Chapter Thirteen
Mal
Three days had passed since the carousel-photoshoot-turned-real-life-emergency, and Mal could not stop thinking about what
it felt like to crush a man’s ribs.
“Should I stop?” he’d asked Jo when he felt the first pop: cartilage disengaging from bone, bone digging into lung.
“No,” she’d said, not looking away from the AED the girls had brought, not lifting her two fingers from the fallen man’s neck.
Later, when they were eating their ice cream (his butter pecan, hers strawberry cheesecake, both in dipped waffle cones),
he asked her about it, and she’d said, “Sometimes you have to hurt people to help them.”
“That’s hard-core,” Kieran said, impressed. “Are you okay, man? Because that would mess me up a little bit.”
They sat on the rooftop of Kieran and Kelechi’s apartment, looking out over the Chicago skyline from under wide umbrellas.
Harvey sat on the wood floor, wearing a bright orange sun hat that cast him in a puddle of shade and plastering himself with
the reusable stickers that Mal had brought as a gift.
“I think,” Mal said. In truth, the experience hadn’t been traumatizing so much as it had been galvanizing, in that it had turned his crush on Josephine Boateng into something of an obsession. He could hardly go two hours without recounting the image of her on the carousel, her hazy, half-lidded eyes, the way she arched into him as they kissed, then leapt away to help the fallen man. Her skirts had floated behind her like a pink moth’s wings, and he recalled being both bewildered and captivated by her. One-sided trauma bonding? Or , Mal thought bitterly, me up to my usual bullshit?
“That explains her CPR video today,” Kelechi said, snapping him back into the present. She cocked her head toward him. “Mally-wag,
I think your phone is ringing.”
It was. Mal reached into his pocket, stemming his disappointment when he realized that the caller was not Jo, Girl of His
Dreams, but Amelia, Woman Who Made Them Come True.
“En Garde put in an offer,” Amelia said.
Mal sat bolt upright.
Intrigued, Kieran and Kelechi leaned forward, and Mal put his phone on speaker, holding a finger to his lips to keep his friends
quiet. Harvey, who did not yet understand such cues, threw his hands down on the floor with a frustrated “BAH!”
“Hi, yes, good,” Mal said, biting back a laugh. “What is it?”
Amelia told him, and all three of their jaws dropped in unison.
“One hundred grand for an option?” Mal repeated, shocked.
“And a million if it gets made. Which it will,” Amelia said smugly.
Mal slumped in his chair. His two-book deal with his publisher had been “major,” which had equated to three hundred thousand
dollars suddenly appearing in his bank account one day. Between the foreign deals and this, his life was never going to be
the same. Across from him, Kelechi was doing a silent, joyous dance.
Amelia wasted no time bringing him back to Earth.
“Which brings me to my next point. Malcolm, you need to get on social media.”
Mal groaned.
“This again,” he muttered, taking the turn in conversation as his sign to make their call private. Standing, he paced along
the roof, squinting out into the bright midday sky. Amelia had badgered him about cultivating a presence on social media from
the day that they’d signed together, and all this time, Mal had resisted. It was bad enough to be perceived by people who
saw him in real life. But by complete strangers who’d read his work? No. He wanted to be like the authors he’d admired in
his youth, unreachable except by fan mail, knowable only by the words they left on the page.
But the world was changing. The art and the artist were now inextricably intertwined into a brand that at times was more sensational
than the work itself. Eventually, Mal knew, he would have to get with the times. Amelia seemed to think that eventually was now .
“Yes, this again,” Amelia said. “We’re going to announce the deal soon. You’re already in the public eye. And, not to give
you a big head, but you’re cute . They pay more attention to you when you’re cute. When that headshot goes live on Deadline, I want people to be curious,
and they need a way to channel that curiosity.”
The way she’d said it, so matter-of-factly, reminded him of Jo. When Jo told Mal he was handsome, she stated it as fact, in
the same no-nonsense, nonnegotiable way in which she might have given a diagnosis. He’d started seeing himself in the mirror
a little differently as a consequence, assessing his own interactions with others through the lens of a handsome man. Suddenly, the young man at Starbucks who snuck him a free cake pop wasn’t just being friendly, and the girl at the farmers’ market with the sunflower dress who’d made conversation with him in the bread-guy line wasn’t just a chatty person. Mal had entered his most recent relationship at a time when his baby face still rendered him a bit awkward-looking, and the knowledge that he was now good-looking enough to garner the appreciation of one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met was disorienting.
Without warning, another memory of Jo sprang to mind, this time of them seated on the bench outside Il Latini. She’d cast
aside the brash persona she had donned for much of the evening, and what was left was a woman he examined like a jewel, fascinated
by her many facets. She was at turns vulnerable and guarded, easygoing and intense, and he wasn’t always sure whether his
overwhelming attraction to her was just a consequence of an independent desire to be deemed worthy by her. But then she’d
cocked her head to take him in, her eyes sweeping over his body like he was the third course to their meal, and he found himself
entranced by the glistening pillow of her lower lip. He had guessed, correctly, that it would be as plush as the rest of her,
that she’d taste a little sweet, like the cherry-colored gloss he’d watched her apply minutes earlier—
“It doesn’t have to be extensive,” Amelia was saying. “Just updates. News. Answer readers’ comments every now and then. Maybe
even advertise events, when you get around to doing them.”
Mal shook himself. Chill.
“I’ll think about it,” he said. Kissing Jo had been a mistake precisely for this reason; not even the news that he’d just
won the equivalent of a jackpot could distract him from the memory of it.
But then, Amelia asked him the one question that could slap him out of his stupor.
“Also. How’s the proposal for number two coming along?”
Mal flinched like she’d just upended a bucket of ice over his head.
The truth: number two was not coming along, a problem, considering he’d been paid for two books. She Blooms at Dusk had been the story of his heart for years, a book written in stops and starts and finished in a few fevered weeks after he
was dumped. Mal had tried to tap into the same creative space that had given him the story of Iris, the young woman with albinism
who ran an apothecary with only nighttime hours, and Louis, the foreign flower merchant who loved her, but nothing was sticking.
Maureen, his editor, had sent no less than five kindly worded emails with some variation of Whenever you’re ready, I’d love to discuss your ideas for book two! To which he’d responded, vaguely, Soon! or I’d love to! or Sure thing!
It was time to fess up.
“It isn’t coming along, unfortunately,” he said. “Honestly, Amelia, I’m stuck.”
There was silence on the other end, but Mal could practically hear Amelia thinking.
“All right. Homework: I need you to put something on paper by the end of the month. I don’t care if it’s rough. I’m going
to call you, and we will smooth it out. Oh, and I’ll expect you to at least have an Instagram by then, or I’ll be very disappointed. Okay?”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Mal said dryly. They talked for a little while longer about some of the details of the offer from En
Garde, and when they finally hung up, Mal released an existential sigh. What had Renata said, that he needed to be audacious?
He’d found that audacity when he finished She Blooms at Dusk and decided to submit it to agents. Had it when Amelia called him to offer representation and he’d told her that he wanted to make “real money off this thing.” Had it three days ago when he decided, against all reason, to kiss Josephine Boateng on a carousel.
Not that it hadn’t been a good kiss. If he were honest with himself, it had been exceptional, the kind he could get addicted
to, if he allowed it. And if he were the sort of person who could separate the physical from the emotional, who could imagine
himself fucking her without relishing holding her close afterward, then perhaps it would have been a fine choice.
But Mal wasn’t stupid. He’d read enough books to know who got the girl between the millionaire-playboy childhood friend and
the down-to-earth, comparatively normal second lead. He knew what his ascribed role was in this narrative—to force millionaire
playboy’s eyes open, so that he could see that the girl who’d never left his side was the one he should have loved all along.
And yes, the female lead would be conflicted. She’d genuinely like the second lead. He would make her bolder, help her understand
her worth, provide arms for her to cry in when said millionaire playboy hooked up with someone else or lashed out at her in
his confusion. But in the end, he was not the one she chose.
The moment they broke apart at the carousel, Mal had remembered that. He’d recalled how Ezra’s voice had cracked just a little
when he’d said her name, how he’d asked how she was in earnest rather than to showboat. How Mal knew next to nothing about
Jo outside of what she shared on social media, how Ezra had years of history and baggage and memories to call upon. How, the
second Jo realized that Ezra was in love with her too, she’d be gone, wisping through his fingers like mist.
Mal had spent the last two and a half years building himself back from nothing. He was tired of heartbreak. And yet here he was, rushing headlong into another one, all while he ought to be directing his energy into doing his job .
“Why the long face?” Kieran said when Mal headed back to their table. “Didn’t you just make a bucket of money?”
If Kieran could follow the path of Mal’s thoughts, he would probably have slapped him upside the head. Before Mal could fess
up, thankfully, Kelechi came to his rescue.
“Weren’t you listening? His agent wants him to become an influencer .” She scooped Harvey onto her lap, who promptly planted a sticker of a heart onto the tip of her nose.
“I just don’t know where to start,” Mal said, collapsing back onto the bench.
“What do you mean?” Kelechi said. Her eyes were fixed on her son, removing the stickers that papered his arms and cheeks like
mosaic tiles, but her smile, he sensed, was for him. “Aren’t you dating an expert? Hit her up. She’ll probably be down to
help out.”
So much for stepping on the brakes. At Kelechi’s suggestion, Mal felt a surge of excitement, then alarm.
“I don’t want her to feel like I’m just using her,” he started, and Kelechi snorted, waving him off.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she said. “She already set this as a precedent when she asked you to help with her photoshoot.
It gives you a reason to see each other again that’s not a big production.” She tilted her head, eyes shining. “Besides, Mally-wag,
I’m pretty sure she’ll be down. She obviously likes you.”
Mal resisted the urge to ask Do you really think so? , sure that it would make him sound like more of a sop than he felt. Instead, he waited another thirty minutes before excusing
himself from the hangout and then texted Jo the second he stepped into the elevator.
I figured out how you can pay me back for the Tantra shoot.
Jo responded immediately. Oh? she said. Do tell. And when he did, she responded, This will be fun. What are you up to right now?
Two hours later, Mal settled at a stone table in the public park where Jo had asked to meet. At her suggestion, he’d brought
one of his cameras, an old point-and-shoot he hadn’t dusted off since shuttering the doors of his photography studio, and
an extra shirt, a short-sleeved button-down he could easily layer over his T-shirt. It was a perfect Chicago summer day, one
of the first that didn’t carry the chill of “sprinter” in its gusts, and children and dogs tumbled across the grass together,
their overtired parents looking on from benches and blankets.
As a kid, Mal had a habit of constructing stories about people he’d never met, filling them in like color within lines based
on the way they carried their bodies, their clothes, the wear in their hands. The man sitting at the street corner peddling
essential oils didn’t talk to his ex-wife anymore and had been dodging child support for the last decade, but occasionally
snuck cash to his kids in crumpled white envelopes. The teenage boys who sat in the grass a few yards away from him, passing
a giant 7-Eleven cup between them and snickering, had broken into one of their parents’ liquor cabinets this afternoon and
stolen half a handle of vodka, refilling the bottle with water in the hopes their subterfuge would go unnoticed—
“You’re early.”
Mal looked up and fought back the idiotic smile he knew was already unfurling on his face.
“So are you,” he said, standing to greet her. “Thanks for agreeing to help me out.”
Jo cocked her head, a silent you’re welcome . She’d traded her braids out for flat twists into a low ponytail, and her natural hair shrouded her face like a cloud, rounding
her cheeks and making her look much younger. Her dress, loose, off-shoulder, linen, and baby blue, helped bolster the illusion.
“These are for you,” she said, handing him a large white paper bag.
Raising an eyebrow, Mal looked inside to find a box of four cupcakes.
“They’re from Magnolia’s. I don’t know what flavors you like, so I just had them give me the four most popular.”
Mal looked up at her, moved. He couldn’t remember the last time someone brought him cupcakes for anything other than his birthday.
“Why?” he said, then, realizing that he sounded ungrateful, added, “Not that you need to have a reason, but...”
Jo cut him off. “Didn’t you get big news today?” When Mal blinked at her, she sighed. “An offer? From En Garde?”
“You know?” Mal said, owlishly.
“Of course I know. Renata told me Rudy was going to send it out this morning,” Jo said. “Congratulations.”
Mal’s face warmed as he set the bag on the table. “Thank you,” he said.
Jo’s grin turned impish. “Where’s my reward?” she said. When Mal gave her a puzzled look, she squeezed her eyes shut and pushed
out her lips.
Mal laughed, then leaned forward and pressed a soft peck on her lips.
To his amusement, Jo seemed shocked that he’d complied. She looked up at him with wide eyes, raising a hand to her mouth when
he settled back onto his stone seat.
“You actually did it,” she said, voice high with wonder, folding onto the chair across from him. “Is this how it works now? I ask for a kiss, and you just give it to me?”
“You’re a menace,” Mal deadpanned.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jo said. Then her playfulness cooled. “I have to say, I’m surprised that you want advice
on how to build a social media brand. Doesn’t seem like it’d be your thing.”
“It’s not,” Mal confessed, wiping a hand down his face. He explained his reasoning—namely, that he was being strong-armed
into creating one by his agent—and to his relief, Jo didn’t brush him off. He remembered then that, as natural as it looked,
her brand too had been formed out of necessity rather than a desire for quasi celebrity. When he was done, Jo looked pensive.
“You know, everyone and their mom wants an influencer side hustle, but most people fail because they lack direction. My goal,
as you know, was to make money, so I needed to grow a following as fast as I could without feeling like I was pandering or
violating my ethics, but also without requiring too much time, because I was still in med school and I had to study. I had
to make my followers interested in me and my thoughts , so that they would be more likely to accept what I could easily give,” she said. “So, Mal. Having heard that, my question
for you is—what do you hope to achieve with your platform?”
“I want to sell books,” Mal said plainly.
“You’re already selling books,” Jo countered.
“Sustainably, I mean,” Mal explained. His gaze skittered to a beleaguered mother in a drenched sundress who was trying, and failing, to convince her child to put away his water gun. “Up until now, I’ve been riding on luck. I was lucky to find my agent. Lucky she found an editor who believed in my work. Lucky that the right people picked up my book at the right time. She Blooms at Dusk got good marketing, sure, but it also went viral a week after its release, and that’s probably part of why it did as well
as it did. But that was just luck too; I had no hand in it. I know having my own platform might not move the needle, but if
there’s a chance that it can, I want to take advantage of that. I’m down to do whatever is within my power to make sure I
can really make this my career .”
Jo leaned forward on her elbows, squinting as if to better make him out, and Mal swallowed, nervous that he’d said the wrong
thing. Whenever he’d proposed writing to Portia, even as a side hustle, she had scoffed. How are you supposed to provide for a family with that , she’d said. Starving between projects, all for a dream. But Mal was determined not to starve, determined to stay relevant until the second he decided, of his own volition, to lower
his pen. But what if Jo thought he was foolhardy too? By confessing his concerns about the stability of his career, had he
reminded her that she still had another option, someone who would never worry about money?
“Fine. I’ll help you,” Jo said, cutting off his train of thought. “But on two conditions.”
Condition number one, that Mal use his photography to help her generate her own content, was easy enough to agree to. Condition
number two...
“I need you to stop saying it’s luck that got you where you are,” Jo said. “I’ve read She Blooms at Dusk . It’s been a long time since I’ve been so absorbed in a story. You’re talented , Mal. Claim it.”
Blood rushed to Mal’s ears, drowning out the sounds of the park. He felt like a child again, beaming under the praise of the
third-grade teacher he’d told his mother he was going to marry.
“I didn’t realize you finished it,” he managed, unable to meet her eyes.
“Of course I did,” Jo said. “And if getting a following means that you think you’ll be able to keep writing more like it,
I’m happy to support that mission.” Before he could melt further onto the table, she slapped it like a gavel. “All right.
Let’s see what you’ve got.”
After that, they went right to business. Jo had opinions about everything—from his username (“Malcolm J. Waters, just like
on your book cover. No, don’t add any cutesy numbers or letters; you’re a professional.”) to his profile picture (“Why can’t
I just use my headshot?” he’d whined, to which she informed him that he looked “dead in the eyes.”). He couldn’t populate
his feed all at once; instead, “to take advantage of the algorithm,” she advised him to schedule a series of posts that dropped
approximately forty-eight hours apart. There needed to be aesthetic cohesion (“Let’s use colors from your book cover. Those gorgeous blues, pinks, and oranges.”). Mal learned a lot of things: first,
that this social media thing was significantly more deliberate than he’d previously thought; second, that despite her insistence
that she was only in the business of “influencing” for the money, Jo took pride in her expertise. He watched her, bemused
and a little nervous, as she dialed through the small gallery of self-portraits on his camera, her frown deepening with every
flick of her thumb.
“When did you take these?” she said. “You don’t even look like this anymore.”
Mal peered at the screen.
“A year ago?” he said. He could understand what she meant; his locs were shorter then, and he’d put on considerably more bulk.
Then there was his body language—stiff, uncomfortable, like he hardly believed that he was worthy of being documented.
Jo released an all-suffering sigh.
“All right. Well, there’s nothing in there good enough for a profile pic, let alone a post.” She tapped her fingers against
the table, thinking. Then, abruptly, she sat up. “Hold on. I’ve got an idea. Play along with me for a minute.”
Mal inclined his head to give her permission, and Jo responded with a series of increasingly bizarre instructions: “Take a
cupcake. Take a bite. Keep your mouth open for a sec... not that open. Flatten your tongue a little. Dip your nose in the
frosting, just do it, I swear it’s cute. Put your arm on the table, yes, perfect,” all the while taking a flurry of photographs.
When she was done, she reviewed her handiwork, then handed Mal back his camera with a smug smile.
“I’m not going to lie,” Mal said, wiping the frosting off his nose. “That was a little weird.”
“Okay, but look at the pictures first before you make a judgment,” Jo said, like there was no doubt in her mind that he would
find them satisfactory.
Mal wished he had a spoonful of her confidence. Here she was, handing a camera back to a professional photographer without
even an iota of self-consciousness. When the tables were turned and it was him doing her job, his hands on a man’s chest,
the only thing more horrifying than his proximity to death was his fear that he would do something wrong and lose her respect.
But as he scrolled through the pictures, Mal understood. It was clear that Jo wasn’t technically skilled; a few of her shots
were out of focus, and he would have chosen to frame the photo differently, maybe adjusted the white balance some. What Jo
could do, however, was craft a story.
Photography and writing, in his mind, were sisters: in one, he guided interpretation through framing, focus, and lighting, in the other, through words. In Mal’s confusion, he had looked up at Jo with a wide but earnest expression, like a puppy who, having been given an incomprehensible command, attempts to please their owner by trialing every one he knows. The smearing of frosting on his nose could have been an accident, or it could be suggestion, a coy This one’s a messy eater , and juxtaposed with the flex of his forearm on the table, created an image that Mal recognized immediately for what it was:
a pinup . Or more accurately...
“Is this a thirst trap?” he said, incredulous.
Jo laughed, delighted at having been found out.
“Someone understands the female gaze,” she said. “Look. They’ll make a great introductory post. Post, like, four of the pictures.
And for your caption, you say: ‘Hi, this is Malcolm Waters, author of She Blooms at Dusk , finally getting on social media and having a cupcake to celebrate.’ Insert self-deprecating joke—be like, ‘I’m not that
interesting, so you get what you get’—and tell them what you’ll be talking to them about. Writing. Photography. Magical realism.
Whatever you’re into. Done.”
His anxiety positioned as humility. His awkwardness, vulnerability. The concept she constructed was true to him, and yet he
could never have come up with it himself.
“You’re good at this,” Mal said.
“We’re not done,” she declared, standing. “We still need a profile pic.”
Mal had wondered why she’d asked him to bring another shirt. Now he understood that it was for smoke and mirrors; to obfuscate the fact that he was generating multiple posts in one day. They walked, seemingly without direction, across the park and down the street, Jo pausing at murals and by cute storefronts to take short videos of him walking “for filler, just in case.” It pleased him how seriously she’d taken his request. He remembered what Renata had said about her, that when she loved, she did so with her whole heart. If this was how she treated him, a guy she probably liked but mostly wanted to sleep with, he imagined what it was like to be loved by her. He imagined that, once earned, her love would be pure, unmarred by anxiety and misunderstanding, the kind in which she only saw him for his best self, and he worked tirelessly to make her image of him reality.
Their knuckles brushed, and Mal reached for her hand, swallowing back the fizzing in his chest when she took it. Already images
were flickering through his mind like frames in an old film reel: Jo walking with him hand in hand on various streets and
in various states of dress, a ring flashing on her finger, then the bar of a stroller under her hand, a smile on her face
that he knew was just for him. So much for holding yourself back , Mal thought wryly. What would Jo say, if she could witness what was going on in his head? Would she laugh? Would she tell
him to dial it back— I just agreed to date you like two weeks ago —or would she like the fact that he was already hers, that already he could hardly imagine himself with anyone else?
Just as he was mustering up the courage to ask her if he could take her out again, Jo skidded to a stop. The momentum of their
joined hands made him stagger, and Mal released her, turning to her in a question.
“Bookstore,” she explained, pointing to the sign above their heads stating “Palmisano Park Books.”
Mal’s face fell.
Part of the unwritten duties of an aspiring career author was that Mal frequent independent bookstores. He was to go to the checkout counter, introduce himself as an author, then give out his full name and the title of his novel, all while curious customers looked on. Afterward, he would have to endure questions about what his book was about, at which point he would conveniently forget the thirty-second elevator pitch he and Amelia had practiced, or worse, he wouldn’t be questioned at all and be forced to purchase the nearest book that looked interesting just to allow himself a graceful exit.
“Um, I’d rather not,” he said, feeling queasy.
Jo tilted her head in a question, her hand already on the door handle.
“Why not?” she asked. “I think it’d be good to get a picture of you and your book in a store. And I’m sure they’d appreciate
if you signed a few copies for them.”
“They might not have any,” Mal countered, praying she would drop it.
“Well, you won’t know that if you don’t ask,” Jo said. She narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to sell books?
Won’t this help you do just that?”
It would . Mal knew from the various local author group chats he’d been invited to that his colleagues often made a point to network
with booksellers and generated hundreds of copies of sales as a consequence. Jo seemed to know too, by the way she was regarding
him with something akin to frustration. It was a little too close to how Portia had looked at him too, when he’d been shy
about giving out the studio business card.
“No one has ever given me anything just because,” Jo said after a moment. “I’ve always had to reach for it myself.” She pulled
the door open just enough for the bell to ring, not dropping his gaze. “I’m going inside to look. You can stay out here if
you want.”
Mal grabbed the door before Jo could disappear behind it. At the smell of fresh paper and coffee grounds, saliva gathered in his mouth, his heart racing so quickly that he had to squeeze a fist to calm it. As a child, small, cozy bookstores like this one had been a haven to him, but now they felt like a stage, a place where he was expected to perform and always floundered.
He felt a tug at the hem of his shirt—Jo, her fingers pinching the fabric to drag him to the front desk. A middle-aged woman
with a blunt-cut bob stood behind it and smiled at them as they approached, and Mal realized there was no going back.
“Hi,” Jo said brightly. “I’m wondering if you have a book in stock. She Blooms at Dusk ?”
As expected, no recognition flashed over the woman’s face.
“Let me see,” she said. Mal gulped down air as she typed the title into her computer, then clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry.
Unfortunately, it looks like we don’t have it in stock. It looks like it’s a fantasy-romance? We have a few other titles in
the genre, if you’d like to see—”
“No need,” Jo said, and then to his horror, waved to him. “I’m just here with the author, Malcolm Waters. He’s local.”
The bookseller gave Mal a perfectly polite smile, like she wanted this interaction to end as much as he did. He waved lamely,
then realizing that it was strange to wave at someone who was right in front of you, lowered his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” the bookseller said. “Well, please come back in a couple of weeks. It would be lovely to have you sign
stock. And don’t be a stranger—we love local authors!”
“Sure thing,” Mal said.
To his relief, Jo didn’t make him stick around to take more photos. Instead, after less than a minute of small talk with the bookseller about some admittedly adorable enamel pins she had up for sale, she cocked her head for the exit.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jo said once they were outside.
Mal sighed mightily. He wasn’t sure whether to be upset with her for forcing him into that interaction or grateful that she’d
initiated it. When he was honest with himself, it hadn’t been too bad. He’d been too focused on Jo to notice the other customers, and the bookseller had seemed genuine enough in her
interest that he didn’t feel like a bumbling fool. Most importantly, the entire exchange had lasted two minutes at most, a
finite interaction. Mal realized that all along he’d probably been the reason his bookstore escapades always felt excruciating;
he spent too much time hemming and hawing before revealing his intentions. The Celtic knot his stomach had coiled itself into
was already unwinding.
“Well, I survived,” he allowed.
“Exactly,” Jo said, one hand on a hip. Her lips were pursed into a frown, but her eyes were narrow with laughter. “You survived.
You’ll survive again.”
She was talking about visiting the bookstore, but Mal couldn’t help but think that her words were more apt than she knew.
After Portia left him, Mal had felt like he was dying. But he hadn’t. And thank goodness for that, because the future without
her that he’d feared so much was brighter than he could have ever imagined.
“Sure, fine, I’m alive,” he allowed. “But you owe me for putting me through that. We have to do something I actually like
now.”
Jo responded to his brazenness by taking his hand. “All right,” she said. “Lead the way.”