Twenty-Six #2
“No such thing,” I answer on autopilot, but the words come out as a rough croak. I hate the reminder of how close our story
is to the one I can’t envision a happy ending for.
I glance toward Gavin, worried about his reaction, but he’s caught up in conversation with Faye and a man I’m assuming is her husband. After a brief conversation, they head off and he leans across the table and passes me a water bottle. “How am I doing, boss?”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Ma’am?” he jokes, and a titter of laughs comes from the line. “Ms. Brady?”
I roll my eyes, and take a sip of the water, then slide the next book toward me. He goes back to the line, joking with people
as he passes out Post-it notes and digs extra pens out of his back pocket. His pants are snug, and my eyes snag on his round
butt for a moment before dragging back to the task at hand. It’s the kind of appreciative look I’ve avoided for so long that
even a split second of lingering feels illicit.
My pulse ratchets up, thinking of the quick kiss we shared in the hallway, too short but enough to have my skin tingling at
the memory even now.
The line at my booth is thinning, and I notice other authors in knots, talking or stretching. When Gavin’s done passing out
notes, I ask, “Time check?”
His face falls when he looks at his smartwatch. “Oh shit. It’s three thirty.”
“Two thirty, you mean?” I look around frantically for my phone, as if confirming the time myself will make things better.
He shakes his head, looking miserable.
“I’ve got to go.” I shove back from the table, rattling the mugs filled with branded pens.
“But I’ve been waiting half an hour,” someone says.
“Sorry, I’m late for a panel.” Half an hour late, to be precise. And it’s across the convention center, which adds another
five minutes.
“Do you mind giving everyone swag?” I ask Gavin, shoving my arms into the sleeves of my blazer. “You can offer signed bookplates
if they can’t make it back later.”
“Signed bookplates?” Gavin’s face is the picture of confusion, and I realize he might not even know what a bookplate is, let alone where I store them.
Not his fault, not his fault , I repeat to myself, teeth gritted. After all, if he asked me to find mulch at his store, I wouldn’t even know if I was looking
for piles of it or bags, let alone what variety.
I bite my lip, torn between fixing the situation here and rushing to my panel, but Gavin’s face transforms into determination,
and he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this handled.”
I don’t need to ask him if he’s sure, because I’m sure of him. Even if he forgot to remind me of the time or memorize where
all my swag is. He’s here to support me, like he always has, and no matter how late I am for a work event, knowing he’s on
my side makes everything okay.
Everything is not okay. My bladder is fit to burst, courtesy of the water I’ve been chugging all day to keep from losing my
voice and the coffee I drank to make up for lack of sleep. Sitting down, it had been fine, but now I’m really wishing I had
stopped to use the bathroom. Thanks to a wrong turn and an out-of-service escalator, it’s been ten minutes by the time I hurry
in through the backstage entrance, sweaty and disheveled, momentarily blinded by the stage lighting, and take the last remaining
open seat on the panel.
In the center of the row. With a full water glass, taunting my near-to-bursting bladder.
It seems odd that this is the only seat left. I expected to slide into the last seat at the end of the row, as unobtrusive
as possible for someone at the front of a packed auditorium. But events since the success of the TV adaptation have been wild.
I attribute the placement of my chair to the upcoming season premiere.
There’s a lull in conversation as I slide into the chair, and I lean toward the microphone.
“Sorry, lost track of time,” I say, which is true, but also sounds like this wasn’t a priority, which it really was.
The problem is, so was engaging with readers at the table.
I want to do everything to the highest level and lately feel like I’m falling behind.
“But I’m so glad to see everyone!” I give a wave, discreetly crossing my legs.
All the other authors on the panel are staring at me, and that’s when I realize I don’t recognize any of them. I was supposed
to be speaking alongside a couple of my friends and two debut authors who I haven’t met but am familiar with on social media.
I turn in my seat to check the projector behind us and have a jump scare. An eerie cemetery scene is displayed in lurid tones.
Overlaid is the cover of New York Times bestselling author Marshall Anthony’s latest book, and standing beneath it with a laser pointer is the renowned author himself,
whose vacated seat I’m guessing I just took.
I lift the mic in front of me and say, “Somehow I don’t think y’all are here for the panel on Euphemisms and the Rise of Chili
Pepper Ratings.”
This garners a few titters from the audience, but this clearly isn’t my crowd. “My mistake. Happy sleuthing!” I stand and
give a small bow, letting out a squeak when the motion exerts even more pressure on my aggrieved bladder. I all but run from
the auditorium in a haze of embarrassment and collide with Gavin right outside the door.
“I was coming to get you,” he says, catching me with both hands on my arms. “They switched rooms for your panel.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a little late.” I huff out the words, uncomfortable and cranky. “I just crashed Marshall Anthony’s panel.”
“Marshall who?” Gavin still isn’t a big reader and mostly sticks to recommendations from me, so I’m not surprised he doesn’t
recognize the name.
“He’s been writing bestsellers since before we were born, and I just waltzed in and took his seat.”
“Like, wrestled him out of it?” A corner of his mouth twitches, but at my glare, he wisely sobers up.
“He wasn’t in it, obviously. He was presenting and I created a commotion in the middle of it.”
“So what? It was a mistake.”
“I don’t make mistakes.” I realize how that sounds and try again. “I don’t make mistakes at events.” I plan ahead and memorize
the schedule and familiarize myself with fellow panelists’ work. I prepare, but this time, I was too busy wallowing in writer’s
block and then too wrapped up in the glow of things with Gavin to get ready.
“You missed one panel.” He rubs his hands up and down my arms soothingly, but his casual dismissal is getting on my nerves.
“This is my career we’re talking about, not just a job.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you wouldn’t understand. You say all the time that the garden center is just where you work, not your whole life.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.” He lets go, crossing his arms. “You think I’d turn down working for my family for just
any job? Hill and Dale is my second home. But you’re right, it isn’t my whole identity, because I recognize that I need a
life outside of it. Balance.”
“You think I don’t have balance?”
His brows pinch together. “You were considering dating again just because you were blocked. That’s pretty extreme. I know
you’re a creative person, and your life is always going to be wrapped up in your work, but at the end of the day, you’re more
than what you produce.”
He’s not saying anything I don’t know, but it’s the last thing I need to hear right now. I thought I’d been doing a good job of maintaining balance considering that I’m behind on the biggest book of my career and my least complicated relationship has transformed into the messiest one.
I tug at my lanyard, feeling like today is spiraling out of control. “At this moment, today, work is all I need to focus on.
I shouldn’t have pulled you into this.”
His nostrils flare, and he opens his mouth, then shuts it, like he’s decided against a retort. “How are you going to get everything
packed up by yourself?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Mia—”
“We promised not to make things complicated. To do that I need some separation between work and...”
“Us?” He nods once. “Got it.”
He doesn’t get it, though. He thinks it’s him I’m mad at, but it’s myself, for breaking my rule. For letting myself start
to fall for him, knowing it could ruin everything. But I let him walk away, watching him thread his way through the crowd
until he’s gone and I’m left wondering if this is how I lose him.
Evie ends up helping me close down the booth, and I go back to my empty hotel suite and tell myself writing a new chapter
is a better use of my time than worrying over what’s happening with me and Gavin, even though nothing feels like the right
choice. I finally crawl into bed in time to get a few hours of sleep and make it through a morning of signing before exhaustion
and emotional overwhelm catches up with me and I call Kim. She shows up forty minutes later, armed with a whipped-cream-bedecked
latte and dressed in a shirt with a photo of stern Mr. Darcy.
“My hero,” I tell both her and the shirt, and take a hefty gulp of the caffeinated sugar. “Thank you for rescuing me from
my poor life choices.”
Obviously pleased at this show of humble sisterly gratitude, she says, “This is a walk in the park compared to yesterday. Dealing with anxious freshman parents out in the summer heat? We are not hosting a picnic next year. The gym might be old but at least it has A/C.”
She’s already organizing the books and pens I’ve jumbled in my attempts to keep up. “You’ve got an hour until your next panel.
Go find some food.”
“I’ll eat afterward.”
“Your eyes are glazed. You need to step away for a second.” She stops what she’s doing to give me a hug. “Don’t think I’ll
let you off without the full details of why I’m filling in for the man you adopted kittens with.”
“We’re not keeping them.”
The look she gives tells me that’s not the point. “Go eat, I’ve got this covered.”