Page 11 of Fighting Words

Nathaniel hasn’t actually greeted me yet, and now I feel silly being the first one to say something. I hate being an unwanted houseguest. First thing this morning, I made my bed and collected my things…welltriedto collect my things. I flung my clothes around my room last night hoping they’d dry, but with it being so cold, most of them were still damp by the time I woke up this morning. Even still, I stuffed everything back into my suitcase and lugged it all downstairs. Now, it sits in a heap by the door.

I stand and edge closer to the kitchen while maintaining a healthy distance. I don’t want Nathaniel thinking I’m trying to get comfortable here. He’s made himself clear: I don’t belong.

“You have a car.”

He unloads cereal and muffins from the first bag without looking up. “If you want to call it that. It barely runs.”

“You could have driven me somewhere last night,” I point out.

I didn’t think that was an option. I could have been out of here already, out of his hair and back in the company of people who don’t hate me for merely existing.

“Not during the storm.”

There’s only a few feet of snow on the ground. It doesn’t seem so bad, but who am I to argue? I don’t know what it’s like to drive out here. “Right. I forgot.”

“And like I said.” He flings the refrigerator door open so he can put away his milk and orange juice. “There’s no place for you to stay this time of year.”

“What about over in Kendal?”

He doesn’t reply.

I pinch my eyes closed for a moment and try to regain some courage. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to face him again this morning. He’s intimidating, enigmatic…handsome,unfortunately, despite the bad attitude. His caramel brown shirt matches his hair. The short strands are unruly this morning—slightly wavy—but men pay stylists good money for that exact look. I bet if I told him that, he’d roll his eyes. I can’t imagine he goes in for haircuts very often. More like he grabs clipping shears and does it himself whenever it gets too long to manage. His jaw is still covered in scruff.

I heard him get out of bed and dress this morning. I heard him leave the cottage, and I’ve been waiting anxiously for him to return. Now, I know we’re going to have an uncomfortable confrontation, and I’m just trying to brace for it as best I can.

“You don’t need to worry. I’m going to leave just as soon as it’s possible. Without cell service, I have no way of calling a cab, and I didn’t want to start walking until you gave me directions.”

He keeps unloading groceries while I talk, refusing to look at me. Then he reaches for a cast iron skillet from the open shelf and sets it down hard on the stove. I startle at the sound, but with his back turned, he doesn’t see my reaction.

“But, just so you know.” I step forward again so I’m finally at the entrance to the kitchen, a large opening supported by ancient wooden beams. “I’m not leaving England. I came prepared to do my job, and I think if you’d hear me out, you would see that I can be really helpful to you.” I hold up a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, filled with so many letters I could barely get it zipped. “I brought you some fan mail—”

“Burn it,” he says, point-blank, as he starts laying bacon down in the skillet.

“Are we that low on firewood?” I quip.

My teasing falls on deaf ears. I hate this! I’m trying my hardest here, and he couldn’t care less. He’s so selfishly wrapped up in his own world he doesn’t understand how this affects me. My job is on the line here, my future, my success. I open the bag and pull out the first letter. I’ve read them all. We get thousands sent to InkWell every year. Jaclyn down in reception is responsible for filtering through them.

“Dear Nathaniel Foster, I hope this letter finds you well.”

I look up just as Nathaniel’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t say a word or turn around. Clearly this letter does not find him well. Still, I continue.

“My name is Franklin Wynne and I live in Phoenix, Arizona, with my wife. She was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme last year, and our entire world flipped upside down overnight. I’m happy to help take care of her, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t isolating. I thought our lives would look much different than they currently do. I had hoped…well, I had hoped for a lot more. Maybe you’ll find us in a different spot in a few years, my wife healthy and happy, but for now, I’m by her side day in and day out, taking her to doctor’s appointments and treatments. I’m helping her endure something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

I’m writing to you because of how impactful your books have been on my life. You might think I’m exaggerating when I say your stories, especiallyThe Last Exodus, got me through some of the darkest days—”

The letter is suddenly wrenched out of my hand as Nathaniel steals it from me, tearing it in two, and then in four, again and again, until it’s nothing but bits of confetti getting pushed down into the trash can beside the kitchen counter.

I’m too stunned to speak.

He’s breathing hard as he leans over the top of the bin, trying to compose himself. His hands are squeezing the edge of the counter. His head hangs between his arms. I can see the muscles in his biceps ripple and bunch beneath his shirt, his chest rising and falling.

I’ve struck a nerve I never meant to touch, never even meant toskim.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, unsure of where I’ve gone wrong.

He squeezes his eyes closed.

The silence seems to go on forever before he says with a defeated voice, “It’s hard enough.”

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