Chapter 12 #2
“That she put on blinders and made excuses for years until it was inexcusable. I’m sorry that I believed him when he first
told me I was . . .” I swallow. I will not let my voice hitch. “Special. And I’m sorry that I believed his words and wasted all the adult years of my life on a guy
who ultimately told me I should be grateful that I ‘primed the pump’ for him. I’m sorry that I have an incredible knack for
deluding myself. So yes. Hooray. Let’s celebrate a win.”
I feel the warmth of my cheeks and turn, positively mortified by the swift change of emotions flooding over me. Positively
humiliated because I’ve just, yet again, let emotions take the helm instead of holding tight to what little self-control I
had left.
I am becoming full-fledged Boom Box Girl.
Normally I could keep my composure.
For years, I had composure.
In fact, what makes all of this worse is that composure was the one thing—pathetic as it may be in a long list of talents—that I did have.
In a world of people with outstanding skills like writing, and singing, and casually ordering your food in fluent French to
the surprise of all the people around you (Gordon), I had this. I had composure.
It wasn’t a flashy talent.
It wasn’t something you’d probably announce to someone when saying you liked them. You wouldn’t go off and say, “Oh, Cheryl,
she’s about five foot five, brown hair. Great composure.”
But it’s what I had. People couldn’t quite put a finger on why I was someone they liked to hang around, but I could tell them: It was because in any series of events, nothing ruffled me. I could watch a meteoroid flying straight for our high-rise and calmly organize a plan.
People like composed people. Especially celebrated authors who themselves usually had a dash of crazy to get them where they
were today.
It was my one, single gift I could give away in exchange for friendship.
My trade.
But what happened with Michael broke me. And now Hugh. And now Carragan. And now with Nash saying, quite frankly, the opposite of what in my delusion I’d hoped, and now my filter is gone and I’m completely out of control.
I purse my lips, holding in a terror that has quickly come over me.
Nash is going to hate me now.
I once spoke back to Michael half as honest as this and was put through the silent treatment for a month.
(And yes, I’m going to have to work through unwinding just how toxic my relationship with him was and how that wasn’t normal, but still.
The fact is, sometimes people react this way.
And I have a dreadful, gut-wrenching fear Nash will too.)
I’ve screwed up, and snapped at him, and showed my true colors.
Is that really logical, Pip? If he really does hate you for this, doesn’t that mean he’s not that great either?
I don’t know, I tell myself. And right now, I don’t care.
The point is, all along he has thought I’m this nice, sweet little friend of his, the fun-loving partner among this group
of seven.
And now he sees the truth of what I am.
I’m not that sweet.
I’m not that fun.
I’m a screwed-up mess just like everybody else who has a tornado of troubles swirling just underneath the surface, ready to
let loose.
I’m not, after all, a reliable good time.
And that was all I had to give.
“Nash Eyre!” a woman exclaims from a distance, announcing her arrival twenty feet off. Her hair is pulled up in tight, perfect
silvery-white curls around her face to match her tight, perfectly wrinkle-free suit dress. Her knees march in tight rhythm
(unsurprising, given the suit looks like it’s cellophaned to her body) as she ticks her way toward Nash in rhythm with the
clock hanging on the wall behind. “I’m Melody Carlton,” she says, stretching out her hand. She smiles brightly. “Your moderator
for the group panel.”
I pull away from him in the fraction of time he’s turned his attention away from me and reach for my purse.
Now’s the time to make a break for it.
I can already see how it’s going to play out.
Of course, Nash will be a gentleman about it.
He’s going to step back politely. Give me the distance I’m “asking” for. A distance I’m saying I want but don’t really.
We’ll move to polite niceties.
We’ll be the kind of “friends” Ricky and Jackie are, polite but without substance.
The kind of friends who hold the elevator for each other but don’t invite them inside.
The woman, Melody, tackles Nash with questions while I pull my purse over my shoulder and set down my coffee cup. One last
hot sip of caffeine sizzles on my tongue (fitting, for how it’s betrayed me) as I lock eyes on the exit doors.
I’m not sure where I’ll go.
I can’t go back to the room.
Not . . . not after everything.
For that matter, I can’t bring myself to go down that hall again.
Everything about it feels cursed.
I’ll go toward the light.
I’ll find my way to the upper deck, the sunlight, and wander around aimlessly until it’s time to get sound on everyone’s microphones
for their panels, make sure everyone is set up securely, and then in between sessions, find time to interview each in turn.
Anxiety rises in my stomach as I take a first step for the door.
Wasn’t I the one to say to be smart, to move in pairs?
Wasn’t I the one to volunteer myself to interview everyone?
This is how people die in the stories.
It’s not so hard to write after all, really. You just give a person a stupid fault like mine and—bam—we kill ourselves from our pride. Or shame. Or humiliation.
Emotions make humans stupid.
Or, I guess, bowing to our emotions does.
I’ll just . . . walk quickly is all. I’ll be so quick people can’t get me even if they try.
Right. And how many victims fall prey with that genius plan?
I take another two steps toward the door.
Then feel a firm grip on my sweater.
I turn and see Nash chatting away happily with this Melody woman, his hand all the while firmly gripping the cardinals stitched
onto my cardigan.
Melody’s beady eyes drift every now and again to his hand clamped onto me as she talks through the smile plastered on her
face.
Nash, for his part, looks entirely unbothered.
I take another step and find myself yo-yoing back toward him.
“And . . . um . . .” Melody says, her eyes jumping to me, “with regard to . . . the origin story behind your writing . . .
Do you need to . . . do something? Are you alright?”
“No, no, I’m fine. You were saying?”
I take another step. My face is prickling with a hundred tiny pins.
We are in a workplace here.
I know everything about this trip has been shattering, but we are professionals.
“Nash,” I begin, my tone expressing, I’m a very organized, very professional assistant to Hugh, creative genius, who has spent a year planning this trip, and not I’m Pip, dealing with a heat wave of overwhelming emotions and handling it like a child.
I smile politely like I’m not currently at the end of his tether. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get Gordon set up for his
session.”
“What session?” Nash says.
“Gordon’s next session.”
“You’re not excused,” Nash says equally politely, eyes still on Melody. “Oh, well, I’m not sure I have the grandest of origin
stories out there, but you’re welcome to ask. Somebody always does.”
Melody nods fervently.
Too fervently, as she scribbles quickly and says, “Keep the origin story question. Got it. Good. And, um . . . well, are you
sure I’m not holding you up?”
“Nope.”
“Absolutely sure?” she says, eyeing me like I’m a rabid raccoon in a cage he should probably deal with.
“Can’t think of a thing.”
“Nash,” I whisper-hiss.
I feel Jackie’s eyes fall on me from across the breakfast table, see the disapproval in the little crease forming between
her brows.
Her words fly telepathically from her gaze and land on me.
Even in times of being distraught, one must keep one’s composure.
She flaps the napkin at her seat to prove her point and resets it in her lap.
“Not at all, this is a fine time,” Nash says. “Although I do think”—he flips over his wrist, which also happens to be part
of the arm holding on to me, and my whole body is jerked sideways. He checks his watch. “No, I’ve got another thirty minutes
until my first session. Plenty of time.”
Fine. I’ll work around him.
“I’m going to go now,” I say politely, my words aimed at Melody this time.
“No, you’re not,” Nash says to me chipperly, eyes on Melody.
“Yes, I am.”
“You’ll rip your cardigan.”
“You’ll rip my cardigan.”
“And we don’t want us ripping your cardigan,” he continues, as if we both absolutely agree.
Something is happening.
The shame of the moment is receding as my confidence starts to build.
I make one more move for the door, and this time his arm lassos me and pulls me in, all the way in, the scent of burnt coffee
on rough Carhartt jacket scraping all up one side of my face. His arm is heavy as it wraps around the whole of my body, round
the shoulders, and huddles me close. We look like we’re posing for an awkward prom picture. Or perhaps like a cat who’s caught
a mouse.
At this new situation, Melody purses her lips with uncertainty. Her eyes jet over toward the other authors, catch Jackie, who parallels her expression, and flash back.
She looks entirely out of her realm.
“Is everything o . . . kay here? You know . . . I didn’t know if I should say something . . . but it seems like everyone is
just a little . . . off.”
Her eyes flicker, and ours too, to Ricky, who is seated at the end of the breakfast table, suspiciously watching a waiter
serve him more coffee while visibly gripping a champagne glass in his hand cocked and ready to blow.
“Of course,” she says quickly with a laugh, “I know authors are known to be . . . well, uniquely them . . . but it just seems that everyone here is a little edgy. And we haven’t even had an appearance from Hugh Griffin.
At all.”
“We are fine,” Nash says breezily, putting on full charm. “Have you ever been to Writer-Con? That’s the place to go to see all the authors in full character.”
She pointedly looks at his arm python-wrapped around my body.
“So you’ve caught me. I’m a codependent author,” Nash says. “Pip here is just my lucky star. And once you find your lucky
star, you aim to always keep it in your sights. If you know what I mean.”
“Oh.” Melody’s eyes soften a little, the creases at her temples deepening as she looks at me with fresh interest. “Oh,” she says with more meaning.
I give a forced smile.
Mostly because of Jackie’s stares.
And a little, I realize, because . . . of what’s happening in this moment.
“Well. I think I have enough to go off of for the session. Very nice meeting you . . . two. I’ll see you soon!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nash smiles with that winsome smile of his as he tips his hat at her with his free hand (sending her hand fluttering to her cheek).
Amazing.
Women quake at Nash Eyre’s charms even when he’s currently holding a woman captive in his arms.
“Phff,” I blow out.
“What was that?” he says, looking down at me.
I purse my lips. Shake my head.
It’s a little annoying, if I’m being honest.
“What?” he says again.
“I said, phff.”
“I got that. And?”
I consider not answering, then gesture at the woman. “And. It’s just . . . look at her. You’ve got me standing right here and she still is blushing with your little thing you do.”
Nash looks amused. “What thing?”
“If you let me go, I’ll show you what thing.”
He shakes his head. “Clever try, but no can do; you’re a flight risk now. I’m going to have to keep you close. Now, who do
we interview first?”
I take a breath.
I know what he’s done.
It’s a little hard to get my head wrapped around the past ten minutes, but it feels like I’ve been through a storm and the
sun has finally risen.
Emotions, I have learned in the past two days, rise to the surface before realizations.
Emotions race faster to the forefront of the brain than logical deduction, and before I have time to process everything and
work through exactly what just happened and why, there is one thing I can and do find myself relying on in this moment: It’s
okay.
Everything is okay.
The worst that I thought was going to happen isn’t happening.
And as that one piece of information falls like a leaflet to my brain, with big bold letters across the page, I process in
words what came first with the emotion: Nash isn’t going to leave me.
No, in fact, Nash has drawn closer to me, literally, than he ever has before.
It’s like he has taken into account the extent of my stress and my unspoken emotions and without speaking followed through
with equal force in the opposite direction, as if to say: I will not leave you. I will never abandon you. You are safe with me.
“Hey, Nash?” I say.
He looks down at me. Which isn’t easy to do, as a matter of fact, since my face is directly beneath his, buried in his side.
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry for . . . what happened back there.”
“What, you being human? Don’t apologize, Pip. I got you.”
He smiles down at me, his blue eyes crinkling at the temples in what I do believe is the most thrilling smile I have ever
experienced.
And the sturdiness behind his eyes is the secret sauce that throws my heart into full gear.
I can be human, I can screw up, and nothing changes.
He’s a rock to stand on in a sea of changing tides.
It’s almost . . . well, it’s almost enough to lose your composure over.
“And for the record, I’m the one who’s sorry,” he adds. “All I was trying to say is that you’re special, Pip. And you deserve
someone who’s aware of that every single day.”
“Well,” I say, taking a quick, steadying breath to force myself specifically not to become the girl weeping on his jacket right now, “if we’re going to start interviewing, let’s go with Neena. She’s the
only one here who looks like she won’t accidentally stab me.”
“To Neena,” he announces, and together we begin striding her way.