Chapter 48
GEORGE
I’m up again early, this time at least with a semblance of sleep (aided by sheer determination and a little bit of rum I found in the cupboard).
I’ve decided it’s time to push through, focus my energy on getting the book done. At least that’s something I can do. Maybe I am George Knight, eternal loser at love, but I am also George Knight, multiple New York Times bestselling author.
Right now, I am George Knight refining the hell out of this monologue my villain is delivering shortly before Steele fells him with a single bullet (Indiana-Jones-style, but with more finesse).
I look up from the kitchen table where my laptop sits, giving my eyes a short rest. Across the cabin, Owen’s Christmas tree stands cheerfully, all lit up and cozy, like it doesn’t have a care in the world.
I can’t take it.
I cross the room, bend down, and pull the plug. I mean that literally; obviously, I’m not going to kill the tree. But there’s something satisfying about yanking the cord out of the wall.
There. I plunk myself back down at the computer, and—
And think about Owen lovingly stringing those lights from branch to branch.
Putting his personal touch on the tree I’m sure he went to some magical Hallmarky Christmas tree farm and picked out himself.
And then carefully decorated with all his meaningful, handmade ornaments and childhood mementos.
And that was intended to make his home bright and festive and warm all through the holidays.
Dammit.
I stalk back over, plug the thing back into the wall a little more aggressively than necessary, stalk back to my computer, and return to the book. I work very hard to pretend none of that just happened.
In the afternoon, I’m revising away when my phone rings, breaking me out of a methodical work trance I frankly probably need a rest from.
My stupid, hopeful, traitorous brain thinks Owen! for a split second before I look at the phone, see it’s my parents calling, and remind myself that both me and my brain are dumbasses.
“Hi, guys!” I put the phone on speaker so I can stretch. I’ve been sitting here too long. “How was your Christmas?”
“Oh, meh. You know, same old, same old,” my mom says. She’s downplaying because she knows I spent my holiday working.
“It’s okay, Mom. You can tell me. Did you guys go to the Hollanders’ big party?”
“Yes, and your father insisted on making his eggnog—”
“My eggnog was and always is a huge hit.” My dad’s there too, of course, on the extension. They’re on the landline they keep precisely for the purpose of calls like this.
“Because it’s 90% rum, Jim.”
“Of course it is, that’s what eggnog is, otherwise you’re just drinking a glass of raw yolks.”
I smile. It’s good to hear from them.
“Just ignore your father, George. We just wanted to call and see how you were feeling.”
Gutted? Despondent? Like a complete idiot? Like I finally put myself out there and got smacked in the face?
I mean, obviously, I’m going to lie here.
“I’m doing oka—”
“We saw an article on Luca’s wedding to that slick Hollywood director fellow.” Dad cuts in.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” says Mom. “That’s got to be hard.”
I almost want to laugh. I wonder if they would feel better or worse if I told them I hadn’t thought about Luca in days.
“I’m fine, guys, really, and Cory’s actually very nice.”
“Mmm-hmm,” hums Dad, unconvinced.
I love my folks. They have always been 100% supportive of me in everything.
“And I’ve been getting a lot of work done,” I continue. “I’m nearly ready to turn in the manuscript I came here to finish. And, actually, it looks like I’m going to have a chance to go in a little bit of a different direction on my next project.”
I absently pick up the wooden puzzle box sitting near me on the kitchen table. I’ve managed to leave them scattered around the cabin, and this is one of the few I’ve never cracked. I fiddle with it while we talk.
“That sounds very secretive—and very exciting!” Mom says, “I take it we’re going to have to wait for more details.”
“Not too long, but yeah. I want to iron out the specifics before I share.”
I don’t say it, but part of it is it’s new and special, and I just sort of want to keep it private for now.
Of course, Anabel knows about the book. But that’s business.
She’s the one making it happen. And Owen knows.
Owen’s seen every last note I scribbled in the margin.
The stupid honest truth is I kind of like the idea that it’s just something between him and me right now. Fuck my life.
“Of course,” chirps my mom, “but as soon as you can, do let me know so I can order copies for my book club!”
“You’re assuming it’s a book, Margaret.”
“It is a book, though, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s—”
“Doesn’t matter, either way, we’re very proud of you,” says Dad.
“Oh, yes, absolutely.”
Now I’m legitimately laughing. “I appreciate that, but it is in fact a book. I promise I will share more very soon.”
“Take your time, kiddo.”
“Well, we don’t want to keep you,” Mom says. “We know you have work to do.”
I rub my thumb along one edge of the puzzle box. “I do, yeah. I should probably get back to it.”
“Of course, sweetie,” says Mom. “Oh, one more thing before I forget, Josie from book club wanted to know when the next Sebastian Steele was coming out. You know she puts every single one on pre-order. She’s your biggest fan.
I told her it would probably be the spring at the earliest, but you know Josie. ”
The side of the box gives, just a little.
“No, Margaret, he doesn’t know Josie.”
I push carefully on the edge, keeping the angle of pressure exactly where I had it. The panel slides out of place. After that, there are a couple obvious pieces to move and I’ve done it. The box is open.
“It’s a figure of speech, Jim. George? George, did we lose you?”
I’m staring into the box.
“Huh? Oh, um, yeah, no, I’m not sure of the date. Look, I’m sorry, I need to…”
“Of course, honey, we’ll talk to you later,” says Mom.
“You go do you, George,” adds Dad.
I mumble a goodbye and end the call. Then I reach into the tiny wood drawer and pull out the treasure I’ve found there.
A little chunk of seaglass, pink, and smaller than a dime. It’s clearly a found object, the sort of thing you’d find washed up on the beach if you were very, very lucky. Smooth and irregular, but unmistakenly shaped like a heart.
I run my fingertip over it.
This box, I now realize, must be the one I first found on the shelf behind the tree. The one Owen said he made for someone.
Beau, maybe? The undeserving jackass. Someone else? I don’t want to think about either. About Owen wanting to give this to someone. About whatever that person did, however they hurt or disappointed him, to make him change his mind.
And I especially don’t want to think about how I am literally holding Owen’s secret, fragile heart in my hand. Or how he didn’t want to let me into the real one.