Chapter 23
Lucy
TJ follows me to Daisy’s. We park, and he trails me inside. My shoulders immediately relax as the warmth from the hearth room thaws my chilled bones.
“It looks like St. Nick threw up in here,” TJ mumbles from behind me.
I turn in time to catch him pulling a face like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. I arch a brow, and his smile turns mischievous. “You were about to tell me all about your—”
“Shh.” I hush him, grabbing for his wrist and pulling him toward the grand staircase in the center of the entryway. “Come on.”
I haul him up the stairs and to the end of the hallway.
I fish my key out of my coat pocket, because yes, all the rooms at Daisy’s Inn have old-fashioned locks with real, live turn keys.
That will totally be making it into a book someday.
I push the door to my room open and motion for him to walk in first.
He hesitates, flicking his gaze to me and then to the open door, before taking a tentative step inside.
“I don’t have cooties.” I push him the rest of the way through the door and shut it behind me.
“I didn’t think that you did. I was only thinking that it might be weird for you to have me in your room. You weren’t expecting to spend the afternoon with me.”
He’s not wrong. I wasn’t expecting to tell him about my secret author life at all, but certainly not this afternoon.
“That’s actually a good point. Why are you in Cashmere Cove?”
TJ opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand.
“I mean, why are you really here? Don’t use the chickens, or the chicken cross-stitch, as an excuse.”
He looks contrite before his features morph into a sheepish smile. “Anton texted that you were at Mood Reader, and I don’t know, I guess seeing you sounded better than doing what I was doing, so here I am.”
Mentally, I tell the excited puppy who’s leaping around my stomach to sit and stay.
I do not know how to handle this type of attention from a man like TJ, and I shouldn’t like it as much as I do.
I can’t deny that it feels good to hear he wants to spend time with me.
I’ve spent far too much time thinking about him the past few days, too.
I can say it’s in the name of research, but that’s not entirely accurate.
The more time I spend with TJ, the more I feel like my fictional version of him will never live up to the reality of the kind and considerate man before me.
TJ’s lingering at the foot of the four-poster bed, looking unsure about where to go and like he wants to crawl out of his skin for admitting that he wanted to hang out with me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say. Honesty is the best policy, after all. “Even if you did wring my biggest secret out of me.” I scowl at him, but I can’t stop my lips from hitching up when he smiles.
“I have so many questions,” he says.
I shake my head. “Here.” I gesture to the chair in the corner of the room. “Let’s sit.”
TJ flops down in the comfy chair, and I slip my winter jacket off and sit cross-legged on the foot of my bed.
“Alright,” I decide to get out in front of this. “Yes, I’m an author. I write under a pen name, and nobody knows this about me. I love creating stories, crafting worlds, and solving problems within the pages of a book. It’s my dream job.”
TJ’s eyes go wide. “You have books published?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
I shift my weight. “Six … so far.”
“You’ve published six books, Lu? Are you kidding me?” His mouth hangs open. “That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”
I’m also supremely self-conscious at the moment. I dip my chin. “It’s not that big of a deal. You’re a professional athlete, so …” I wave my hand around like that speaks for itself.
“We’re not talking about me right now.” TJ makes a pft sound. “Let me be in awe of you for a second. This is the coolest. I can’t believe I have a friend who’s a published author. When did you start writing?”
I blow out of a breath. “It’s a long story.”
He leans back in his chair. “I’ve got the day off, so I’m all yours.”
“I’ve been writing stories since I could write.
Mostly I’d make up stories about little girls and their moms. It made me feel better about missing mine.
My dad would tell me about how wonderful my mom was, and I’d use that as a starting point and write these lavish tales of a mother-daughter duo who saved the world.
” I can’t help but smile. “I called my series The Glorious Girls.”
Warmth emanates from TJ’s expression. “That sounds pretty amazing.”
I tip my chin. “It was good for me, I think. My therapist encouraged it, and I loved writing happy endings.” I swallow. “When my dad passed away, I kept writing. I didn’t have anyone to tell me stories then, and I mostly hated the real world, so I made up scenes that were happy as a way to escape.”
TJ leans forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. “It was how you coped.”
“Pretty much.” I pick at a pill on the comforter before dragging my gaze up to meet his.
“It’s the joy of my life to know that I can bring other people joy with my words.
” It feels raw and vulnerable to say that, especially because of how this year has gone.
I’ve spent a lot of the past few months wondering if I’ll ever be able to create something worthwhile again.
“Are your books popular? Do other people read them, I mean?” TJ’s question stirs me from my dark thoughts.
I think about the call I got from Cassie telling me my third book hit the best-seller list, and I can’t help but smile. “Yeah. People do, or at least they did.”
Confusion mars his features. “What does that mean? They don’t now?”
“I don’t know if I’m going to be able to give my readers something new.” I shrug. “I’ve barely written anything since what happened at the People’s Picks.”
He frowns. “Why’s that?”
“Because I told everyone that being entertained was worthless, and here I am, making my living on books that literally entertain people. I feel like a fraud.”
TJ leans back, studying me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I chuckle, but it’s mirthless. “What else is there to say?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t really discussed it, you and me.”
“That’s because I’m ashamed.”
There’s an unreadable expression on his face. “Can I tell you a secret?” he asks after a moment.
I flick my wrist, gesturing for him to go ahead. I’m bracing for him to tell me I’m a huge jerk and that he can’t believe a person could be as condescending as I was up on that stage.
“I actually thought what you said was pretty great.”
Wait. I replay his words and suck in a breath. “You’re lying.”
“Nope. Cross my heart … again,” he adds.
I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was entitled and belittling and the worst.” I could quote that comment section all day and all night.
He tips his head back and forth like he’s considering this. “But you were also overwhelmed and mortified at what was going on. I’m sure that impacted how things went down.”
I suck in a breath. How can he read me so well? “How do you know that?”
“I may have watched the video a couple of times since meeting you.” He looks sheepish.
My face flushes. “How many times is a couple?”
“A couple dozen.”
“TJ! I’m mortified.” I hide my face in a pillow.
“Don’t be! I’ve studied the film, as any good football player would.
I’ve broken it down and assessed your posture and your expression and your words, and you know what I keep coming back to?
You did something, Lu. You said something.
You acted. Not many people can say they would have stood up and faced something head-on.
But you did. You were in a public pressure cooker situation, so maybe you came off patronizing, but I don’t think what you said was all that off base. ”
I gape at him. I haven’t talked out loud about this at all.
I cried a lot to Cassie and Philly and Bex in the early days.
I told them how sorry I was if I offended them, and they helped me sort through my life and figure out my next steps, but as far as getting into the nitty-gritty of what I said and what I meant?
I haven’t really gone there … with anyone.
“The thing is,” I say, summoning my courage and hoping for the right words to say what I mean without sticking my foot in my mouth.
“I do stand by what I said. Most of what I said,” I amend.
“I definitely shouldn’t have told my sisters and everyone that they didn’t matter or called the masses stupid.
That was wrong of me, and I fully own that.
Everyone matters. But—I don’t know—people get so caught up in social media or entertainment or sports. ” I wince. “Sorry.”
“No, keep talking.”
I take a deep breath. “Or books.” I point at myself, to show him I understand that I’m a part of this narrative, too.
A big part. “Whatever the fixation, in our society of materialism and comfort and consumerism, what we’re fanatical over becomes our entire lives, but that’s not how it’s meant to be.
That’s not what we’re put on this earth for. ”
I close my eyes and blink them open, trying to gauge his reaction. TJ stares at me, but he doesn’t look offended or put off, just curious and attentive.
“I’m sure it sounds hypocritical now that you know I write books for a living,” I go on, “but I don’t want people to be obsessed with my stories to a point that they become the most important thing in their lives.
I want to help people live their actual lives by encouraging them to love deeper or by giving them a moment of peace or escape when life gets hard, so then they can face whatever they’re facing with renewed strength and spirit.
When things get disordered and we put all our emphasis in the wrong places, then everything spirals out of control.
That’s what I was trying to say up there.
That we’d all lost sight of what really mattered.
People and doing good work and loving and serving those around us.
Granted, I picked a terrible moment, and my delivery was all wrong.
So now people think I’m the devil incarnate. ”
“Nobody thinks that,” TJ says indignantly.
I snort. “Trust me. They do. I’ve read all the comments.”
“Please tell me you haven’t.”
I meet his imploring gaze, tipping up my chin. “I read them weekly.”
TJ looks physically pained. “Why would you do that?”
I shrug. “I deserve it. That’s my comeuppance.”
He shakes his head. “People in comment sections are unnecessarily cruel.”
Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I remember one comment in particular. “Yeah,” I say, my voice wobbling.
TJ’s warm gaze never leaves my face as he tosses the pillow on the floor and leans forward in his chair. “Hey, talk to me, Lu. You’ve been carrying a lot of this alone. I’m here.”
I let out a shaky breath. “It’s stupid.” I look down at my knees for something to focus on. “There’s been a couple comments alluding to how the world would be better without me in it, and that’s—”
“No.” TJ’s voice is sharp and my gaze snaps to him. He kneels down on the floor in front of the bed and grabs for my hands. He squeezes them as his eyes bore into mine. “There is no version of this world that’s better without you in it. Do you believe that?”
I gulp down my emotions. “I know. I do,” I whisper.
I can’t believe I’m talking about this with him or anyone, but the words start flowing before I can even consider keeping them cooped up inside.
“I haven’t considered hurting myself or anything like that.
But sometimes when I read comments like that on those articles, I’d be lying if I said I don’t think about how much easier it would be if I just wasn’t …
here. If I’d died with my mom during childbirth, or if I’d gone to the store and stopped to get gas with my dad.
None of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have offended the entire entertainment industry and the general public.
I wouldn’t be struggling to string a sentence together when I used to be able to write pages and pages each day.
I made everything so hard, and I hate it.
I guess I could have kept my mouth shut and that would have solved the problem, too.
” I try to laugh it off, but a tear trickles down my cheek.
TJ reaches up to brush it away. “Can we be friends who hug?” he asks. “I’d like to hug you right now.”
I nod, too overwhelmed to speak. He opens his arms. I crawl up on my knees and collapse into his embrace.