality with confidence. Even with the best legal team working alongside us, there’s no telling what could happen under SaBrina’s direction. But just like a whispered rumor, once a manuscript is leaked into the world, it’s impossible to reel it back in.

Literary pirates aren’t like the noble sea bandits Cece imagined; there is no moral code of conduct for thieves of the written word.

“Think of your aunt.” Desperate to hold my ground, I try a different approach. “Think of how brutal things will be for her if SaBrina’s threat holds true and the secret of the memoir is splattered all over the fan groups and the hunt for Wendy is on again. Think of what Cece would want us to do for her mom.”

He scrubs both palms down his face, and I hate the tortured expression he wears when he stakes his elbows to his drawn knees. But he isn’t saying no, not yet anyway.

“There are so many things I can’t undo, Joel, lost time I’ll never be able to redeem.” I swallow as thoughts of last night in Joel’s kitchen surface, of the way his hands gripped my waist, of his warm, inviting mouth pressed to mine, of a freedom I so badly wanted to believe could be mine ... ours.

My nose prickles as I think of the rocks I pelted at that old tugboat in the slough, and as I think of all the moments I was too weak, too young, too helpless to fix what was broken. “Please, let me make this right.”

Empathy softens his gaze. “Giving in to SaBrina’s demands won’t make anything right. And it won’t be the only thing she asks for in the future. She’s an opportunist. She’ll find a way to keep exploiting us, to keep exploiting you.” He sighs and stares at the floor. “That said, neither of us are in the position to make any conclusive decisions without knowing how the memoir ends. Even with your editing skills, I’d never agree to send something of hers off that I haven’t first read myself.”

“Did you bring it with you?”

Joel nods. “Downstairs.”

“Let’s finish it, then.” Grateful for the possibility of a compromise, I stand from my place on the floor, waiting for him to do the same so I don’t trip over him on my way to the stairs. But instead of pushing up to his full height, he remains where he is, watching me with an intensity that grips my insides.

“This may not have the resolution you want, Indy.”

And suddenly, I’m unsure of the subject matter he’s discussing now: the ultimatum, the memoir ... us?

When he finally stands in the cramped space, we’re a painful kind of close, a disjointed kind of separate. One best relieved by a steadying touch or a supportive embrace. And yet neither of us reaches for the other. It’s a silent statement that echoes of finality, of a second chance better left unlived.

Perhaps not all first drafts can be rewritten.

28

“Love Always Finds a Way”

Cece had never experienced the extreme divide between love and hate quite like being placed on a deadline. But writing a detailed, visceral battle scene depicting the divide between good and evil was hardly the same as writing a mind-numbingly boring series outline on four books—two of which were still trapped inside her head. A head she was ready to bang against the coffee shop window of what had to be the busiest cafe set on the busiest street in Oak Harbor.

Contrary to the advice she read on Google last night, a change in writing location hadn’t miraculously changed her inability to summarize. And if she had to look at those obnoxious flashing lights on the sports bar across the street for one more minute, she might be led to drink something stronger than chai tea. But of course, she would neveractuallydo that. Even if she hadn’t made a no-alcohol pact with Joel and Ingrid years ago, she knew too much about the pain of addiction to ever be a casual consumer of the hard stuff.

She picked up her phone and FaceTimed Ingrid.

Her friend answered on the first ring, but instead of Ingrid’s face coming into view like she expected, Cece saw a blurred highway of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and rows of dark mahogany tables with groups of students—

Oh, shoot!How could she have forgotten?Ingrid had study groups for her upcoming finals booked all weekend at the library.

“Hey, sorry. The librarians are serious about the no-phone rule,” Ingrid said into the camera as sunlight spilled over her dark hair, causing her amber eyes to sparkle like gold. Ingrid had always been beautiful, butradiantwas a far more accurate description for her as of late. College suited her well. As did the vibrant fuchsia top she wore today. Cece made a mental note to borrow it when Ingrid came home.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I totally spaced that you were studying for finals this weekend.”

“It’s okay.” Ingrid sighed, leaning against the brick building. “I could use a brain break. We’ve been at it for hours already. I never thought I could get tired of talking about literary devices used in the classics, but I passed tired weeks ago. I seriously can’t wait for these finals to be over next week.” She yawned. “Anyway, what’s up there? Wait—did you finish the proposal for Barry?”

“Uh ... I wouldn’t exactly sayfinished.” Cece flipped the camera around to show Ingrid the same line on her laptop screen she’d rewritten forty-two times since she plopped into the chair of this highly trafficked coffee shop. Whoever said cafe background noise helped concentration should have their freedom of speech right revoked. “Do you think it’s too late for me to fly down there and join a study group for synopsis writing?”

“Seeing as I told Barry you’d have the full series proposal to him first thing Monday morning so he can prep for the publication board—yes, I’d say it’s much, much too late for that. Didn’t you get the link I sent with all the formatting examples?”

“Formatting is not the issue,” Cece grumbled. “I feel like I’m living inside a poorly written math problem. How does a writer take a two-hundred-thousand-word fantasy novel and summarize it into a thousand-word synopsis, times four? Answer: You can’t. It’s impossible.” Cece knew she had absolutely no right to complain, considering Ingrid had taken a huge riskby sneakingThe Pulse of Goldinto Barry Brinkman’s office. She could have lost her entire internship over such a stunt, but not only had he read it, he’d also requested a proposal on the full Nocturnal Heart series! It was a dream ten times larger than Cece had ever prayed for. “Urgh, I just don’t want to mess this up, not after you took such a big risk for me.”

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