Chapter 15 Cahoots #3
“You’re using AC?”
“Well, I guess it isn’t running now that it’s dark and the temperature has dropped, but generally, yes.”
“You don’t have to pay. It was just an observation. I’m going to need a blanket.”
She plopped down on one of the sofas and pulled one of the quilts off the back.
“Look, Blair, the thing about letting you read the pages was a ruse.” Maybe if he said it enough times, it would sink in.
“Look, Jack, I don’t care. You said I could read chapters one and two, and I’m going to read chapters one and two.”
“You’re in my eternal debt, remember? I’ll collect on that now. You can go.”
He was pretty sure he was starting to panic.
Jack didn’t really do panic. Not that he never worried, but full-out panic wasn’t in his repertoire.
Still, he knew the words and phrases associated with panic.
Shakiness, shortness of breath, clammy skin.
Those words and phrases were happening to him now.
“Jack,” Blair said, unrolling herself from her blanket burrito.
“It’s going to be OK.” She started toward him, and he took a step back.
Seeming to rethink her approach, she turned a slow circle around the room.
He saw the moment she spied the pages, resting on the desk he rarely used since he now apparently wrote outside in the California sunshine while communing with his murder of crows.
He had actually printed out the pages after he said he was going to. Had read them over, imagining her reading them. But it had only been a thought experiment.
She took a step toward the pages, then another, eyeing him the whole way as if he were a spooked horse she was trying to tame.
He had the sudden, absurd thought that maybe he was a spooked horse.
And worse, maybe she had already tamed him.
Because he was pretty sure he was going to let her read those pages, even though his body was still in mutiny over the fact, still succumbing to those panic words.
She kept slinking toward the desk. She kept staring at him.
“You do what you want,” he finally said. “I’m going to bed.”
He did go to bed. He got under the covers he generally didn’t use because he never needed them, turned over to face the wall, and closed his eyes.
He thought he would die waiting for her to finish.
What actually happened, though, was that he fell asleep waiting for her to finish.
Which he only realized when he woke up, coming to when the mattress dipped next to him. All he could think was that all that sublimated panic had made him crash. He had no idea how much time had passed. Or what was happening in general. Maybe he wasn’t awake.
“Hi.”
He heard her voice behind him. He almost fancied he could feel her breath on his back.
He didn’t turn over.
Sometimes writing acquaintances of Jack’s asked him to read their manuscripts.
Depending on his feelings about said acquaintances, he might do it.
And when he did, he tried to offer what help he could.
This brand of help had never been a two-way street.
He had never asked anyone to read In Time. His agent had been the first.
Sometimes people invited Jack to take part in, or to run, writing workshops.
He always declined. The idea of sitting around in a circle talking about people’s writing, listening to people talking about his writing, made his skin feel like it was breaking out in hives.
He had done enough of that during his MFA to last a lifetime.
Sometimes people asked Jack if his dad had read early drafts of his book, and all he could do in response to that question was laugh.
So there was no precedent for Blair having read those pages.
“Thanks for letting me read,” she whispered.
He waited for more. A signature Blair monologue. Whatever she had to say would probably be intelligent. She’d proven herself a thoughtful critic. But his whole body bristled at the idea of having to talk about his fucking book.
Nothing had ever shocked Jack more than what happened next, which was… nothing. Well, nothing verbal. She said not a word as she laid a hand on his shoulder.
He’d worked his way partially out from beneath his covers while he’d slept, so his shoulder was bare.
Her skin was cool against his. Her hand felt like it could put out the fire that was burning inside him, and he didn’t mean that in the I-have-a-passion-for-writing sense; he meant it in the I-am-wildly-uncomfortable sense.
Her hand was soothing, was the point. But only somewhat. He was going to have to turn over eventually. He was going to have to talk. She was going to say more about the book, and he was going to have to listen.
The hand floated away. The bed dipped again as she got out.
She spoke from across the room. “Jack. You did it.”
How could she say that? She’d only read two chapters.
“I know I only read two chapters,” she said, and he smiled in and among his turmoil. “But trust me.”
The funny thing was, he did trust her.
“You did it,” she said again, and then he heard the snick of the door sliding closed behind her.