Page 20 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

“Bobby, it’s okay. I’m okay. It was a shock, sure, but I’ll be okay.”

He was so silent that I wasn’t even sure he was breathing. And then he said, “This wouldn’t happen if we lived somewhere else.”

I ran my hands up and down his arms automatically until the words sank in. “What?”

But he shook his head.

“Bobby—”

“Nothing. Never mind.” He kissed my ear this time, released me, and said, “I’m going to rinse off.”

I settled on the appropriate, sensible, boring black trunks and a sleep shirt. I climbed into bed. There was no way I was going to fall asleep, but beds are like my natural habitat—they’re soft, they’re fluffy, they’re exactly the right degree of warm.

True to his word, Bobby must have done nothing more than a quick rinse because he was padding around the room naked in less than five minutes.

Bobby has this thing with nudity where it doesn’t faze him at all.

And let’s be real, who am I to complain?

He’s got broad shoulders. Big arms. His stomach is flat and hard.

And don’t get me started on what Fox calls his tush.

(I mean, I will say this: sculpted doesn’t even come close.) His hair, still wet from the shower, hung glossy black across his forehead, and it made him look younger and, honestly, a little wild.

Bobby didn’t bother with pajamas, by the way.

He climbed into bed au naturel. (I learned that from a mystery about a French bakery where everyone gets killed by a different type of baguette—are there different types of baguettes?)

But then he reached for his study materials for the detective exam.

I tried to smile. “I think I’m going to read.”

“Okay.”

“If you’re going to study.”

“Sure.”

“Or we could do something else. If you want.”

“Hmm.”

Which wasn’t really an answer.

So, I grabbed my book. I was trying to read a Tana French novel, and honestly, she’s a genius, but tonight it seemed like there were a lot of detectives dancing around their apartments to sad music in some weird pseudo-mating ritual.

And it didn’t help that Bobby was doing that thing where he was leaning on one arm, and he had a pen tucked behind his ear, and he kept reaching up to grab the pen and then put it back, and my God do you know what that does to someone’s biceps?

Did he think people didn’t get murdered in other towns?

The question popped into my head.

I mean, did he?

People got murdered everywhere. And yes, Hastings Rock had seen an unusually high murder rate in the last couple of years. But that was a fluke or a spike or—I wanted to say something about solar flares, maybe.

Did he want to move?

“Do you want to move?” I asked.

Bobby glanced up at me. He took a moment, and then he said, “I don’t know. I’ve thought about it.”

“Then why are you doing that exam?”

“Because I want to be a detective.”

And if that wasn’t a Bobby Mai answer, I didn’t know what would be.

Would moving be so bad? I loved my friends here.

But Keme and Millie weren’t going to hang around forever.

They were young. They were in love. They were ready to start their own lives, and if I was being honest with myself, they were already starting to pull away.

To make that little bubble for themselves that every couple inevitably created.

They’d want their own place eventually. They’d get jobs.

They’d have kids. And Indira and Fox had flexible lives. They could come visit us.

We could go somewhere new, somewhere neither of us had ever been before.

Somewhere nobody knew us. We could go to San Francisco.

We could go to Miami. We could go to, uh, Missouri.

(Oh God, no.) And we’d be Bobby and Dash, this cute, normal gay couple.

And people wouldn’t buy me snacks at the theater because they couldn’t believe I might possibly not want snacks.

And nobody at the gym would ask if I got lost when I showed up early in the morning—like I didn’t love going to the gym.

And nobody would know I used to write.

“I mean,” I said, “maybe that’s a good idea. It could be fun.”

Bobby frowned up at me. His dark hair was like a blackbird’s wing.

“You’re right. We’d get away from the murders.

It’d be safe. Or safer. And you’re such a good deputy, Bobby.

You could get a job wherever we went. And I could do something freelance at first, like editing or something, while I figured out something long-term.

I could get my teaching certificate. I could teach high school. ”

The vision came together in a flash: me standing with one foot on a chair, declaiming poetry or, uh, something, while a classroom of enraptured students looked on.

“Last week, you said they should put every teenager on an island until they’re twenty-one.”

“That’s because Keme wouldn’t stop touching me, even after I told him to stop touching me.”

“You said it should be like Lord of the Flies .”

“I said it would be like Lord of the Flies . Because that’s how teenagers naturally are. But it’d be different if I were a teacher.”

“Dash—”

“Or maybe it wouldn’t be high school. A community college, maybe. Somewhere else.”

Bobby took the pen from behind his ear and set it on top of the documents he’d been studying. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. You talked about moving. Twice, actually. I’m saying I think it might be a good idea.”

“Why would you teach high school?”

“Because I need a job. I mean, I’ll need a job. Eventually.”

“You have a job. You’re a writer.”

“Yeah, well, I need a job with a salary and benefits.”

Bobby put his hand on my leg. He moved his thumb slowly back and forth. And then he asked again, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. Quit asking me that.”

As soon as it was out of my mouth, I wanted to call it back. It sounded petulant. It sounded childish. Worse than childish. Kids were cute. This sounded adolescent, like somebody needed to ship me off to an island. (God, no, I’d obviously be Piggy—although maybe not now that I had contacts!)

Bobby let me have a few seconds. “Babe, you’re a writer. You’re so good at it—”

“I’m not, actually, but thank you.”

“—and you’ve worked so hard. I know it can be discouraging. But this is your dream.”

“Dreams don’t pay the bills, Bobby.”

“We talked about that. We’re okay, money-wise. Everybody’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. That’s what I wanted to say.

Because—because there was a future . There was this time in my life coming when it would be too late, when all my chances would be shot, and I wouldn’t have accomplished anything, and I wouldn’t have a career, and is that the kind of person Bobby wanted to be with?

The answer was definitely no.

I mean, I wasn’t even sure he wanted to be with me now . He was sweet. And patient. And loyal. And that was the problem—Bobby had a habit of sticking it out in relationships long after he should have left. And I couldn’t help thinking of how quickly he’d gone to rinse off.

“What would help you feel better about this?” Bobby asked. “Do you want to put together a budget? Because I promise, sweetheart, we’re okay, but if it would help you to see the numbers—”

“God, no, not numbers.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’ll feel better after you finish these revisions. Isn’t that what you told me? Heinlein’s rules and all that. You finish revising, you send it off, and then you write something new.”

That was the essence of Heinlein’s rules, and I seriously regretted telling Bobby about them.

(They appealed to his rule-loving side.) But I could already tell I was too deep in this conversation, so I said what every smart boyfriend in the history of the world knows is a good way to get out of a conversation and fast : “You’re probably right. ”

“Maybe we make a schedule.”

I was trying to go back to my sad dancing detectives in the Tana French book. “Uh huh.”

“That could help you stay on track.”

“Hmm.”

“Come on.” Bobby pulled out his phone. “What’s the best way to do this? Like, a certain number of edits every day? Do you know how many you need to do?”

I tried to lean closer to my book. “That’s not how it works.”

“Chapters, then.”

“Maybe.”

“Or pages. Hey—” He laid a hand over my book. His dark eyes determined. “Let’s do this; you’ll feel better when you have a schedule.”

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow.”

But Bobby’s voice was firmer when he said, “No, let’s do it right now. While we’re talking about it.”

My hands tightened around my book.

“How many pages per day?” Bobby asked. “Ten? How long is the book total?”

“Bobby, I don’t want to—”

“We’re making a schedule.”

“No!”

Bobby lowered his phone.

“No,” I said again. “I don’t want to make a schedule.”

“Okay,” Bobby said slowly. “I don’t understand. You’re having trouble revising—”

“I’m not having trouble revising!”

“It seems like you are. You go into the den and don’t do anything for hours, Dash. That seems like trouble.”

The waves were still coming in. They were always coming in.

Finally, I said, “Are you spying on me?”

“Of course I’m not spying—”

“What do you mean, I don’t do anything?”

“Dash, you go in there and—I don’t know. It’s silent.” Color was rising in Bobby’s cheeks. “You’re not typing.”

I got out of bed. “I can’t believe you.”

“It’s not like I was—”

I crossed the room. I wasn’t thinking; my body was on autopilot.

I needed to get out of here. Out of this room.

Out of this house. As I rummaged through my drawers, I said, “You don’t know what revision looks like, okay?

I’m thinking. I’m working on it. I’m trying to figure out how to change it. That doesn’t always sound like typing.”

“Okay. God, Dash, I’m sorry—”

“I don’t need a schedule.”

“Okay.”

“And I don’t need you peeking over my shoulder and making sure I do my work every day!”

“Dash, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of that. I thought—” Bobby’s silence could only be called bewildered, and now, propped up in bed, still naked, he looked surprisingly vulnerable. “I was trying to help.”

Something creaked in the old house. I slid the drawer shut slowly, and it settled against the frame with a quiet click.

I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact, so instead, I stared at the pair of running shorts in my hand.

“I know. I know; I’m sorry. I love that you want to help.

I appreciate you checking in. It’s…revising this has been so fudging frustrating.

” (I mean, I used the adult word because it was me and Bobby.) “I’m sorry I snapped at you. ”

Bobby was still watching me from the bed. He smoothed his hand across the sheets and said, “Come here.”

I did, but I didn’t climb into bed. I leaned down to kiss him and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“It’s been a weird night. This isn’t me at my best.”

Bobby reached up like he might cup my cheek, but he hesitated, and then he tweaked my ear. “It’s been an awful night. You’ve been through a lot. And I wasn’t being sensitive.”

“No, I was being over sensitive.”

“Then we were both jerks,” Bobby said a little too seriously.

I kissed him again.

“Come back to bed?” he asked. “I’ll put this stuff away and we can spend some time together.”

With a super weird smile, I held up the shorts. “I think I’m going to go for a run.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Is that all right?”

“Sure, of course. Let me grab some clothes, and I’ll go with you.”

“That’s okay. I need some time alone.” Bobby’s expression is like Fort Knox sometimes, but I also knew him better than I had a year ago. “I’m not mad, I promise. It’s been such a weird night.”

Bobby reached up again. He ran his fingers above my ear. Finally he said, “Run against traffic.”

I gave him one last kiss, tugged on shorts and socks, and headed for the door.