Chapter Six #2
I get up and put the chickadee under Truth, placing the happy face off to the side.
Dylan assumes his considering face while scrubbing his glass and setting it in the drying rack, a necessary task since my grandmother never installed a dishwasher.
“Yale, huh?” He tips his chin again, this time at my oversize tee.
“Grad school. Yeah. But I only wear this to sleep in. I’m not one of those assholes who makes sure everyone knows I attended an Ivy.
In fact, most of the time I hide it. It’s a real date killer.
So is being published and tenured.” I cringe, worried I sound like I’m humblebragging, but Dylan doesn’t look like he’s judging me.
In fact, he never looks like he’s judging me.
“I think we both know who the asshole was in that scenario,” he says.
I smile in thanks, but inside I’m reliving some truly terrible first dates, watching a distinct pattern form.
One in which it became clear: A woman having accomplishments is admirable.
A woman having more impressive accomplishments than her date pretty much guarantees a “no spark” text.
Also, it’s astonishing how mentioning a PhD in history seldom led to men asking me anything about history but nearly always led to them telling me what they knew about history.
Oh, Noah. How I’ll miss the clarity and ease of your U up? texts.
“Did you like it?” Dylan asks. “Grad school?”
“I loved it. It was exhausting, especially fitting in part-time jobs around all the research, but with the exception of my visits here, it was the only time I felt like I was precisely where I was meant to be. I was doing what I loved, on a direct path toward my dream career.”
Dylan nods without pressing for more, a habit I’m quickly coming to appreciate. He knows from our first conversation that my “dream career” didn’t turn out as expected. He knows I’m here to figure out a new dream, or at least a new set of expectations. Which reminds me . . .
I grab my empty cereal bowl and join him by the sink. He steps away, putting space between us, and his inability to stand within a few feet of me could be offensive, but I’ve noticed this pattern already. He’s been alone for a long time. I like my space, too. I can give him his.
“Any chance I can talk you into a truth next?” I ask as I clean my dishes.
He shakes his head. “Truth is dangerous.”
“I can think of some pretty risky dares, too.”
“It’s not the same.”
I give this some thought. It doesn’t take much.
“No,” I say. “I guess it isn’t.”
We swap a smile, a barely there one, which is the only kind I’ve seen on him. It feels big, though, like more stones toppling from the fortress, and the quiet understanding between us is nice, like the lights he left on last night. It’s another moment that makes me feel less alone.
Or maybe it makes me feel less lonely.
“Can I ask you a question anyway?” I ask. “One that isn’t part of the game?”
“Only if I can reserve the right not to answer.”
“That’s fair.” I set my dishes in the rack with his glass and give him my full attention. “What do you know about my grandmother’s plans for the last six Zane Scarlett books?”
He sucks in a breath, blowing it out slowly as he scratches the back of his neck in a way that’s part “the Baller” and part his own already familiar, habitual nervous gesture.
“She talked about the stories,” he says. “A new love interest. A siren’s curse. A race for treasure buried in the Arctic Circle. A final face-off with Scarlett’s nemesis. We discussed how I might take over wherever she left off, but we never made a formal plan. She thought . . .”
I nod so he doesn’t have to say it and I don’t have to hear it.
She thought she’d have more time. We all did.
Iris Flynn battled cancer for three years, but when she left us, she left us quickly.
None of us knew it would be her last week or her last day.
At least I told her I loved her while sneaking in a visit over a long weekend shortly before her compromised immune system allowed a severe case of pneumonia to invade.
I was back in Chicago when my mom called with the news.
I took my meager allotted week of compassionate leave before resuming lectures about military tactics of the Ottoman Empire and the first Jacobite rising, furious I wasn’t allowed more time to grieve but also grateful I had something to think about besides the enormous gulf of loss threatening to swallow me whole.
“Also, your mom had other ideas,” Dylan adds.
“A bestselling author,” I say, and then risk asking, “Are you a bestselling author?”
Dylan makes a strangled sound that might or might not be a laugh.
“I thought you googled me,” he says.
“I stopped at the scowl. The other Dylan Sterling’s scowl.”
“Ah.” He draws in another deep breath, shifting and shrugging like he’s wearing a hair shirt, even though he’s in the most comfortable-looking clothes I can imagine.
“I drafted a novel once, in my midtwenties. Only one person read it. A professional editor. She wasn’t a fan, and her feedback made it clear no one else would be a fan, either.
So, um, no. No bestsellers. No books at all.
In fact, your grandmother was the only person who thought of me as a writer. ”
This breaks my heart a little, even if his manuscript is as bad as his reader said it was. He still wrote it, and my grandmother wouldn’t have relied on him if he had nothing to offer.
“Do you know about any notes or outlines she left behind?” I ask.
“She was always jotting down something in those last years.” He finally stops scratching his neck and draws his hand over the lower half of his face, another familiar gesture. “But I’ve searched her office. I also had access to her computer. Nothing. I gave up years ago.”
I slouch against the counter, feeling as defeated as he looks.
“That’s not what I was hoping to hear,” I say.
“You want to sell them to her publisher?”
“Not really.” I stop there, worried I’ve already said too much, but since Dylan hasn’t judged me yet . . . “But if they’re enough to work from, I might want to sell them the books.”
He blinks at me for what feels like forever, batting his ridiculously dense lashes. His eyes would be compelling without them, but with them . . . with them, it’s no wonder he graces book covers and gets people to buy lettuce, even if he hasn’t bought a vegetable for himself in years.
“Let me guess,” I say when he remains silent. “You want to write them, too.”
“I did, then,” he says. “Now? I don’t know.”
“Now?” I ask.
“Mm,” he mumbles, and the sound sticks in his throat, as though even that’s hard to say.
He’s running his full gamut of tics and twitches.
The neck scratch. The face rub. The restless eyes.
The shift from foot to foot. A dozen follow-up questions press at my lips, but his writing is obviously a much more sensitive topic than his modeling career, so I opt to pivot.
“One last question?” I ask.
“As long as I can still refuse to answer it.”
“Of course. This isn’t meant to be an inquisition.”
“Sorry.” He shifts as though he’s about to step farther away from me, but he stops himself and plants his feet firmly on the floor. “Just, well, you know already. Go ahead.”
I do know, I think. Living together is an adjustment for me, too, but I go ahead and ask.
“Do you think she wanted the books to be written? Even if she couldn’t write them?”
He nods without hesitation. “I know she wanted her story to continue.”
“Even though she didn’t leave her notes where someone could easily find them?”
“Maybe she was worried the work wouldn’t be done well.”
I flinch, instantly defensive. “And you think I wouldn’t do it well?”
He shakes his head. “From what I know of you, I suspect you do almost anything well.”
“Oh,” I say, and this time I’m the one who needs a minute. So I swallow, and swallow again, and run through my own gamut of nervous gestures, while he waits, watching me, until I’m composed enough to say, “Then I guess we should keep looking for those outlines.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess we should.”