Chapter 25
I race back to my room and open up the first chapter of my forever work-in-progress. It’s been so long since I’ve opened it
that I squint having to reread it again. It’s painful.
Thirty-two pages of a horrible start to a horrible story that, if continued, would no doubt meet a horrible end.
Is this really what all this work was for?
This drivel?
And the worst part is, for the thirty-two-page, three-year-long project, it still isn’t a complete chapter.
Nothing of the sort.
Just a girl wandering around aimlessly, much like me the past few days on this ship. Without a clue.
Without a goal.
At least, I guess, I had a goal the past few days we’ve been on the ship.
If the story had been about me these crazy past few days . . .
I suck in a breath so sharply that Nash says, “What?” from the other side of the room.
I just shake my head.
The pieces are coming together, the ideas falling into place better than this old trash heap of a working manuscript I’ve
wasted so much time on.
I’m too scared to say anything out loud, my hope rising like a rocket from its launching pad, and so I don’t say anything.
I open a new document.
Type a word.
Two.
Precisely eighty-six minutes of nonstop typing later, I sit back against the pillow and headboard of the bed. I can’t believe
it.
My fingers are bent with overuse and probably destined to be so for some time. They need icing. My brain needs icing. Everything
needs icing.
But for the first time in my entire life, I did something I didn’t know was possible.
I wrote.
I . . . as it turns out . . . can write.
I can write.
I had to finally let go of that old, dead-end story and be willing to give my mind a fresh start—as Hugh always said.
I’ve got a first chapter fleshed out, and better than that, even, an outline—nothing as good as Gordon’s but far more polished
than Hugh’s—that’ll guide me through the rest of the book to a complete end.
I just needed a push.
A rather big push, as it turns out.
One from a friend who . . . quite possibly . . . was willing to fake his own death to give it to me.
“Congratulations. How did it feel?”
The bed dips down as Nash sits beside me. His arm wraps around my shoulders. His gaze shifts from me to the computer.
He looked over my shoulder at some vague point, but when it was clear what I was doing, he pulled back and gave me some space.
Eventually he pulled out his own computer and for some time the room was silent but for the typing on our computers.
It was quite cozy in fact.
Quite . . . special.
I’d like nothing more than a thousand more nights, ten thousand more nights, together, like this.
I’m grinning from ear to ear. “Great. Too great for words, actually. How was your writing time?”
“I just finished. Thank you for asking.”
My brow rises. “You finished your book?”
He nods. “And you got your feet under yours. I’d say congratulations are in order for us both. You’re one of us now, I think.
You’ve got the bug.”
“I’ve got the confidence. I . . . can do it.” I’m still marveling.
“Of course you can. You always could.”
“I know. But this time . . .” I pause, shaking my head. “You know, it’s not as hard to write a book as I thought.”
Nash laughs. A big, mirthful laugh. “I look forward to our talk when you’re in edits. We’ll see how you like it then.” His
lips brush my cheek, leaving a breezy peck before I see his smiling eyes again. “I kid, Pip. You’re going to be great.”
I extend a kiss, a longer one this time, and when I pull back, I say, “Hey. I don’t know if you’re busy tomorrow, but . . .
if you’re not . . . I’ve got another chapter to do.”
“Are you asking me on a date?” His eyes twinkle. “A writing date?”
I grin.
“Oh, you’ve got the bug bad,” Nash says with a laugh. “Even solving a murder on your first day in Europe, you’re talking about work.”
“I just . . . I have these ideas running through my head now—”
“I know the feeling, Pip. You’re in welcome company. I can’t imagine, though, with your drive for analyzing . . . I wonder . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m just looking forward to seeing how this all plays out. What kind of writer you’re going to end up being. Slow and
meticulous or rabid fast.”
I snap my computer shut.
Pop it open again on second thought; email my chapter to at least twelve different trusted sources. Then shut it again.
“What was that for?” Nash says.
I’m halfway to the door and stop. “I may be new to writing, but I’ve been around all you people enough years to know you never,
ever trust your book to be saved in one place. I’ll die if I go through one of your lost-manuscript sagas. It’s in your inbox for
safekeeping. And Neena’s. And even creepy Ricky’s. Now, c’mon.”
“Where are we going?”
“To give Hugh the final piece of the puzzle.”