Chapter 19
I’m starting to think Suzanne Collins had real-life inspiration for tracker jacker venom and the mind-control technique she called hijacking in The Hunger Games trilogy.
It would be an excellent explanation for the complete one-eighty Julien’s personality has undergone.
I’m half tempted to check his skin for any puncture marks.
I’m kidding. Obviously.
Although something has definitely happened to make him start acting out of character.
If he hadn’t already proven to me that time has only made him kinder and more considerate than he was in his youth, I’d be tempted to think he’d grown up to be the spitting image of J.
King, Senior. But this is a man who waded out in the muck and mire to rescue a little bird and then laughed about looking like a mud man afterward.
A man who patiently held my hand and distracted me when I was scared on the plane.
A man who, instead of berating and belittling an employee for incompetence, consoled his assistant when she was distraught over making a fairly big mistake about the hotel reservations.
So how can that man be the same one I’ve sat beside during all these pitches?
The one who didn’t mince any words if he thought someone was wasting his time.
Who didn’t have a problem dismissing someone if he found them unworthy.
Who, let’s face it, sounded so much like his father that I’ve been vacillating along a line graph marked with shock, paralysis, anger, and sadness.
I’ve asked what’s wrong, what happened, but he shuts me down every time. The thing is, I know there’s a catalyst. I know that how he’s behaving isn’t him. And I know that whatever caused the change in him happened on that phone call he took right before the appointments started yesterday.
What I don’t know is who he talked to, what was said, or what I can do to bring back the real Julien.
The sand sinks beneath my feet, and I push off my toes with more force than I’d need if I were walking on solid ground.
I decided to take a walk along the beach to clear my head, but all its accomplished so far is making my calves burn from the effort of walking in loose sand and sweat to trickle and collect into places sweat has no business being.
I approach a gentleman at the shoreline with a rod and reel in his hand, sitting and enjoying the late-afternoon sun. He smiles in greeting, so I smile back. As I move to walk past him, I do a double take. He notices and grins wider.
“In awe of my throne, I see.” He says this with a sort of cheeky pride in his voice.
I inspect his chair, not sure if I should believe my eyes. “Okay, I have to ask. Is that really a medical bedside toilet you have here out on the beach?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He takes off his sweat-stained cap and scratches his forehead before putting it back on his head. “Come here and I’ll show you the genius of it.” He stands and motions me closer.
I’m both intrigued and slightly nervous as he lifts the lid of the toilet. Inside, tiny fish swim around in the water-filled toilet bowl. The fisherman grins up at me. “It’s a great place to store your bait and lets you rest your tired dogs while you reel in supper.”
“Very, uh, creative.” Which it is. But also very strange. Not something you see every day, that’s for sure. I mean, really, how many people take a nice walk along the beach and stroll past medical equipment for bedbound patients? Not on any tropical brochure I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure.
“I thought so too. And see here?” He indicates two tackleboxes at his feet. “That red one, that’s where I keep all my fishing tackle like lures and weights and bobbers and things. But this one—” He reaches down and picks up the blue tackle box. “I bet you can’t guess what’s in this one.”
“I bet I can’t either.”
He undoes the clasp and lifts the lid. An assortment of cured meats, sliced cheeses, crackers, and olives are arranged in each of the dividers. “It’s my snack-le box.” His laughter booms at his own joke.
His good nature is infectious, and I find myself chuckling and shaking my head. “I think you must be the most ingenious man I’ve ever met.”
“Naw.” He brushes off my compliment. “I’m just a Florida man, is all.”
We say our good-byes, and I continue walking.
Thoughts of Julien immediately start to crowd my brain again, but I desperately need a break from trying to figure him out.
I wish I’d brought along my earbuds so I could escape into an audiobook, but they’re back in the hotel room.
Instead, I pull my phone out and angle it so the sun isn’t glaring on the screen.
The fisherman gave me an idea. I open a search engine and type in Florida man.
Florida Man Arrested for Trying to Get Alligator Drunk.
Florida Man Tries to Evade Arrest by Cartwheeling Away From Cops.
Florida Man Attempting to Time Travel Crashes Into Strip Mall.
I’m grinning and shaking my head. Florida has gotten a bad rap for crazy headlines like these, but I could probably search for Tennessee man and come up with just as many unbelievable stunts humanity has tried to pull.
Either way, the Florida male population has successfully distracted me for a few minutes, and for that I am grateful.
Seagulls fly and shriek above me. One swoops down and grabs a stray Cheeto in its beak. A cluster of tiny birds waddle just out of reach of the surf. When I get too close for their comfort, they wing away into the sky.
I glance down at my watch and realize I should be heading back to the room.
I tried to bow out of going to the dinner with the Squire authors, but Julien wouldn’t hear of it.
I’m not sure why he wants me there. He’s let me know in no uncertain terms lately what he is and isn’t paying me for, and I can’t see how attending this dinner in any way falls under the job description.
These authors all already have contracts with Squire.
My presence will be superfluous. Even so, I’m going.
Which means I need to take a quick shower to wash away the sweat clinging to my damp body.
Julien isn’t in the room when I arrive, and I can’t say I’m not relieved.
I shower and change, and when I step out of the bathroom, he still isn’t here.
I check the clock and realize walking back and getting ready took a lot less time than I’d calculated.
Not wanting to hang around the room, I grab my purse and head down to the lobby.
There’s a pair of plush sofas near the entrance, the backs of which are pushed together so they face away from each other. One is occupied by a trio of ladies, so I take a seat on the other. Once again, I pull out my phone, but this time idly scroll social media while I wait.
The women are discussing the classes they attended, how their pitch appointments went, and how inspiring the guest speaker has been so far.
I’m not eavesdropping on purpose, but it’s impossible to sit here and not hear their conversation.
Just like it’s impossible not to pick up on their excitement or the buzz of energy circling around them.
Even though publishing is a hard industry to break into, none of these women see the other as competition.
Instead, they’re lifting one another up, celebrating the one who’d been offered representation by an agent, and, simply put, loving on one another.
That ache that started deep inside me when I’d first entered this hive of literary-minded individuals once again begins to beat alive from the dormancy of the grave from which I thought it had been laid to rest forever.
At one point in time, I thought I’d be one of these women, a part of a bookish community creating stories.
Seeking publication. I thought I’d gotten over the pain of the rejections.
The longing for a dream that wasn’t ever going to come true.
But being here brings all of it back. I’m hit with the feeling of being an outsider.
A benched player. No, maybe not even that.
I haven’t even made the team. But I shouldn’t feel like this.
I’ve found a new path, a different purpose.
I’ve taken my passion for books and channeled it in another direction.
I love the library. I love my kids. I’m here for them.
But that certainty doesn’t negate the other either.
I also love writing. What am I supposed to do with both of these truths?
“Hi.” Julien’s smooth voice snaps me out of my introspection. “Are you ready to go?”
I slip my purse over my shoulder and stand. “All ready.”
In less time than it takes to inhale a breath, his gaze moves over me, checking me out. I don’t think he does it consciously, and by the way his lips roll between his teeth as he quickly looks away, I don’t think he likes that he did it either.
Because doing so would cross that professional line or because taking a moment to give me a compliment on my dress would be wasting his precious time? Both have come out of his mouth, and both are more than starting to get on my nerves.
Maybe I have a bit of orneriness in me because I pinch the side of the flowy skirt of my yellow dress and hold it out, moving my hips side to side. “How do you like my dress?” I ask, making my voice as sweet and innocent as warm apple pie. “Perfect for a balmy Florida evening, don’t ya think?”
Julien refuses to give my dress another second of consideration as he stares out the floor-to-ceiling windows like his life depends on it. He sweeps his arm in front of him, indicating that I should take the first step forward. “The others are meeting us at the restaurant, so we should get going.”
I roll my eyes but walk forward anyway. I am curious to see how he treats his authors. Will he go back to being friendly Julien, or are we stuck with the version of himself he’s been since that infernal phone call?
The restaurant is only two buildings down the road, so it doesn’t take long to walk.
We’re shown to a large table near the back of the room.
One man and three women are already congregated to one side, talking amicably and sipping on drinks.
Julien makes his way around, shaking hands, introducing me, and making small talk.
There’s a bit of schmooze going on from both sides, but I guess that’s to be expected.
The evening is no great revelation. Julien is never outright rude, but he isn’t outgoingly friendly either.
In fact, the meal is conducted much the same as I imagine a business meeting would be.
He directs the conversation to brainstorming marketing ideas to uptick sales, but he also listens intently to feedback when he asks the authors how they think Squire can improve in the future.
It isn’t the laid-back, we’re-all-part-of-a-publishing-family vibe that I think the authors were expecting.
Before today, that’s the atmosphere I would’ve said Julien would’ve spent his energy creating.
Instead, the meal is . . . productive. And, honestly, a little tiring.
I’m not sad to see it end. The day has been long.
Made longer still by not getting enough sleep the other night.
As Julien and I walk back to the hotel, I have to stifle a series of yawns behind my hand.
I almost expect him to apologize again. After all, yesterday he’d felt so bad he’d tried to make up for it in gallons of caffeine.
Instead, he doesn’t even seem to notice my wilted state and the fact I can barely keep my eyes open.
His manners are on autopilot as he opens the door for me, then offers first use of the bathroom to get ready for bed.
This time I take him up on it. With efficient movements, I remove my makeup and braid my hair into two French braids to protect my curls throughout the night.
It’s a testament to how tired I am that I don’t even give my pajamas a second thought.
I pad out of the bathroom, and Julien slides in behind me. It’s unfair that men don’t have to go through the same long routines in the morning and at night that women do. Only a few minutes later, he’s stepping out in his Christmas-catalog-worthy pajamas, his glasses perched on his nose.
I’m curled up on my side, my light already off. Julien pulls back the covers of his bed, then stretches out his long legs on the mattress. He places his laptop on his thighs.
“Will the light from the computer screen keep you awake? I thought I’d get some more work in before going to sleep.” He clicks off his lamp, and the room plunges into darkness except for the glow emanating from in front of him and illuminating him in spotlight.
I close my eyes to check, but the light doesn’t bother me. “No, it’s fine.”
I want to ask again about what’s going on.
Find a way to get him to open up about the phone call.
Make sure that he’s okay. Because while I’d been angry earlier with him at how he’s been treating the writers during their appointments, that initial reaction has burned away, and what I feel now is a deep sense of concern.
But he doesn’t even spare me a tiny glance. Doesn’t wish me a good night. He just pours his focus into his laptop.
With a sigh, I roll over and close my eyes. Maybe he’ll be more like himself tomorrow.