Chapter 23
The sound of Bobby’s truck jolted me awake, and for a moment, I didn’t know where I was or why my back hurt or how the clock could possibly read three in the morning.
And then it all came back to me. I was in the billiard room.
In the dark. I fumbled around for my phone.
Then I realized I’d lost my glasses, and I had to scrounge them up from the floor.
By that point, the whole process had taken entirely too long.
I hammered out a text to Bobby that said, I’m sitting in the dark like a creep.
Please don’t shoot me. And I hit send as the front door opened.
His phone dinged. Clothing rustled. And then Bobby let out a breath that was dangerously close to a sigh, and I realized he had to be tired. He had to be beyond tired—exhausted and still hurting and frustrated and stressed and a million other things.
Bobby’s steps moved toward the billiard room. He stopped in the doorway, paused as though listening or trying to peer through the gloom, and said, “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Like a creep,” I said. “You have to include that part. And the answer is so I can dramatically turn on a lamp, like this.”
Bobby shaded his eyes at the bloom of light. He didn’t look impressed. He did look like he might be seriously considering turning around and heading straight upstairs, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
But instead, he took a few weary steps into the room.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
“It’s technically tomorrow,” I said. “Well, it’s technically today, but you know what I mean. And I didn’t want to go to bed without talking.”
His silence was measured out by the distant sound of the waves. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll be quick, I promise.” When he didn’t say anything, I continued, “Do you remember why I left Hugo? I left—I ran away—because I was scared that I was going to make a mistake. And the mistake would be something like this: I was going to stay with Hugo because it was easier than taking a risk. I was going to stay with him because it was safe, even though I wasn’t sure I loved him—not the way I wanted to love someone.
I was going to stay with him because I didn’t know if love was even real, or if it was something made up for books and TV.
And I was terrified that I was going to wake up one day, thirty or forty years down the road, and realize I’d given up a shot at the life I wanted because I was too afraid to take a chance.
” I drew a deep breath. “And then I met you.”
Bobby put his hands on his hips, but it didn’t last long. He rubbed his eyes again.
“I love you, Bobby. I love you in ways I never thought were possible. I didn’t know I could be this happy.” A lopsided grin fell out. “When I’m not making us both miserable.”
“You’re not—Dash, I shouldn’t have said any of that.”
“No, I’m glad you did. Because I’m so proud of you for expressing yourself.
And because I want to know when I cross a line, when you need me to show up for you, when I let you down.
Because I want to do better. And I want to acknowledge that I’ve been, I don’t know, wrapped up in this TV thing.
It is exciting, Bobby. This is what authors dream of.
It’s not a career-maker—it’s a level-up.
It’s a whole different game. And my writing is important to me. My career is important to me.”
“And it should be. You worked hard for it. I never want you to feel like I don’t support you, or like I don’t want you to get everything you deserve.”
I waited for him to finish before I said, “But it’s not more important than you. And do you know what I realized tonight? I haven’t told you that.”
“You don’t need to tell me; I know.”
“But I should tell you, Bobby. I want to tell you. And I’m going to do better.”
Bobby wiped his eyes. “Dash, it’s okay. Really. I know.”
I smiled at him. I could feel the seconds ticking past. Finally, I forced myself to say, “I also haven’t told you how scared I am.”
Voice thick, he asked, “What? Why?”
“Because I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t write screenplays.
I don’t write true crime—I certainly don’t write nonfiction.
And my God, Bobby, what am I going to do in L.A.
? Everyone there looks like a supermodel and eats, I don’t know, sprouts, and for heaven’s sake, they practically invented jogging. ”
A wet laugh escaped Bobby.
“I’ve spent so long…paralyzed.” I groped for some way to explain it.
“Paralyzed by what kind of book to write. Paralyzed by what kind of detective I should have. Paralyzed by the thought that if I ever did finish a book, it wouldn’t be any good.
Paralyzed when, it turned out, it wasn’t all that good.
All that indecision and worry and perfectionism wrapped with a cute little bow on top that is, in this case, some wack-level social anxiety.
And then, out of left field, someone shows up, tells me they love what I’ve done, and now they want me to do something completely different—oh, and millions of dollars are on the line, and they’re literally going to make me into a public figure.
It’s a lot. But that’s not an excuse for my behavior.
I’m sorry that I let it make me so…self-absorbed.
And I’m sorry I let it become a priority.
Because you are my priority, Bobby. I meant what I said: you are the most important person in my world. ”
“I should have thought of that,” Bobby said.
His voice was still gravelly. “About you being worried and stressed and unsure. I’m sorry.
I didn’t think about it—I didn’t think about it at all.
As soon as you told me about it, it was like—” He gave his eyes one last vigorous wipe; the skin there was shiny with the tears he’d tried to wipe away.
“It was like my mind went blank. I haven’t been able to think about anything except the fact that you were going to take the deal, and you’d go to L.A.
, and I kept telling myself we’d figure it out, but—but what if we didn’t? ”
“I’m not going to do it.”
“No! No, Dash.” He took a few snuffling breaths and shook his head.
“Please. I want you to do it. I know I’m being irrational.
I know there are solutions. You can split your time.
I can move there with you. But then that guy showed up here, and I could see how he looked at you, and he wasn’t just excited about a TV show, and I thought this was what I was going to have to compete with, and you’d be surrounded by all these smart, interesting people who understand what you do and who—who get you, and you’d be famous, and— God, why can’t I stop crying?
” He dried his hands on his jeans. “And it was like West. I know it wasn’t; that’s not how I meant to say it.
But it felt like everything with West again.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that it brought up a lot of stuff for me, and I know I didn’t handle it well, and I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. Yes, it had been the same in some ways—Bobby had been afraid, and he’d felt powerless, and so he’d done what he usually did: he’d tried to lock down everything that was uncertain. He’d tried to get everything back under control.
But it wasn’t the same. Not at all.
“Will you marry me?” I asked.
For a moment, Bobby stared at me. His lips parted, but nothing came out. A second went past. And then another. And then he said, “You found the ring.”
“I might have done some light snooping.”
Another of those long seconds. The wind leaned into the house again, and then it dropped off into silence.
“I know I was rushing,” Bobby said. “I shouldn’t have tried to—to do that because it made me feel safe—”
“Bobby Mai—” The smile took me by surprise, big enough that it felt like my face was about to crack. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”
Struggle showed in his face, and I wasn’t sure—not entirely—what it was.
Fear, most likely. And that last-ditch effort to gain control.
And then it was gone, and he looked tired, and strangely serene, like someone who had come through a battle and won a great victory.
A hint of that goofy grin surfaced, and he said, “Yes.”