Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Noah
I rub my eyes, trying to wipe away the blurry vision, though it does no good. Blinking, I move on to the next line of my equipment chapter. It’s probably the fourth—or is it the thirtieth? —time that I’ve rewritten it, and it still doesn’t feel right.
Then again, nothing feels right in my life anymore. So what am I expecting? Everything to magically make sense again?
Sighing, I stand, about to leave my office for a cup of coffee, when my laptop beeps with a notification.
Immediately, my chest tightens. Ever since Alexis's last article came out, messages have been my worst enemy. More often than not, it’s someone calling me a hack and demanding that I retire.
When it’s not that, it’s another publication asking me to write a response to Alexis's article.
Or it’s my agent, chiming in and encouraging me to write that response—which, no way in hell will I do. Alexis and I have both been dragged through enough mud.
Leaning over, I glance at the screen. It’s not a troll, though. It’s Alexis.
Leaving the coffee till later, I sit back down and open her email. Apparently, she has more notes that she wants me to incorporate in this round of edits.
But it’s not that at all. It’s a message telling me that the rewrites I send her tomorrow will be the last part of the book she edits for me, followed by a list of personally recommended editors.
That’s it. There’s nothing more other than a formal sign off. No explanation. Nothing personal at all.
And why should there be? This is what things have come to between us. We might as well be strangers.
Slumping back in my office chair, I stare at the computer screen. I want to be angry with her, but that’s impossible because this is all my fault. I did this. I ruined her chance at her dream job. Ruined our relationship.
“Fuck.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, trying to shut out the world.
This book was supposed to be a major launching point for both of us, and now I don’t even care about it anymore. Who gives a fuck if it even gets published? Without Alexis, it’s lost its spark. No random editor could bring that back.
Just like no other woman could bring that spark to the rest of my life. It has to be Alexis. She’s the only woman I want to work on my book with, that I want to laugh with, that I want to wake up with.
Opening my eyes, I notice something I didn’t before. A link at the bottom of her email. Clicking it, I find a review of Rye Again. It’s similar to the draft she showed me a few weeks ago, glowing and full of praise, but with some tweaks. And the by-line credits another writer.
My stomach lurches. What the hell? Why would she…
Of course. She wants to avoid any more backlash.
It’s a smart move, but she shouldn’t have to do it. Not after she worked so hard on the review—and, even after I broke up with her, kept her opinion positive.
She’s too damn nice to me, and maybe it’s best that we broke up after all. I don’t deserve her one bit.
A knock brings my attention to the open door, where Lawrence stands. “Hey.”
“Hey. What are you still doing here?”
“I left and came back.” He crosses the office and opens the blinds. To my shock, it’s dark out. “You know what time it is?”
“Uh… Seven?”
“Seven?” His eyebrows rise. “It’s not even dark out at seven. It’s nine thirty.”
“What?” I gasp, whipping my neck to look at the wall clock.
“If you’re gonna start living down here, I suggest you at least consider eating. Come on. I used the day’s leftover dough to make calzones.” He leaves the office without waiting for my response.
I stand and follow, surprised at how much my hands are shaking.
Alexis's email has me steadily unwinding, all of my choices that once seemed so solid now scattering in the wind. I’m trying to locate all the points where I could have done something different, where I could have made a choice that would have saved both my career and my relationship, but nothing comes to mind.
I’ve fucked up, and yet I don’t know where I was supposed to have done things different.
“Hope you like pepperoni.” Lawrence leads me into the dining room, where two huge calzones wait on one of the tables. It reminds me of the Italian night I set up for Alexis—how stupid and silly it was, and yet she still appreciated it—and I almost crack.
More collapsing than sitting onto one of the chairs, I stare at the calzone and beer in front of me. “Looks good. Thank you.”
Metal scrapes against ceramic as Lawrence cuts into his dinner. “You talked to Alexis at all?”
“She sent me an email.” The words are sawdust in my mouth. Other than sharing a brief summary of the breakup, I haven’t talked to Lawrence about her.
“An email about what?”
“She’s quitting the book. She sent me some recommendations for other editors.”
He sucks in a sharp breath. “How do you feel about that?”
“Shitty.” I blink at him. “Everything has gotten so mixed up. You really were right after all. Especially with her last review… she was just trying to help, and it all blew up. I pushed her away and I don’t know—maybe I shouldn’t have done that. But what was I supposed to do? I can’t…”
Running out of steam, I drop my head forward into my hands.
Lawrence says nothing. Only the rush of an occasional car on the street outside breaks up the silence.
Finally… “Why does the review matter?”
I lift my head. What the hell? Isn’t it obvious?
“Why does the book matter?” He adds.
Is he being serious? “Because—because they’re my career. My reputation. My life.”
“Your career is your life?” His disdain is only thinly veiled. “They matter more than being happy?”
“Lawrence. They make me happy.”
“Really?” He chuckles and goes back to eating his calzone. “Because you don’t seem happy.”
“Yeah, because things haven’t been going well the last few years. Once Rye Again takes off?—”
“Then you’ll be happy for a little bit, until something else happens. Because this is life, and shit is always happening.”
My hands clench on my lap. “Dude. You know how important this place is. The book, too. I broke up with Alexis because it got too complicated, just like you said it would, and now you’re telling me it was the wrong thing to do?”
“I’m not saying it was the wrong thing to do. Only you know whether it was or not.” He puts his fork and knife down. “Look, I’m just calling it how I see it, and what I see is a man who puts a great deal of his happiness into something that’s ultimately out of his control.”
“It’s not out of my control,” I argue. “Rye Again is off to a great start. I just need to make sure?—”
“You can tick off all the boxes, Noah, but the truth is that Rye Again might still close. Something you never see coming could happen. The whole block could burn down. Your dad could get sick and you need to move to take care of him. You could wake up one day and realize that you want to try something new. All of these things happen. Businesses closing at some point is inevitable, and it doesn’t mean that they were failures.
Once Rye Again closes, whether that’s in forty years or six months, it just means that you opened a bakery that people loved for a while and then you closed it.
What I’m getting at is that I hate seeing your happiness depend on something that is, ultimately, temporary. ”
“I…” I move my jaw around, lost for words.
“Also, if you want to get your book out there, you don’t need a publisher or agent to do it.
With your online following, you’d have to do hardly any promotion if you self-published it.
” He picks up his fork and knife and resumes eating.
“Just something to consider,” he says matter-of-fact around a bite.
“I know. I know I could do that.”
“So why publish it traditionally? What are you trying to prove?”
My face turns hot, but I don’t have a rebuttal. I already know the answer: I want the world to see that I’m the real deal, that I know what I’m talking about.
Even more, I want my dad to see that.
Shit .
Is this why I’ve been working basically twenty-hour days for months? To show my dad that my dreams are worth investing in? That they’re valuable? That what happened in NYC doesn’t define me?
I already know the answer, and it’s a punch to the gut.
My whole life, I’ve wanted to make my dad proud. That’s why I’ve hated him even suggesting that I slow down. That gives the impression that he thinks I’ll never be successful so I shouldn’t even try.
But maybe he has a point. And maybe so does Lawrence. Maybe I’ve been doing too much, and even if I reach success—whatever the hell that means—it won’t even be worth it. There will always be people who criticize me, always someone who believes I’m a fraud.
“I want my dad to be proud,” I admit.
Lawrence grunts in sympathy. “You’re trying to get him to come out here to see Rye Again?”
I rub my brow. “I told him not to come. I want him to wait.”
“For what?”
“Until the place feels successful enough.” I laugh out loud, it suddenly seems that ridiculous.
“It looks pretty damn successful to me. You get your ass down here each morning to bake bread, and then the whole city spills in here like a pack of hungry wolves. What could say ‘success’ more? I guarantee that if you bring your dad here, he’ll be impressed.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Maybe.”
I take a deep breath. Could it be that my dad hasn’t been waiting for me to fail? That, instead, he’s just been looking out for me? I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for months, and I’d be worried about him too if the situation was reversed.
I need to call him. Apologize for being distant. Thank him for having my back. Invite him out here for a visit.
“Anything else?” Lawrence cocks his head.
My chest tightens. Yes. There’s Alexis. The greatest woman I’ve ever met, and my biggest fuckup to date.
But what am I supposed to do about that? Bitch and moan?
No. Only action will take care of that situation.
“No,” I say.
“Good.” He nods at my plate. “Now eat the calzone that I slaved over. You’re hurting my feelings.”
I choke out a laugh. “Thanks, man. This is exactly what I needed.”