Chapter 20
Spoiler alert: Julien has not undergone any type of reverse Cinderella moment. Whatever wicked godmother turned him into a troll instead of a prince is more powerful than the fairy variety because the magic worked on him has lasted well past the stroke of midnight.
“Was that necessary?” I hiss under my breath, shoving my hands under my thighs so I don’t give in to the urge to flick him as hard as I can between his eyeballs.
The poet he just so succinctly dismissed is racing out of the room with her chin tucked to her chest. No doubt making a beeline for the restroom so she can go cry in a stall.
I glare at Julien.
The muscle in his jaw ticks. He’s going to need to see a dentist after all the teeth grinding he’s done the last few days. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t given himself a migraine.
At this point, I almost wish he did have a migraine. He kind of deserves one.
Julien doesn’t bother answering me, just waves over the next author.
He’s treating these appointments like product manufacturing.
The more he can push through, the better.
But he’s sacrificing quality for quantity.
The rate he’s going, he’s likely to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
Unfortunately, with each tick of the clock, the more manic he’s become.
And that equals becoming more short with people, more heartless, and more like how I remember his dad responded to me.
As the next writer makes his way between the tables, I pop up from my chair, suddenly unable to stomach the idea of being a spectator to any more of Julien’s icy, cutthroat approach.
“What are you doing?” Julien bites out. “Sit down.”
“I need some air,” I hiss back.
“This is our last pitch. You can get air after.”
He’s talking to me but staring straight ahead. That’s another thing I’ve noticed about this new version of Julien. He refuses to look at me. I don’t think he’s met my gaze in over twenty-four hours.
His jaw ticks again. “Need I remind you, I’m paying you to—”
“Deduct this fifteen-minute break from my fee.” I really can’t be in his presence another second or I’m going to lose it on him.
I storm out of the room, more than one pair of eyes tracking my hasty departure with curious brows rising. Julien and Squire have already become a hot topic—or is it a cautionary warning?—among the conference-goers. What’s a little more gasoline on that gossip fire?
I wish I could say making it outside allowed me the space to take a few deep breaths, but as previously mentioned, the humidity isn’t conducive to such things. The rhythmic crashing of the waves, however, is soothing.
Stepping out of my strappy sandals, I let the shoes dangle from a crooked finger and bury my toes in the sand. A soft breeze whips up, blowing a corkscrew curl into my face. Instead of brushing it away, I close my eyes and take a moment.
My phone rings from my pocket.
I guess a single moment is all I’m allowed. I pull the phone out and read Mom on the screen. She doesn’t usually call unless it’s the weekend, so I don’t hesitate in accepting the call.
“Hi, Mom. Everything all right?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”
I turn slightly so the breeze will stop blowing my hair into my face. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Well . . .” She hems and haws a bit. “If you’re fine, then I’m not sure it’s my place to say.”
“You can’t be worried about me and then not tell me why. What’s going on?”
“Well . . .”
“Mom, just spit it out.”
“Well, all right then. Sheesh. You don’t gotta get your panties all in a wad.”
There’s scuffling sounds over the line, but I’m not sure if it’s coming from my end because of the breeze or from Mom’s end from whatever she’s doing. I cup my hand around the receiver just in case the wind is the culprit.
“Let’s just say things have been interesting around the King residence lately.”
I instantly go on alert. “Interesting how?”
“Well, I didn’t mean to overhear, mind you, but it was near impossible not to. Mr. King drove right on by tantrum town and parked his caboose into hissy fit city. And Mrs. King, well, I guess she plumb has run out of patience because she’s been giving him the what-for.”
Good for Mrs. King. “Why did their argument make you worried about me, though?”
“Well, I heard Julien’s name mentioned quite a few times. As well as that imprint y’all are trying to save. Squire, is it? Anyway, with the way Mr. King treated you in the past, and the reason for his fit of temper being something you’re wrapped up in, naturally I was concerned.”
I don’t know if I want to hang my head or pump my fist in the air. My suspicions that Mr. King has been at the root of Julien’s behavior change have been confirmed. His dad must have been who he’d talked to on the phone yesterday. Probably adding pressure and impossible expectations.
“Thanks for checking up on me, Mom. It has been a rough few of days, but I’m okay.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too.”
We hang up, and I stare out at the surf. A kite in rainbow colors is taking advantage of the breeze, its long tail fluttering out behind the diamond.
Now that I have an educated guess about how the conversation went on Julien’s phone call, I’m left with a question: What am I going to do with the knowledge?
I can’t do nothing. The experiences the authors have had at our table is bad enough, but honestly?
I’m more concerned about Julien. But what can I say that’s going to get through to him?
I’ve tried getting him to open up, but he’s shut down tighter than Fort Knox.
I’ve given him my sternest disapproving librarian stare, but it’s ineffective since he won’t look at me.
I’ve straight-up told him to knock it off, but the only indication I have that he even hears me is his stupid ticking jaw muscle.
So, what? What can I do? What can I say?
Slowly, the answer comes to me, and I nearly groan when I realize what I have to do. Not giving it a second thought because if I do, I might chicken out, I slide my feet back into my sandals and pull my phone out again, texting Julien to ask him where he is.
Surprisingly, he answers right away and says he’s in the room going over some emails from partials we’d requested.
He not so subtly—I know it’s hard to read tone of voice in a text, but I’m going to call it like it is and say snidely here as well—comments about how I should be at the same location doing the same thing.
I punch the elevator button with more force than necessary and fume all the way up to the eighth floor.
As I hold the key card up to the reader on the door, the thought that I should’ve practiced what I wanted to say flits through my mind.
Off the cuff it is. Hopefully the hurricane of emotions swirling around inside of me right now won’t get in the way.
Julien is on the balcony with his laptop open on the bistro table. He doesn’t spare me a glance as I open the door and step outside.
Enough is enough. I reach out and push the top of his laptop closed.
“Hey!” he protests.
I glare at him, angry, concerned, a little hurt, and starting to feel vulnerable.
Turning on my heel, I walk back inside to where my purse is sitting on the dresser.
Digging around, I find my notebook and pull it out.
I throw it on top of his closed computer, then plop down in the seat on the other side of the table.
“What’s this?” Julien tilts the notebook. “Wait. Isn’t this what I saw you writing in at the airport?”
“Read it,” I say, pretending those aren’t two of the scariest words ever to leave my mouth.
It shouldn’t matter if Julien likes my writing or not. That isn’t the point here. It’s not why I’m sharing my notebook with him. Even so, I can’t stop the twist in my stomach as I watch his eyes track over the words on the page.
He reads for what feels like hours but is probably only a few short minutes. Finally, he lifts his head and lets his gaze settle on mine. I’m punched in the gut by his cobalt irises. The clearness in them. It’s like I’m looking at my Julien again.
Not my Julien. I know he’s not mine.
Oh, you know what I mean.
“Did you . . .” He looks back down at the notebook. Turns the page. “Did you write this?”
I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “Yes.”
Excitement paints a transformation on his face.
He looks a hundred pounds lighter, relief softening the stony features he’s been wearing around the conference.
He bolts out of his chair, then pulls me out of mine, right into his chest, where he hugs me to him and picks me up, spinning me in a tight circle.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had the manuscript that would save Squire all along? That you were the author?”
“You can’t publish that,” I say into the crisp fabric of his pristine white dress shirt.
He sets me on my feet and takes a step back, his brows low over his eyes. “Why not?”
“It’s not good enough.”
If possible, his brows dip even lower. “Who in their right mind would say that?”
“Sit down,” I tell him, then I do the same. I reach over and retrieve my notebook as he returns to his seat. “I want you to hear what I’m going to say.”
“I’m listening,” he assures me.
“No, you need to do more than listen. You need to open your ears and your heart and hear what I’m going to tell you. Can you do that?”
He blinks, then nods. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Good.” I lick my lips, wishing I could make him see the reality of things without dredging up my personal pain. But my personal pain is what will make him see. Make him truly listen.
“I’ve been creating stories and writing them down for as long as I can remember. Once upon a time, I wanted to be an author when I grew up. And it was fate, I thought, that I was personally acquainted with the president of a publishing house.”
The flaring of his nostrils indicates Julien suspects where I’m going with this story.
“I brought one of my books to your father. Do you know what he said to me? What he said about my work?” I take a shaky breath in before continuing.
“He said that my characters lacked any sort of depth, that they were like the plastic dolls I’d played with as a girl and that came across in their stilted dialogue.
After he cut down my world-building, plot structure, and talentless writing craft, he said I had wasted his time in presenting a story that would never be worthy of publication. ”
Julien sags in his chair and closes his eyes. I’m pretty sure my words have hit their mark, but pretty sure isn’t good enough in this instance.
“Does any of that sound familiar?” I ask quietly. “Can you even imagine how I felt leaving your father’s office after that?”
“Martha.” His voice is pained. He opens his eyes and reaches across the table to clasp my hand. “I’m so sorry.”
I’ve made it this far without crying, so even though my nose is tingling like I just sniffed a newly opened can of Coke, I will hold the tears at bay. “Do you know why I’m telling you this?”
He hangs his head in shame. “Because I’m just as heartless as he is.”
“No.”
His head whips up, surprise splashed across his features.
“You’ve acted as cold and calculating as your father the last few days, but I know you aren’t heartless, Julien.
” I pause, then send up a quick prayer that he won’t shut down before pressing.
“He called you yesterday, didn’t he? Whatever he said made you start acting like him.
Will you please tell me what it was? I want to help, if I can. ”
He sighs and retracts his hand from on top of mine.
I try to keep myself from feeling too disappointed, but then he speaks.
He shares with me his dad’s dizzy spell at work and his frustration and fear about what will happen if things don’t change.
The pressure to make everything right and the unspoken promise he’d given his mom to do whatever it took to save Squire and, in so doing, save his father.
It all had influenced the way he approached the pitches and interacted with the writers, much to his chagrin.
“I’m going to make it right,” he promises. “I’m going to apologize to everyone I hurt and give their story ideas the time and attention I should have in the first place. But, Martha . . .”
He takes ahold of my hand again. I’d be lying if I said his touch and the earnest way he’s looking at me isn’t affecting me at all. That tingly sensation in my nose when I was about to cry has made its way to my stomach, fizzier than any carbonated drink.
“I really do think your book is magnificent. I only read a small portion, and I’m already hooked.”
“You’re just being kind.”
“No, I’m not.” His grip tightens as if he can press the sincerity of his words into me through his fingers. “A book like yours is exactly what we’ve been looking for. Please, at least think about letting me publish it.”