Page 64 of Breakout Year

Willow passed him a stack of papers. It took a moment for Akiva’s eyes to focus.

Here was a contract or the beginning of one.

A full co-byline. An even division of advance and royalties.

“This is too much.” His voice was tight in his throat.

This had to be happening to someone else, some other Akiva who was a much better writer.

“You’ve been doing the work already,” Sue said. “It’s time that was reflected in your compensation.” She adjusted one of her weighted gloves. “This is only for five more books. After that, we’ll talk about transitioning the series over to you, if that’s what you want.”

“You don’t want to write anymore?” he asked. Because Sue always seemed indefatigable, though in the morning light, he could see that her hair was coming in gray at the roots.

“I’m too old to be pushed around by deadlines,” she scoffed. Then added, more quietly, “I’d like to get some rest now and again.” Her hands shook, and she placed them on the surface of the table and frowned at them as if willing them to stop.

Briefly, Akiva wished he could go back to walking with the sun on his face. He was ready to leave. He’d decided to leave. And yet…

Five books. Five books with his name right on the cover.

Five books with his words in them, words other people would know were his.

Five books, with the corresponding money in his bank account.

He’d worked for Sue long enough that he was well-versed in her financials—mostly double-checking royalty statements and logging things for quarterly taxes.

Half of that for one book would be enough to pay back Mark and put a dent in his student loans.

That times five and he could maybe, perhaps, possibly take that money to his parents.

See if their old house was on the market. At least not go to them empty handed.

He skimmed through the papers again. “What’s this about a new series?”

With that, Sue sat up a little taller. Even her hair seemed to fluff up.

“I’ve decided to launch a line of mysteries.

Fortunately, my publisher agrees.” Though from the way she said agree s, it sounded like they hadn’t had much choice.

“We’ll feature new authors—undiscovered talents, really.

People with unique points of view.” She paused.

Akiva was familiar with that pause—he’d seen it bring rapt audiences to attention enough to know when he was being gently manipulated.

Still, it worked because with each passing second—one, two, three—his heart accelerated that much more.

“I want your book to be the first one we publish,” she said. “With a few edits, of course.”

“Edits?” His belly dropped.

“It’s a good book. With some work, it could be a great book.”

Akiva waited for the accompanying but . If he’d learned anything in the past seven years, it was that certain things came with catches.

“I’d like to see more of you in the story—for whatever that means to you.”

A book. His book, with whatever parts of himself he decided to share with the world.

Mentally, he started revising all his Roses back into Raisels .

For whatever reason, the thought made him blink, then blink again.

He would not give into this feeling welling in his chest, the one that indicated he might cry, mostly in case Willow attributed it to his moon sign. “Isn’t this favoritism?” he asked.

Sue tossed him a smile. “That’s what happens when you’re someone’s favorite.”

Now Akiva really did need a tissue. He sniffled, and Kanitha took pity on him and pushed over a box of Kleenex. “I don’t know what to say,” he said.

“You could begin with ‘yes’ for starters,” Sue said.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. But what came out was, “I need to think about it.”

Kanitha nodded. “We imagined you’d have questions.”

He did, a few dozen of them, all hovering just beyond his mind’s reach. Finally, he arrived on one. “Are you getting another assistant?” he asked Sue.

“Is that what you want to know? And yes, I would need someone else to harass me about logistics.”

“And you’ll listen to them?”

“Spencer,” she said, “do you want to know how I got the typewriter that I used to write my first book? My ex-husband, may he rest in hell, gave it to me. He said it was so I could become a better secretary—mostly he wanted me to be his secretary. For free . So I wrote that book just to spite him. There’s nothing wrong with being a secretary.

But you can aspire to something different. ”

“I just—” Akiva started. “I worry about you.”

“Famously, I can do for myself when a man leaves me,” she said, a touch acidly.

But she extended one of her gloved hands across the surface of the table.

“I am very proud of my son. He’s off living his life.

But you get to be my age, and you start reflecting on how you’ve shaped the world.

What ceilings you’ve busted through. What ladders you’ve extended to other people to ease their climb. ”

“I don’t—” Deserve this . Akiva’s gut reaction.

That he couldn’t be trusted not to squander a big opportunity.

“I don’t know if this would work,” he said, finally.

On his walk, he’d thought about how to broach this conversation with her, but he hadn’t imagined he’d be witnessed by anyone else. “I was thinking about moving.”

That got a slight raise of Sue’s dyed-black eyebrows. “Oh. Where?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“By coincidence, is someone else moving with you?”

“That’s, uh, the idea.”

Sue relaxed back into her chair. Turned to Kanitha. “Would our being in different states raise complications for the arrangement?”

“Nothing we couldn’t navigate,” Kanitha said, as if the answer was relatively obvious and she was mostly saying this for Akiva’s sake.

“Do you think that someone who is moving to be with a partner should develop their own income streams to maintain their financial independence?”

Kanitha smiled. “I can’t speak to that from a legal perspective.”

“Do you think?—”

Akiva put his hand up. “Point taken, Sue.” He studied the papers in front of him. “I want to get this reviewed by another agent.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“The last page is an NDA,” Willow chimed in. “So that we can begin that negotiation process.”

Akiva’s heart started going again, a beat rapid enough that it’d be better suited to a leap from a moving train than a midday conference table.

He was going to do this. He resisted the urge to race down a dozen sets of stairs, to yell into the street.

Instead, he reached into his bag, pulled out a pen, a nice ballpoint that had been sitting on his dresser when he’d woken up.

Eitan had grinned, asked if he liked the feel of the pen in his hand.

When Akiva had said he did, Eitan had kissed him, whispered, “Write me a book,” then contradicted himself by coaxing Akiva right back into bed.

The NDA didn’t have a designated signature line. So he signed, a big cursive version of his signature, different from the one he’d spent his teenage years perfecting for autographs. His name. Not Spencer . Not anyone else.

“Right,” he said, “so what comes now?”

Akiva was a stop away from home, ruminating out the window, when he registered which station he was at.

He startled, shook his head slightly, took in the familiar surroundings.

It was barely noon, and today had already been full.

If he stayed on board, he could go home, see Eitan.

Eitan would probably insist on celebrating, and Akiva would insist right along with him.

Still, there was one more thing that, the second he’d thought of it, he knew he couldn’t leave unfinished.

He got up, flung himself toward the eclipsing doors, only got a little of his shirt pinched as he made it to the platform.

Common sense would prevail if he thought about any of this, so he didn’t and just hailed a cab and had only a moment’s hesitancy as he told the driver his destination.

Ten minutes later, they arrived on Akiva’s parents’ street.

His parents’ new house was white with dark blue trim.

They must have painted it since the last time Akiva had looked at it on Google Maps, not that he’d done that.

“Here?” the driver said, when he’d braked and Akiva hadn’t gone for the door handle.

“Here,” Akiva confirmed and got out of the cab before he could tell the driver that he wanted a ride back to the train station.

It was midday. It was possible his parents weren’t home.

Cars were parked on the street out front, but none he recognized.

Maybe they had a parking spot out back. Maybe they’d gone carless after the move.

Maybe he should turn back. His hands, he realized, were empty.

He should be bringing wine, food, flowers.

His much more famous and successful boyfriend who might deflect some of the shame that Akiva shouldered along with his bag.

If he went to the store to buy something, he’d lose his nerve entirely. So he took himself up the concrete steps, past the lawn now going brown with winter. His mother had presided over a large garden at the other house. He wondered if the path would bloom come spring.

The door knocker was cold under his palm. He rapped it a few times, then waited. He could hear movement from inside. The peephole darkened as if someone was looking through it. Finally, the lock turned.

His mother was shorter than Akiva remembered.

The few hairs sticking out from her tichel scarf had gone from brown to gray in their time apart.

She was looking up at him as if he’d appeared on her doorstep like a ghost. She might not let him inside.

It was possible, after all this, they’d become strangers to each other.

I came because I have news. I can fix everything between us.

All of which died in his mouth. Money had broken things between them, but the rift might be beyond what money could repair.

I’m a success . Even if he wasn’t yet, the possibility was there, and that was enough.

I’m sorry you lost your house. Are you sorry you lost your son?

His eyes stung with the cold, with sudden tears.

“I wanted to let you know I got good news. A lot of it actually.”

His mother blinked up at him, then clasped his hands in hers. “You’re cold,” she said. “Where are your gloves?” Her mouth took on a certain reproval that Akiva recognized, mostly from the mirror. She stepped back, waved him into the house. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

The hallway smelled of floor polish and cooking aromas.

The pictures on the walls included one of Akiva—the same one as on the baseball card he had, the only one he’d ever be issued.

He remembered trying to look serious in the photo, even if now he just thought he looked some combination of grim and scared.

Still, his parents had kept it. Hung it up in their new house like they had been waiting for him to come see it.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

Maybe next time—if there was a next time—he’d bring a new picture to replace that one.

For now, he called down the hallway to where his mother was already in the kitchen. “Actually, I could really use some tea.”