Chapter Ten
Ciara
Well. That’s what I get for leaving the house.
I step outside, the warm night no fresher than the stuffy air of the pub. But it smells different from the way it did earlier. Earthier and more alive.
The weather forecast said it wouldn’t rain for a few hours, but my spidey sense tells me otherwise, so I tug on my jacket as I head down the road, annoyed with myself.
I knew Sam had taken the room above Delaney’s.
I knew this. First of all, it was a reasonable assumption because there’s nowhere else to stay nearby, and second of all, it was a confirmed fact because I finally read the emails he sent me.
I knew this, yet when I walked into the pub to get a drink and talk nonsense to Ronan because I didn’t want to spend another night alone, I was still thrown to find him there.
And still didn’t have a clue how to talk to the guy, either.
I should have just let him be. Should have but didn’t. And now look at my Friday night.
Pintless.
Pintless and pointless and—
“Hey!”
Gravel crunches behind me as the man himself appears, and I just about check my groan. Doesn’t he ever take a break?
“You should head back in,” I call over my shoulder. “It’s going to rain soon.”
“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” he says, catching up with me, and I’m suddenly so tired I could lie down and fall asleep right here and now. “This book is—”
“I told you I don’t want to talk about the book.”
“Tough shit,” he says, and I blink, swinging around to face him.
“Excuse me?”
He doesn’t back down. “Why did you agree to write The Last Mountain if you didn’t want to?”
“I don’t know. Because you offered me a lot of money and I’ve got a house that’s falling apart? And I never said I didn’t want to,” I add. “I’m struggling, that’s all.”
“And what? You think I came all this way for kicks? A paid-for vacation? I’m here to help you.”
“Help me?” I gape at him. “You’re the one who wants me off the thing!”
“Because I thought you didn’t want to do it!” he exclaims. “I thought I was doing you a favor, offering you a way out. Obviously I was wrong, and I apologize for it.”
He steps closer and I glance back at the pub to make sure no one’s watching us. Guess we’re just going to have this out in the middle of the road, then.
“You were right,” Sam says. “What you said back in your house? I didn’t know your father. I have no clue what it was like growing up with him. But the reason I’m pushing you is because you need to be pushed. And I think, deep down, you agree.”
I do. But it’s still hard to hear him say it.
“You don’t like your dad’s readers,” he continues, and I bristle.
“They don’t like me,” I correct, only to immediately wish I hadn’t. I sound as though I’m twelve. “And I saw your tattoo.”
It comes out like an accusation. But I don’t know how to explain it. A lifetime of living in the shadows of this series. Of these characters. I’ve learned to be wary.
“You’re not just a fan,” I say. “You’re a fan.”
“And I’m not going to apologize for that,” he replies. “It’s why Casey sent me here in the first place. Would you want to work with someone who doesn’t know the first thing about Ravian?”
“Of course not.”
“Then give me another chance. I understand you don’t know me, but I’m here for one reason and one reason only. I want to publish the biggest books in the world, and it’ll never get bigger than this. Than you. I can help. But I can’t edit a blank page. Nobody can.”
I shift on my feet as Sam stares at me as if he’s trying to do some mind tricks or something. He’s completely serious. And honestly, I thought it was what I wanted to hear. This sit-up-straight, rip-off-the-Band-Aid, get-the-job-done attitude. I didn’t want him to be just another fanboy.
So it’s weird that I’m a little disappointed by his words. Strange that, instead of them making me feel better, I just feel kind of empty.
“We don’t have to be best friends,” he says when I don’t respond. “But for this to work, you’ve got to give me something.”
“I’m not—” I break off, frustrated. “It’s not that I haven’t been trying,” I tell him. “I’ve been trying harder at this than anything I’ve ever done.”
“And you can do it. You know you can. I read your first pages. You’re a good writer.”
“And you’re a good editor, is that it?”
His eyebrows rise. “I’m a great one.”
I huff, but there’s no annoyance in it. Can’t be annoyed when he’s looking all sincere again. There’s a boyishness to him when he talks about his job. A kind of unabashed passion that makes me believe him. Or want to, anyway.
“This probably isn’t what you expected when Casey asked you to come here, huh?”
“It’s not so bad,” he says lightly. “I met Mary.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She gave me a plate of salmon.”
My bark of laughter is so sudden I almost choke on it.
“She also wants to do my laundry,” he continues when I’ve got a hold of myself.
“You should have hidden,” I tell him, still coughing slightly. “That was, like, the first thing I taught you.”
“I’ll know for next time.” The strained tension between us begins to fade, and he must realize he has me because he smiles a wide, pleased smile. One that lights up his whole face. It’s weird how much I like it.
“Come back in,” he says, as if he’s the local here. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
But I shake my head. “I should get home,” I say, taking a few steps backward. “Do some work.”
He seems surprised. “You’re walking?”
“I can’t really run in these shoes.”
“Can’t you call a taxi?” He grows defensive when I just look at him. “You have taxis here.”
“Not here here. On the island of Ireland, yes. In the village of Carrigwest, no.”
“So you’re going to walk home alone. At night. In a storm.”
“I didn’t say anything about a storm,” I say. “It’s rain. If you can’t handle a bit of rain, you shouldn’t be visiting the west coast of Ireland. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I waggle my fingers. “Good night.”
“But it’s pitch-black,” Sam calls.
When I don’t respond, he starts after me, matching my pace as I hit the road.
Nuh-uh. “Are you seriously following me?”
“I’m going to see you home,” he says before hesitating. “If that’s okay with you.”
And they say chivalry is dead. “Knock yourself out.” I sigh. “Just don’t talk to me or make direct eye contact.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
“My biggest curse.”
It gets even darker as soon as we’re out of sight of the pub. No streetlights out here. It doesn’t bother me—I know the way like the back of my hand—but, once we leave the last building behind, Sam brings up the flashlight on his phone, lighting a small circle around us.
“Checking for snakes?” I ask.
“I know you don’t have those.”
“The dark can’t hurt you,” I murmur, quoting one of my father’s books.
“That character gets eaten by a dragon.”
“Potayto, potahto. And the dragons are all in Wales.” I crane my neck, looking up at the sky. I usually love the stars out here—so much brighter than they are in the city—but I can’t see a single one. Nothing but inky, cloudy night.
A night completely ruined by the sweeping white glow behind me.
“Seriously,” I say as Sam trains his beam ahead of us. “I know where I’m going. You just need to let your eyes adjust.”
“To complete and total darkness?”
“See, you New Yorkers think you’re so tough, but put you on a country road and you have whatever the opposite of claustrophobia is.”
“Agoraphobia.”
“Now you’re just making words up.”
“I broke my ankle once.”
“Eh?”
“When I was a kid,” he explains. “My dad and I were hiking, and my ankle caught on a rock. I tripped and broke it.” His eyes meet mine. “Do you know how inconvenient it is to break your ankle halfway through a ten-mile hike?”
“Extremely?”
He refocuses on the road. “There are a few potholes around here.”
“But if I break my ankle on one, I’ll be forced to stay inside and write.”
“That, I didn’t think of.”
I watch the beam for a few seconds, and then take out my phone to join his.
“I’ve never broken anything,” I say. “Not even sprained. Gave myself a nasty cut once, though. Maddie and I were at the beach, and I slashed my hand on a shell. It was really gross. I had this massive gouge right down my palm, and it bled like crazy and—” I stop when I realize he’s staring at me. “What?”
“Is this how you do small talk?”
“I’ve got a scar,” I say, showing him the white sliver of raised skin. “I think it’s cool.”
“Very,” he agrees, even though he’s not even looking at it.
“So did your bone pop out?”
He makes a strange, strangled noise, and I smile. “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish.”
“I’m not squeamish, I’m just…did my bone pop out?”
“Fine. No more injury talk.”
“Appreciate that,” he says, and I swing my light up and down the tarmac just as something sharp and wet lands on my forehead. A raindrop.
Sam flinches a moment later and follows my gaze.
Called it.
“It’s just a shower.” I put my hood up, about to tell him to turn back, but another drop falls before I can even open my mouth. And then another and another in rapid succession until it is definitely, 100 percent raining.
Sam hustles me off the main road and under the shelter of a tree, but as the downpour grows heavier it provides only minimal cover. We’ve got a minute or two at most before we’re soaked to the skin, and, while I might have my coat, Sam’s only in a T-shirt.
“Just a shower?” he asks, and I look back down the road as he steps closer to me, away from the danger zone.
Ten minutes from the pub. Ten minutes from the house. We need shelter and we need it now, and luckily I know where to find it.
I shine my phone into the woods, gauging the distance, and then grab Sam’s hand before I know what I’m doing. “Do you trust me?” I ask as his head whips toward me in surprise.
“No.”
“Then let’s—” I stop short and glare at him. “You’re supposed to say yes.”
“I met you two days ago.”
“Yeah, but you said we’re…whatever. Come on.” I tug him sharply, pulling him deeper into the forest. He could resist me, but he comes easily, letting me drag him through the trees.
“Where are we going?” He has to yell the words over the noise, but I don’t even try to answer him. The world seems so much louder in here as the water bounces off the leaves, creating a cacophony that drowns out everything else.
I’m drenched within seconds, and our progress slows as we navigate between the dark trunks and uneven forest floor. But my feet know where they’re going. I grew up in these woods. And so, when I bring us to a stop a minute later, all I do is point in triumph at the looming structure above us.
Sam peers up, panting. “Is that a tree house?”
It is.
The rain still falls, but I ignore it as I let him go and climb, my dripping sneakers finding the sturdy planks of wood as they always do. It doesn’t matter that years have passed. I used to spend every day up here. I could find these rungs blindfolded in a hurricane.
I reach the top in record time and haul myself up before turning back to help Sam, only to find him right on my tail. Our eyes meet briefly and I clamber back so we can both fit, a little embarrassed and not knowing why.
He climbs in more slowly, taking it all in.
“Did your dad build this?”
I shake my head. “It was here when we bought the house. It’s only a few minutes away. We’re right on the edge of the estate.”
It seemed so magical when I was younger, so huge, but as Sam pulls himself fully inside, sitting with a thud against the wall, the space seems to shrink until I feel as if there’s no room at all.
“It’s cool,” he says, wiping his hand across his face. As he does, a raindrop runs from his hairline down his cheek, and I track it for a full five seconds before I drag my gaze away.
“Are you sure it’s safe in here?” he asks.
“No.”
Kind of feels like it, though. Whoever made this thing made it well. It’s dry and warm, as though we’re cocooned in our own little world, and I relax back, bringing my knees to my chest. But the feeling doesn’t last long.
Now that we’re no longer in the deluge, my clothes start sticking uncomfortably to my skin, and I have to peel the jacket off me.
I also hadn’t thought to zip it up, so, while my arms are dry, I am supremely aware that I’m rocking the wet T-shirt look.
Not that Sam seems to notice. He’s not even looking at me, his attention on the rain outside.
There’s no dramatic lightning to give me glimpses of him, but he’s kept his phone on, and the flashlight beams up between us, casting his face in a harsh light that he somehow pulls off but probably makes me look like a ghost.
“I’m pretty good with feedback,” I say abruptly, and get a little buzz when he turns back to me. “At least, I think I am. If you can just reassure me with a ‘not shit’ every now and then, that would be great.”
“Noted.”
“And I’m great at procrastinating.”
His lips quirk up. “All writers are.”
“I’m also not used to this,” I say, gesturing at the space between us. “That’s why I’ve been a bit…I usually go at it alone until I’m ready to show something to someone.”
“And that’s fine,” he says gently. “But that wasn’t working.”
“No.” Not working at all. “Dad always said he didn’t know what would happen in a book until he finished writing it.
I mean, he’d outline it to death. He’d plan it down to the sentence sometimes.
But he wasn’t afraid to change it. He wasn’t afraid to try new things until it was perfect.
So I have what he planned, but I don’t know which bits he would have changed, because he wouldn’t until he started it. ”
“It doesn’t matter what he would have done,” Sam says. “We need to follow his pattern of storytelling, sure. But, while it may be his world, it’s your book.”
My book.
It doesn’t feel like it is right now.
But I appreciate the sentiment.
Another blast of rain hammers the side of the tree house and I comb my fingers through my hair, shaking it out.
“I think we’re going to be stuck here for a bit longer,” I say, stating the obvious. “Do you have any other life problems you need to talk about? Some more childhood trauma, perhaps?”
“Let’s leave that to Week Two.”
“Suit yourself.” I stretch a leg out until it’s flat next to his. “Have you got any other super-cool injury stories?”
I’m joking, but he responds immediately. “A kid in my class broke his arm falling off a swing.”
“Tell me everything.”
And, to be fair to the guy, he does.