Page 12 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

Mossfern Estates, it turned out, was on the east side of town.

It wasn’t an area I went to often. The east side of town was the inland side, which meant that it was more affordable than other neighborhoods because, for most people, it was less desirable.

That’s not to say that the area was unattractive.

Sure, the homes tended to be older, and there were some stretches of county road that needed to be patched.

But like everywhere on the coast, it was still gorgeous: big stands of pine and spruce, ferns lining the roads, thick layers of duff that smelled sweet and resinous when the windows were down.

The Swift River ran here, and although that meant that some parts were swampy and, uh, insect-y, it also offered beautiful views.

The waters were high this year, and when we crossed an old stone bridge, Mr. Archer and two of his grandkids were fishing off the side of it.

Mr. Archer waved and then hurried to help one of the little kids who was flailing a fishing rod, trying to land a fish.

We drove in silence. It was, for the most part, a comfortable silence. Bobby wasn’t a chatterbox (I’m sure you’re shocked), and as we’d spent more time together, I’d started to love how easy it was to be with him, how calming it felt not to have to say anything, how comfortable I was.

That was all true in general. It didn’t apply when I was still trying to figure out the weirdness that had happened backstage at The Foxworthy.

Was it guilt? That thought popped into my head.

Was Bobby projecting? I mean, in the last few months, things had definitely cooled off between us in the monkey-business department.

(Can you call it monkey business if you’re more than twelve years old?) We hadn’t talked about it, not in depth, but I understood.

Bobby’s mom had died. Bobby was still grappling with powerful, complicated emotions.

Grief, obviously. A lot of anger. And it was common, during those times, for someone’s sex drive to drop.

Did I miss Bobby? Sure. I mean, sex with Bobby was great.

Sex with Bobby was my favorite . (Not to get into the weeds about it, but he was a real gentleman but also, uh, intense, and if you haven’t experienced that combination, it’s chef’s kiss).

But had I been wrong? Was Bobby seeing somebody else, and that’s why we hadn’t been intimate?

No.

Absolutely not.

Bobby—my Bobby—would never do something like that.

So then why had he gone psycho—for lack of a better word—back at the theater (even if it was only his oh-so-gentle Bobby version of it)?

Inquiring minds wanted to know. (Also, it was making my tummy hurt.)

“How are revisions going?” Bobby asked.

The question—and the topic—seemed to come out of nowhere, and it took me a moment to reorient myself.

After receiving some rejections on the manuscript of my novel (by which I mean, a cascade of nos from literally every agent I could think of), I’d been revising with the hopes of: a) finding another agent, somewhere, I hadn’t already queried (probably hiding under a rock), and b) getting representation.

“They’re going,” I said. But that didn’t seem like enough, so I added, “They’re good.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

The tires hummed.

“Are you getting close to finishing?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t know. Probably. I guess I have to be finished with them sometime.”

We drove under an old pine. The shadows were cool against my face.

Bobby glanced over. “Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you told me you were almost done.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not.”

“Why not?”

Dear reader, you might be wondering: did I scream?

Almost.

I didn’t, though, because this was Bobby we were talking about, and since this was Bobby, this was a real question. He meant it. Like there was one answer, and like I could just say it.

So, I drew a deep breath and said, “I don’t know.

It’s complicated. You revise one part, and that means you have to go back and change another part, and that changes something else, so then you have to fix that.

It’s like a horrible Rube Goldberg machine that never actually catches the mouse at the end. ”

I thought that was a pretty neat piece of bait, but Bobby didn’t take it. “But these new revisions, the ones you discovered as you were fixing other stuff, they’re going well?”

“Yes, yeah, I guess.”

“That’s good.”

“Uh huh.”

(Life hack: uh huh is a fantastic way of signaling the end of a conversation, particularly with a significant other.)

Unless, apparently, that significant other is Bobby Mai, because he said, “When do you think you’ll be done?”

“I don’t know, Bobby.”

“Is it going to take long?”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“Do you want me to help you make a list of everything you want to change?”

“No!” The word was practically a shout. “I don’t need a list, Bobby. I don’t need help. I’m fine. It’s a complicated process. It’s—it’s delicate. It’s not linear, and it’s not something you can check off like you’re shopping for groceries.”

(Although, a treacherous part of me said, a list was exactly what Hugo had advised.)

We drove a quarter mile. The ferns lifted and fell in the air displaced by Bobby’s cruiser. Out in the woods, the trees wilted in the heat, branches drooping, needles dull and waxy.

I thought I’d reined myself in, but when I spoke again, my voice had a rather surly attempt at appeasement that I couldn’t quite file down. “I appreciate you checking in. I know you care, and it means a lot to me.”

“I feel like I upset you.”

“You didn’t upset me. I mean, I got upset, but that’s about me, not about you. I’m…frustrated. And I didn’t handle it well. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“No, you don’t have to be sorry, Bobby.”

He turned, smiled at me, and put his hand on my knee.

Which, let me tell you, only made me feel more miserable for the rest of the drive.

The Estates in Mossfern Estates, it turned out, was a bit optimistic.

The apartments had a scenic enough location, built among old-growth trees, with plenty of shade and—very important for this guy—parking.

The building’s cinderblock foundation had been painted brown.

The shingle siding was brown too. A porch jutted off the side of the structure, and it consisted of a piece of sheet metal supported by a two-by-four and a retaining wall.

Next to the door, a disintegrating blue tarp only partially covered a stack of bricks.

Someone, at some point, had planted a lone hosta under one of the front windows, and the leaves were practically white.

I followed Bobby to the door, which opened onto a hallway that smelled like cat pee and, well, less desirable things.

(One of those less desirable things was a hot, metallic smell I associated with roasting beets, and while Indira could make anything delicious and she was a mage in the kitchen—it’s even nerdier if you say mage instead of magician —I have strong feelings about eating something that tastes like a mouthful of dirt.)

(Unless it’s that dessert you make with crushed-up Oreos and gummy worms—now there’s a dessert.)

I followed Bobby past 1A, 1B, 1C, and stopped in front of 1D.

There was no sign that said KYSON or THE SWETZ FAMILY.

It was an old door that was splintering at the bottom, with a tarnished bronze-colored knob and a peephole.

On the other side of the peephole, it looked like there was some natural light, but those things are tricky, so I wasn’t sure.

“So, do you want me to pick the lock…” I let the suggestion hang in the air.

“ Can you pick the lock?”

“Bobby!”

I got a sliver of that big smile, but he ruined it by shushing me. “People live here.”

“ Can I? Can I?”

“I saw you practice for one weekend, and then Keme did it on his first try and you threw the practice lock away.”

“Because I’d already mastered it, Bobby. Because I’d learned everything there was to learn.”

He’s a good boyfriend, though, which is why he said, “Typical law enforcement procedure doesn’t involve picking the lock. I’m going to find the manager. Be right back, babe.”

What’s the saying? I hate to say goodbye, but I love to watch you walk away. (No, wait—I hate to see you go! Anyway, you get the idea.)

A minute passed.

Then another.

There was definitely natural light on the other side of the peephole.

And natural light meant a window.

I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to check, would it?

A few paces down the hall, a door led out behind the apartment building. I tried it, and it opened easily. I checked that it wasn’t the self-locking type, so I wouldn’t get trapped and have to “explain myself” to Bobby. And then I slipped outside.

An old barbeque grill with fungus-like growths of rust. A tricycle.

A plastic castle missing a wall. A kiddie pool with algae-covered water.

A dumpster, and next to the dumpster, a sodden-looking armchair in lime-colored upholstery.

The air smelled like old charcoal and wet grass, and a bird was calling off in the distance.

I made my way around the side of the building and started checking windows.

The first one was shut, the blinds lowered.

Okay. The second one, however, had the blinds raised.

And on the other side of the window was a desk.

And if I did exactly the right amount of blinking (and not blinking), I could see that it was covered with interesting things like photos and awards and pieces of mail and, the holy grail, an iPad.

A part of me knew I should wait. A part of me knew that waiting would be the responsible thing to do. And I wanted to be Bobby’s good little guy. (Nope, I immediately regretted saying it that way.)

But I kept thinking about Kyson lying on that bathroom floor, his body stiff and cold, the back of his hair matted with blood.