Page 12 of Fighting Words

That’s all the explanation he gives.

“I didn’t realize.”

He shakes his head. “When I first started to write, I did it solely for myself. It was a complete secret I kept from everyone in my life.” He pushes off the counter and looks over at me, his pale blue eyes so painfully expressive. “Now, I write to meet the expectations of millions of people I don’t even know, people I have never andwillnever meet. They want so much from me… It’s paralyzing.”

My lips part but I don’t have any idea what to say. I didn’t understand the circumstances surrounding his publishing delays. Maybe it’s been a common discussion around the office, but I’m new and I assumed it was different. There was a chance Nate was just being a bit lazy about the whole thing. It’s not out of the question for authors to garner a little success, tuck away a bit of money, and then leave writing behind altogether. That celebrity status can do a number on the most innocent soul, and Nathaniel’s success has been on another level entirely. I made a mistake assuming things about him, and I feel bad for exacerbating the problem.

“I’ll get rid of the rest.” I tuck the bag of fan mail behind my back, like I’m scared of what he’ll do if he realizes I have more.

He nods, a little dazed, as if surprised he spoke about the trouble he’s having. Then he returns to the pan where the bacon has started to sizzle. Already, the cottage smells amazing, and despite the drama of the last few minutes, my appetite is alive and well. My stomach grumbles loud enough for Nathaniel to hear.

“How do you like your eggs?” he asks, keeping his back to me.

Clearly, he wants to move on, and that’s fine with me.

“Over medium, please.” I wait for him to turn around, but when he doesn’t, I speak to the back of his head. “I really am sorry.”

He gives me an infinitesimal nod to show that he’s heard me.

My suitcase is sitting by the door, so I stash the bag of fan mail in there. I really need to get some kind of tape to help with the broken zipper, but I don’t want to be a nuisance to Nathaniel right now. I need to pick my battles, and repairing my suitcase isn’t at the top of the list.

In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t keep pressing on a wound, but the whole reason I’m in England, my entire job, hinges on Nathaniel accepting me as a developmental editor, a partner in the plotting process, an ally and teammate. Normally, a job wouldn’t be this invasive. An author would submit a manuscript by email, I’d read through it a few times during the editorial process, give feedback and suggestions, and we’d polish it up all from the comfort of our respective desks. But this situation is unique. Nathaniel is the most important author we have on our roster, and I cannot accept his unwillingness to work with me as the final word. I have to keep pushing, as painful and awkward as it might be.

“Do you always eat a big breakfast?” I ask, trying to get us back to a more neutral topic.

“No, normally I just have toast and coffee. Oh—” The word reminds him that we don’t have any yet.

On the small wheeled wooden island, nestled in the corner of the kitchen opposite the fireplace, there’s a full-on coffee station with a French press, espresso machine, coffee pot, and milk frother. This man clearly takes his caffeine needs seriously.

“Why don’t I make the coffee?” I suggest helpfully.

He’s trying to get some coffee beans out of the grocery bags while simultaneously keeping watch of the bacon. It’s almost done, and I can tell he doesn’t want it to burn.

“It’s fine.” He ignores my suggestion, but I can’t just stand here while he does it all.

I skirt around the kitchen table and politely but assertively try to take the beans out of his hand. “I worked as a barista for a year when I was in undergrad. It was at this local coffee shop right by the NYU campus.”

He looks down at me, his gaze locking with mine, and the moment passes where he should let go of the bag of coffee beans, but he doesn’t. We’re both tugging gently.

I laugh lightly. Is it really so hard to let someone in? To have someone else make him a damn cup of coffee?

“I promise I won’t screw it up. I wasverygood at my job,” I promise with a sly smile.

He gets a little crease between his eyebrows, and for a second I think he’s really going to fight me on this small thing. Then, like it’s taking his full strength, he sighs deeply and relinquishes the bag.

“You can imagine how picky New Yorkers are about their coffee,” I continue as I get to work.

“I know,” he huffs. “I was one of them.”

“Were you?” I can’t help but jump on this bit of personal information.

“I lived there for years. After failing out of my PhD program.”

“Youfailed? I don’t believe it.”

He shrugs. “It’s true. That’s what happens when you write a book instead of working on your thesis.”

That’s right. I recall that from his author bio. He started writingThe Last Exoduswhile he was still at MIT. That fun fact is the beginning andendof the information he allows InkWell to share about him, and our marketing team had to push him to get that much. I understand why they add that little detail in the back of his books. It lends legitimacy to his work as a science fiction writer, makes him seem all the more cerebral and smart. It’s what the genre demands.

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