Chapter 5 #3
“Anyway,” he says, looking at his shoes, “I’d have thought you were a scholarship darling.”
“Well, Maral’s parents paid through the nose.
” She’d gotten a little help from MIT, but not the full tuition.
Her parents were in a better position to help financially than mine would have been—her dad was an engineer himself, had moved to the States for grad school, and was the reason my parents got a timely sponsorship to immigrate here themselves, so he made a decent living.
Mine would never have been able to send me to college, let alone med school, let alone at Harvard.
“But you’re not wrong. I got a full ride. ”
“Why am I not surprised?” His tone is tender somehow, and he’s looking at me like he’s trying to puzzle me out.
“What about you?” I ask. “How did you go from writing to publicity?”
He puffs out a breath. “Publicity paid the bills.”
“Did you want to be a writer?” I ask.
“It was an interest.”
“Was?”
He hesitates a moment before amending, “Is an interest.”
The plot of Ryan’s life story thickens. “Why didn’t you pursue that?”
“Oh, um. I need to eat. And live somewhere?”
I laugh. “You want to achieve both of those things, in New York? Amateur.”
He nods. “It was a pipe dream.”
“Is it hard, spreading the word about other people’s books full-time instead of working on your own?”
“Not in the way you might think. I sought a career in publishing because books have always been meaningful to me. If my efforts get more of them into more hands, all the better. And Woodsworth is a good employer.”
“They meet your greatest needs?” I ask, raising a brow.
He gives a single slow nod. “They do.” There’s something in his voice that’s almost…resigned?
Questions pile up in my mind like grains of sand in an hourglass, but I do an admirable job of tamping down my natural tendency to railroad him and choose just one. “What are you writing now?”
He seems genuinely surprised at the question. “Why do you assume I’m writing something now?”
“Just because it’s not your job doesn’t mean you aren’t doing it on your own time.
Writers are always writing something. They can’t not.
It’s a compulsion.” I know this from research, having interviewed countless people who don’t have their parents’ blessing to pursue artistic endeavors but can’t stop themselves from expressing themselves creatively, even if it’s not in a professional capacity.
He watches me as I speak, eyes twinkling. “It’s…commercial sci-fi,” he says finally.
“About…”
“About two people separated in the multiverse. Trying to find each other again.” You’d think I had him by the throat, the way the words come out strangled.
“Like, a love story?”
He pauses for a beat. “It’s still rough,” he says by way of an answer.
“When can I read it?” I ask.
He scratches his eyebrow, red creeping farther up his neck. “It’s—I’m—it’s not fit for consumption.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “I’m kidding. I won’t make you share it.” I wink. “Yet.”
He’s flustered—I’ve flustered him. The delight blooming in my chest is pure sunshine.
“Do you think you’ll submit to Woodsworth when it’s done?” I ask.
“Ah,” he hedges, “it’s a little premature to even think about publishing it. And also, no. That would be a conflict of interest.”
Of course. Those professional boundaries. “I’ve been my own boss for so long that I forget about the red tape of corporate bureaucracy.”
“Yeah. The red tape can be…” His eyes flash to mine. “Limiting.”
The words sound loaded, but there are other publishers—lots of them. Tons of ways to get his book out into the world. If it’s good.
Somehow, I can’t imagine Ryan writing anything bad.
“Well, I believe in you,” I say.
He looks surprised. “High praise if I’ve managed to impress the famed Ana Movilian.”
I squint. “The word impress is a…choice.”
“Are you”—his brows rise—“so proud of me?”
“Okay.”
“I see the appeal of your whole deal even more now—”
“All right.”
“—that it applies directly to me.”
“Yep.”
There are sparks in his eyes, as if fireworks are going off inside his head.
It brings a whole new dimension to his vibe, his serious demeanor made…
not quite playful, but a step in its direction.
Somehow, it makes him even more handsome.
I’m very aware once again that he’s in my hotel room, that the door is closed, that I’m commando under my clothes.
That there is a sex toy not ten feet from us, and that the sum total of all these things is causing my nipples to stiffen.
I cross my arms over my chest. If he notices, he has the class not to show it.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your…” He regards the mess around him. “Essay.”
We say our good nights. As the door snicks shut behind him, it heralds a sudden breakthrough.
Ideas flood my brain for how to tackle the essay topic, creative juices flowing, as though the conversation with Ryan turned on a tap.
I race to the desk and start typing riotously on my laptop.
I don’t stop for a good twenty minutes, banging out a solid first draft that I then begin to fine-tune.
The momentum drowns out any hint of the distant sting that’s pestered me since Elevate. Inspiration, check. Energy restored.