Page 28 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

He waited. His smile got even bigger. “Dash, you don’t have to wait for someone to tell you your book is good. We already know it’s good! We can publish it ourselves.”

The wind was keening now. One of the shutters, not quite fastened, rattled back and forth. The sound grew louder and louder. Faster and faster.

“You’re talking about self-publishing,” I said.

Bobby’s smile was almost indulgent. “Actually, it’s called indie publishing.”

The wind sounded like someone screaming.

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

“Isn’t that awesome? I mean, it’s perfect. It cuts out the middleman. All those people who don’t see how good your work is, you don’t have to worry about them anymore. All you have to do is write the best book you possibly can and share it with people.”

“Right,” I said. My lips felt thick, too big, anesthetized. “That’s great. It’s, I don’t think it’s always that easy. You know. To find readers. A lot of books get self-published. There’s a lot of junk out there.”

“Indie published,” Bobby said, giving my foot another wiggle. “But good stuff rises to the top, Dash.”

“Does it?” I asked. “That must be why nobody wants my book.”

Bobby must have chosen to ignore that part because he continued, “And readers today don’t care. Most of them don’t even know, that’s what Jess said. If you get a good cover and have the book professionally edited, nobody can tell.”

“But I’d know.”

A crease marked Bobby’s forehead. “Well, yeah.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

That loose shutter was slamming back and forth now. The wind sounded like fingernails on the glass.

“It’s something to explore, though, right?”

“Maybe.” But then I said again, “I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong?” Bobby leaned back as though to get a better look at me. “I thought you’d be excited.”

“No, yeah, I am. I mean, thank you. It’s a good idea.”

“Okay,” Bobby said slowly.

“I wanted, you know, to go the traditional route.” Bobby didn’t say anything, and for some reason, I kept explaining. “It’s a little more…legitimate, I guess. In terms of a career. Like, there’s a little more quality control. And you work with professionals.”

“But you’d hire professionals,” Bobby said. “I mean, if you don’t want to crowdsource because that makes you uncomfortable, we can pay for all that stuff up front, hire people who are good. I’ve got some money saved.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, one of the old truisms about writing is that money should flow to the writer. You’re not supposed to pay people for, like, anything.”

That crease in Bobby’s forehead deepened. “But you’re hiring people. It’s a business.”

“I don’t think that’s for me.”

Bobby hesitated. And it looked like it cost him—maybe a lot—to say finally, “Okay, babe.”

“Thank you, though.” More words leaked out of me. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I want you to be happy. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“I don’t care how you publish your books. You’ve been so down lately, and I thought—” Bobby shrugged. “It’s your career. Whatever you want to do.”

“Well, it’s not a career.”

Bobby let go of my foot. He put his hands on his knees. The wind died down, and now the sky started spitting rain—harsh little flurries of drops striking the windows.

“It is a career, Dash,” Bobby said. “It’s your career. And you’ve worked so hard at it. Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it’s never going to happen.”

I wrestled down the voice inside me that wanted to keep quibbling, keep picking at this thing between us, keep—I recognized with distant revulsion—trying to get a fight going with Bobby. Somehow, I managed to nod.

“You know, Jess said you can talk to her grandma whenever you want. She said she’d be happy to help.”

I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help the words slipping out. Couldn’t help how brittle they sounded. “She’d be happy to help.”

Bobby gave me another of those long, considering looks. As he stood, he chafed my leg, bent, and kissed the top of my head. “Think about it, babe. You’re so talented. I think this could be a great opportunity. Do you want something to eat? A drink?”

I shook my head.

He lingered a moment in the doorway. And then he left, the door closing behind him.

The rain came down harder.

I stared at my laptop. My mind had this white, fuzzed-out quality like when your eyes are dry and you’re staring at a lightbulb and you can’t stop because Keme dared you.

Okay.

I opened the laptop.

That happened.

And then I started to cry. Even worse, it happened in slow motion.

My eyes prickled. Then they stung. And then they filled with tears.

I tried blinking them away, but they kept coming, and then the first one slid down my cheek, hot and slick.

They fell faster and faster. My nose clogged up, and I had to breathe through my mouth.

I pulled up the hem of my T-shirt to wipe my face, but for some reason that made me cry harder.

I had to be quiet; if I wasn’t quiet, Bobby would hear me, and he’d see me like this, and he’d know—

I couldn’t even finish that thought.

It made me cry harder.

The decision to leave—to get out of the house—wasn’t even a thought. I didn’t have a plan; I just needed a few minutes to pull myself together. I slipped out of the den, found my Nikes, and headed for the front door.

Gray sky. Thunder booming out over the ocean.

The trees bending and creaking under the wind.

Rain met me in hard, angry slashes—still not a downpour, but intermittent bursts that needled my face and arms. It soaked through my tee and joggers in a matter of minutes, gluing the clothes to my skin.

Even worse, it was cold. Hastings Rock’s heat wave was finally over, it seemed—it might have been mid-August, but this rain felt like it would have been at home in February, and as it sliced through my thin layer of clothing, I started to shiver.

I could go back.

I could explain, somehow, to Bobby.

Instead, I kept walking. The drive was slick, and I had to watch my steps, but once I reached the state highway, I found I needed to keep moving—and then I was running.

The rain came down harder, and although the branches overhead provided some cover, plenty of big, fat drops still made their way through.

The air smelled like rain—like petrichor, actually, that weird earthy mix of cool water and stone.

When the breeze lifted the branches of spruce and pine again, it brought that resinous perfume of evergreens, sharp and clean.

A pretty green bird, bedraggled from the rain, shuffled unhappily along a gnarled bough.

Where the weak light from a utility pole made its way through the foliage, beads of water on the bird glistened.

I was still crying.

Here’s the thing about jogging: it’s the worst. But it turns out there’s one thing that’s even more horrible than jogging, and that is jogging when you’re sobbing uncontrollably.

My chest was so tight I couldn’t get a full breath.

My nose was running constantly. And yes, I know all about endorphins and runners’ high and the mental health benefits of exercise.

But none of that applied because I wasn’t exercising. I was running away.

I was always running away.

And I hated that almost as much as I hated everything else right then.

Whatever burst of energy had propelled me out of the house faded, and then I stood there, hinged at the waist and gasping.

Water ran down from my hair and into my face.

It smelled like my hair. And it smelled like my sweat.

And for a second, I was so sick of all of it—of being this person in this body, with the little tummy roll I couldn’t get rid of, with the complete lack of any muscles, with the fact that I was petty and self-absorbed and childish.

To get so upset about writing. About some stupid book nobody asked me to write.

When there were people in the world with real problems. I was so sick of being myself.

Of not being someone better, even though I’d tried.

And then it was over, and all I felt was cold and wet and tired. So tired. Tired like I’d been cracked open, hollowed out.

I was going to turn around. I was going to trudge my way back to the house.

I was already thinking about how it would go.

Bobby would be so kind about it, and I’d—well, I’d be me.

Because I wasn’t going to change. The Magic Mike Transformation Project (or whatever I was calling it) was a bust. I was always going to be me, this version of me.

Like a wet raccoon paddling desperately for its life in a kiddy pool.

And people think a bedraggled raccoon is cute—for about thirty seconds.

I was caught up in these epically awful thoughts when I tripped over my untied shoelaces.

I lay there for a few seconds until my brain caught up with me. Gravel bit into my cheeks. A fern tickled my neck. I was vaguely aware that my lower half had ended up in a particularly muddy puddle. And I’d lost both contacts.

When I managed to raise my head, two blurry cones of light were sweeping toward me.

Please, God, I thought. Let it be fast. Not like that little raccoon in the swimming pool.

Brakes squealed. Tires skidded. Exhaust rolled over me, and then something else.

A powerful—and distinct—smell.

One that I associated with Fox when they were in one of their moods (and when Indira was out of the house).

A door clicked open. Two boots tipped with Tinkerbells poked out from the van. Full-sized dolls, I mean. Fastened to the tips of the boots. Spinning slightly as the wind picked up again.

I groaned.

Stooping, Fox squinted at me. “What in the world are you doing down there?”