Chapter Thirty-One
Sam
I hate airports.
Always have and always will. Trapped and waiting and paying the equivalent of sixteen dollars for a sandwich.
But that might just be because I’m several hours early and I’m not allowed through security for another two.
I built in that extra time to spend with Ciara, but now she’s gone and I’m here and news that Frank Sheridan’s daughter is writing The Last Mountain is all over the internet.
And it’s all my fault.
I check my phone again, swiping away weather warnings, only to see Ciara still hasn’t messaged me. Which means she’s not home yet. Or she never wants to speak to me again. I’m not sure, because she didn’t answer my text checking in. Or my call. And a guy can take a hint, but Jesus.
I’ve never felt like this before. This lost. I’ve always known what to do, I’ve always known what steps to take, and I thought I was doing the right thing in leaving her.
In doing what she asked. But I’m miserable.
I’m miserable and Ciara’s miserable and Lizzie’s miserable, judging by the flurry of texts she keeps sending me.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
I glance to my left to find a man looking at me, and I’m confused for an instant before I realize I’ve been glaring at the departure board.
“The delays,” he adds. “A bit of wind and everything goes up the wall. You’d think they’d build a stronger plane.”
“I think it’s more complicated than—” I stop myself. “Yeah. Ridiculous.”
He nods and returns to his phone just as mine starts to ring.
Casey.
I strongly consider not answering it, but then remember I’m probably close to being fired.
“So,” he begins when I accept. “That didn’t go to plan.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Someone was bound to piece it together at some point. How did Ciara take it?”
“Badly.”
“She’s with you now?”
“She’s gone home,” I say, straightening in my chair. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know, Sam,” he cuts me off. “Laura sent me a clip of the panel. He was goading you and you were protecting her. It was a slip of the tongue. I understand.”
It doesn’t feel as though I was protecting her, but I don’t voice that little insecurity.
“I think you should take me off this book,” I say, feeling a headache form behind my eyes. “Laura would be a better fit from—”
“No.”
“—here on…what?”
Casey sounds amused. “I’m not taking you off the book, Sam. I meant it when I said that you were the best person for the job.”
“Maybe you were wrong,” I say. “And besides, we have Ciara to think about. After today, she’s probably going to ask to move to another editor anyway.”
“She hasn’t yet.”
“She doesn’t trust me anymore.”
And trust between an editor and author is paramount. The whole partnership breaks down without it.
Casey is silent on the other end of the phone. So silent, I check to see he hasn’t hung up. And then he asks out of the blue, “Do you know why I hired you?”
“Are you implying it wasn’t because of my middling English literature degree and two weeks’ unpaid internship?”
“It’s because you wouldn’t leave me alone about those books,” he says. “I was used to it, of course, but the difference between you and every starry-eyed graduate who came in for an interview was that you also told me what was wrong with them.”
“I did?” I have no recollection of that. Probably because I erased it from my mind out of embarrassment.
“Oh yes,” Casey says. “You seemed very critical about the ending to the second book in particular. Not to mention High Lord Aengus, who you said was, and I quote, a waste of space.”
“You’re making this up.”
“I’m doing no such thing. I gave you the job not because you were passionate about the books but because you weren’t afraid to tell me what could have been done better.
Even back then, you were thinking with an editorial brain.
You have never been afraid to tell the truth.
Not to me and not to your authors, and I bet not to Ciara either.
You’re a fantastic editor, Sam. You understand what makes a story great and you have a knack for knowing the market before it even knows itself.
I’ve considered every manuscript you’ve brought to us seriously because I trust your judgment. I trust you.”
“But?” I say, hearing one coming.
“But,” he echoes. “Over the years, I’ve watched that passion leave you.
Yes, this is a business and you need to treat it as one.
But it’s one about art. About stories. And I think that you forgot about that somewhere along the way.
You can manage as many budgets as you like, you can negotiate like hell and win every auction, but you can’t reach your full potential if you lose sight of what we’re doing in the first place. ”
I frown, watching another flight get called to the gate. “Please tell me you didn’t send me all the way to Ireland so I would regain my love for the written word.”
“No,” he says. “I sent you to Ireland because I needed to get this book written and Ciara was ignoring my calls. And I hate any flight over three hours.” His voice softens, inviting me to listen. “It’s about balance, Sam.”
I stare at the tiled ceiling as I take in what he’s saying. As I realize what I’ve been thinking myself for a long time.
“I also have an email from your sister,” he adds cheerfully, and I bang the back of my head against the wall. “Begging me not to fire you.”
“She told you she was the leak?”
“She did. And promised me a four-course home-cooked dinner of my choice to make up for it.”
“I’d take her up on that,” I tell him. “Or you’ll never get rid of her.” My fingers tighten around the phone. It’s not like I can get into any more trouble. “I need to tell you something. And it’s not just about what happened. Ciara and I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he interrupts. “I’ve known that girl since she was seven. Anyway, what’s that saying? What you don’t know can’t hurt you?”
“She’s hurting though,” I say. “And I don’t want to leave her like this. Not yet. I need to take a few days off.”
“Oh, sure. It’s not like Laura’s drinking twelve coffees a day trying to keep up with everything.” He sighs. “Sam, this book was always going to be—”
“This isn’t about the book,” I say. “It’s about her.” About us. “It’s personal,” I add, and there are a few beats of silence on the other end of the line.
“And if I say we can’t spare you?” he asks finally.
“It would do wonders for my ego but that’s about it.”
“I’m starting to think you’re not actually asking me here,” he says wryly, and I smile.
“Not this time, boss. I’m sorry. I’ll be back next week.”
We say our goodbyes, his more resigned than mine, and I look up at the departures board, watching them flicker in unison before I jump to my feet.
“You’re in some rush,” the same man says beside me. “Forget your passport?”
“More like my priorities.”
“Eh?”
“Nothing,” I say, shouldering my bag. “Have a good flight.”
He just nods, watching me with a baffled expression as I turn and all but sprint toward the entrance.
“Wrong way,” someone calls with a laugh, but I ignore them, smiling as I weave between travelers.
For the first time in weeks, I know exactly what I’m doing.