Chapter 14 #2
I keep my face blank and study the venue diagram like it contains the secrets of the universe.
I feel Jessica’s gaze flick to me, just for an instant. I don’t look up.
“So,” Michelle says carefully. “Scott, you’re in business. Do you read romance?”
The question is a grenade with the pin pulled.
I look up. Meet Michelle’s eyes. Does she know? Did Jessica tell her? This could be her giving me a chance to say something. Or to keep hiding.
“More than people might think,” I say.
Jessica sets down her cup and starts shuffling papers.
Mrs. Sanders is watching us like a hawk. “You know what Mr. Sanders always says—when two people won’t look each other in the eye, it’s either a scrap or a love affair. Usually both.”
Dead silence.
“So!” Hazel says brightly. “The catering. Let’s discuss.”
We spend the next twenty minutes on logistics. Catering from Amber’s restaurant. Coffee service from Michelle’s shop. A book signing table. A photo backdrop.
Jessica addresses me as “Mr. Avery” and directs her comments to the space just past my left ear.
I answer when spoken to. Don’t push. Don’t try to catch her eye.
Mrs. Sanders, meanwhile, has moved on to embarrassing other people.
“Hazel, honey, you remember when my Jack rode his bike past your mama’s house six times a day the summer he was fifteen? Thought nobody noticed.” She chuckles. “Everybody noticed. I told him, ‘Son, you’re gonna wear out those tires,’ and he about died of embarrassment.”
Hazel goes pink. “Mrs. Sanders—”
“That boy had it bad. Still does. His daddy saw him at the grocery store last week buying one of them fancy candles and a bottle of wine. Asked what the occasion was, and Jack turned red as a tomato. Mumbled something about ‘just because.’” She shakes her head fondly.
“Runs a whole pirate campground, talks to tourists all day long, but can’t admit to his own father he’s planning a romantic evening for his wife. ”
“He’s very sweet,” Hazel manages, clearly wishing the floor would swallow her.
“He’s a mess is what he is. But a good mess.” Mrs. Sanders turns her attention back to me. “What about you, Scott? You ever buy a woman flowers ‘just because’?”
I think about the manuscript on my laptop. Eighty thousand words of “just because.” A love letter disguised as a novel.
“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m working on it.”
Mrs. Sanders studies me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression. Like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“Hmm,” she says. And for once, doesn’t elaborate.
The meeting wraps up around eight. People start gathering their things, making plans to follow up via email, grabbing last slices of fig cake.
I hang back, hoping for a moment alone with Jessica. She knows what I’m doing. She’s taking her time saying goodbye to everyone, hugging Michelle, confirming something with Hazel.
Finally, it’s just us.
She’s got her bag over her shoulder, keys in hand, body angled toward the door.
“Jessica—”
“The venue confirmation needs to go out by Monday. I’ll draft the email and copy you for approval.”
“I don’t care about the email.”
“I do.” She meets my eyes for the first time all evening, her expression full of anger, hurt, and exhaustion. “Whatever else is happening, this event matters to my bookstore and to this town.”
She’s right. And she’s not giving me an inch.
“Okay,” I say. “Monday. I’ll watch for it.”
She nods once.
Then she’s gone.
I stand in Hazel’s empty living room, surrounded by abandoned coffee cups and committee notes and the lingering smell of fig cake, and feel the distance between us like a physical weight.
That night, I sit at my laptop and stare at my manuscript.
The ending I wrote when I couldn’t sleep, when the words were pouring out of me like a confession:
She forgave him. Not because he deserved it—he didn’t—but because holding onto anger was exhausting, and loving him was easy, and some people are worth the risk of being hurt again.
“I don’t trust you,” she said.
“I know.”
“I might never fully trust you.”
“I know that too.”
“But I want to try, to believe that people can change. That you can change.”
He pulled her close. “I already have. You just haven’t seen it yet.”
My email pings. Rodney, my agent. I’d emailed him earlier to let him know about the reveal.
Scott,
Publisher is over the moon about the new book. They’re calling it your best work—“raw,” “vulnerable,” “a complete reinvention.” They want to fast-track release alongside your identity reveal at the Twin Waves event. Full marketing push. Cover reveal, preorder campaign, the works.
Need your answer by next week.
Also—they want to know if the female main character is based on someone real. Legal is asking about potential liability. Let me know how to respond.
—Rodney
I wrote our story. Her wound, my lies, the letters, the beach. All of it.
I can’t publish it without her permission. But asking her means showing her the manuscript. Showing her exactly how I see her. Everything I couldn’t say out loud, written in eighty thousand words.
What if she reads it and hates it, and everything gets worse?
What if she reads it and recognizes herself, and it’s the final violation. Me turning her pain into profit, her story into content?
I close the laptop without responding.
My phone sits on the desk. I pick it up. Put it down. Pick it up again.
Type a text to Jessica. Delete it. Type again. Delete.
Scott: Thank you for staying on the committee. I know it isn’t easy.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Jessica: It’s for the bookstore.
I deserve that.
Scott: I know. Still, thank you.
No response.
I set the phone down and open the manuscript again. Scroll to the scene where the hero finally tells the heroine everything. Where he lays himself bare and waits to see if she’ll destroy him or save him.
In the book, she chooses to save him, and I have no idea if real life will be that generous.
But I’m starting to realize that the ending isn’t up to me. I’ve done the confessing. I’ve done the truth-telling. Now all I can do is show up, be consistent, and wait.
Mrs. Sanders’ voice echoes in my head: When two people won’t look each other in the eye, it’s either a scrap or a love affair. Usually both.
Both, I think. Definitely both.
I just have to hope the love affair part wins.