Page 9 of Fighting Words

I didn’t call him because I’m a bad daughter and I already know that, so why bother hearing it repeated to me over the phone?

My mom, at least, admonished me via side text, a courtesy I appreciated.

Mom: This job is fine for now, Summer, but where do you see yourself in five years?

Five years? I don’t even know where I’ll be in fiveminutes.

I’ve just finished graduate school and I landed a coveted position at InkWell. I’m doing everything right, only because I’m not a type-A whiz kid, I feel like a failure.

For once, I would love my family to take me seriously, to appreciate my differences and celebrate my quirks. I don’t have to be married to medicine to be a productive member of society.Literature matters!I was never moved in a meaningful way after completing one of those dreaded hikes with my family, but as a middle schooler I was brought to tears byBridge to Terabithia. I walked around for a year, recommendingAll The Light We Cannot Seeto anyone with a pulse because it seared itself onto my soul. Try to tell meTo Kill a Mockingbirdisn’t one of the most important pieces of writing anyone’s ever accomplished.

My family knows who Nathaniel Foster is. Though none of them has very much time for reading—and if they do, they certainly don’t pick up “fluff”—every one of them has read the first two books in Nathaniel’sCosmostrilogy. I gave book one,The Last Exodus, to my dad for Christmas years ago, and he finished it in one day.

If I’m somehow able to do what I’ve set out to accomplish here—help Nathaniel, give him meaningful editorial feedback, and bringCosmosbook three to market—I know my family will understand the significance. I know they will see me through a new lens.

Nathaniel wants me gone. Wine and cheese aside, he’s made that abundantly clear, but I have everything riding on this, so in the morning, I will try yet again to convince him to let me stay on here in England.

It won’t be easy, but it’s worth a shot.

CHAPTER 4

NATE

This morningI feel as hopeless as I’ve felt for as many mornings as I can remember. I didn’t sleep well last night, and as I push up off my bed and stretch my back, I’m reminded of the houseguest just down the hall. I want to shower, but I don’t want to wake her. It’s ungodly early and she probably had a restless night, in a new place with an angry man just two doors down.

There are bookshelves spanning one of my bedroom walls, filled with various foreign editions of my booksThe Last ExodusandEcho of Hope. French and German copies, Korean, Hungarian, Polish—I’ve lost count of how many translations were made, but the books have spanned the farthest reaches of the earth. My last book tour took me all the way to Thailand. I stood at a table, smiling in front of a crowd of rabid readers. The question on everybody’s lips was the same as it is in every country: “When can we expect book three?!”

I can’t look at the bookshelf as I pad quietly out into the hall to use the bathroom. I’ll save the shower for later. I want to head into town and pick up some provisions—I can’t cobble together a breakfast like I cobbled together a dinner. I doubt Summer would go foranotherround of cheese and crackers.

I have a car here, but it’s a hunk of junk. I keep it for days like this, when there’s so much snow piled on the ground I doubt my bike would make it very far. I don’t even expect it to start, and it sput-sput-sputters as I crank the key before finally rumbling to life. I pat the dashboard like I’m patting a loyal pet then set out for Sedbergh.

If I want to do a big grocery haul, I have to drive all the way to Kendal. For times like this though, where I can get by on the essentials, the grocery store on Main Street is fine. I skip past the British fare like baked beans and black pudding and instead grab some cereal, milk, eggs, bacon, English muffins, fresh coffee, and orange juice. Martin is manning the counter with one eye glued to the television propped on the counter. It’s a rerun of a football game, and I assume it’s Kendal Town F.C. until I hear the announcer mention Ferguson.

“Man United up?” I ask, grabbing a few pounds out of my wallet.

Martin grumbles as he rings up my items. “Not until later. Scholes scores against Barcelona in the last few minutes. I still remember losing my voice during this game. Got company?”

I don’t usually get this much food when I come in.

“Something like that.”

He nods but doesn’t ask me anything else. I’m sure gossip will spread. Sedbergh is a small sleepy town, but everyone knows each other, and everyone knows of me, the famous American.

People mostly keep to themselves around here though. I know Martin spends his days running this shop. Occasionally, he’ll go down to the Red Lion for supper with his wife. I see him there sometimes, and we get on. It’s nice. No one really bothers me about work. Everyone’s just happy to argue about football and rugby over a pint.

Usually I would stay here and chat with him for a bit, but today, I’m in a rush to get back before Summer wakes up. I don’t want her thinking I abandoned her. I still have one more task though. When I’m back in my car, provisions sitting in bags on the passenger side floorboard, I call my agent.

Main Street is about the only place with reliable cell service in Sedbergh, and I have to take full advantage, even if that means waking Patrick up in the middle of the night.

Like the dutiful agent he is, he answers quickly. “Nate—” He clears his throat, trying to sound like I didn’t just pull him out of a dream. “Thanks for returning my call.”

“Sorry about the hour.”

I hear him sigh, and then there’s a pause, sheets rustle, and a door closes quietly. He’s married and likely doesn’t want to disturb his partner.

“No problem. Listen, I was getting worried. I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks now.”

“I’ve been busy.”

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