Page 32 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

Bobby was in his bedroom when Fox dropped me off at Hemlock House.

Not our bedroom, the one that had started off as mine but that we now shared.

Where we slept together, unless Bobby was working a weird shift, or I was pulling an all-nighter (not the working version, but the gaming-with-Keme-until-Indira-yells-at-you version), or I was having night terrors about Five Nights at Freddy’s.

(Bobby never should have let me read those books.)

He was in his bedroom, the one he’d taken when he’d moved into Hemlock House.

The one we had all thought was only going to be temporary.

And then it had been less temporary. And then everything had changed between Bobby and me, and the room became a place for Bobby to keep his clothes and display his expensive sneakers and occasionally get a solid night’s sleep without me thinking that Chuck-E-Cheese’s evil cousins were going to get me.

When I opened the door, he looked up, expression caught somewhere between wariness and—God, it hurt me to call it hope.

He sat crisscross on the floor, a large storage tote next to him, papers spread out around him.

His hair was wet, but he was wearing the same clothes I’d seen him in earlier, so he hadn’t showered; damp spots on his shoulders suggested he’d gone out in the rain.

After me, most likely. Because I was—officially—an idiot.

“Hey,” I said.

Bobby hopped up; papers slid from his lap. “Hey. You’re okay.”

“Uh, yes. Extremely melodramatic, but okay.”

His hesitation was worse than anything I’d expected, like he wasn’t sure if he could come closer or touch me or—or I didn’t know. But he was still Bobby Mai, so he said, “You’re wet,” and he disappeared into the bathroom.

Doors opened and closed. Drawers slid on runners. When he came back, he was carrying a towel and a dry change of clothes. He laid the clothes on the bed, slung the towel across my shoulders, and began to dry my hair with extreme prejudice. Then he froze.

“Is this okay?” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s—Bobby, I’m sorry.”

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

Then he went back to working the towel over my hair, but more slowly this time.

The movement was pleasant, and the pressure, and that wonderful feeling of slowly getting dry.

The faint hint of fresh laundry faded into the clean, sporty scent of his deodorant.

When he finished with my hair, he grabbed the towel by each end and gave it a little shimmy.

For some reason, I laughed. And then tears welled in my eyes.

“Babe,” Bobby said, “what’s going on?”

And there were a million things I wanted to say—apologies, mostly—but because I am perpetually, inescapably, ineluctably Dashiell Dawson Dane, what came out was “I fell and hurt my knee.” And then, more a moan than actual words: “Oh my God, what is wrong with me?”

But instead of legitimate outrage, that big grin flashed across Bobby’s face, and then a slightly too serious look swallowed it up.

“Come on,” he said.

He turned me out of my tee. He knelt and took off my shoes—I think there might have been a clucking sound of disapproval at the state of the laces.

Socks, joggers, and underwear next. (They were gray, and they’d been expensive, and they were mature and appropriate and not cute at all.) He inspected my knee, which had a red mark but no broken skin.

That earned me a kiss on my war wound, and then I got more of that vigorous rub-down.

In spite of a lot of nakedness right then, it wasn’t sexy at all.

It was—well, the word bracing comes to mind, like if an extremely handsome polar explorer had plucked me out of a crevasse and was trying to make sure I didn’t have hypothermia, and there was only one sleeping bag, and we’d have to share body heat to make it through the night.

Okay, let’s be real: being naked with Bobby under any circumstances was bound to produce, uh, a reaction.

“Really?” Bobby said. “Now?”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “Did you know you have muscles in your neck?”

Bobby’s expression suggested this was not as flattering as I considered it, but he was a perfect gentleman as he helped me step into a clean, dry pair of joggers and pulled them up.

Next was a heavy sweatshirt—one of his, which was immediately obvious because instead of something awesome like video games or a comic book character on it, it said OREGON STATE.

It was unbelievably soft, and it smelled a little like Bobby in the best possible way, and I was starting to realize I had a gold mine of Boyfriend Wear waiting for me in Bobby’s winter collection.

He sat me on the bed and rolled socks onto my feet.

And then he did the Bobby-est thing ever: he gave me this little waggle with his eyebrows, and then he adjusted the socks until I nodded, because he knew I hated when they didn’t fit right.

(Everyone who isn’t a serial killer hates socks that don’t fit right.)

Fortunately, being rescued by Robert Mai, Adventurer to the North, had given me enough time to stop crying. And since Bobby was literally kneeling at my feet, I sounded like a complete idiot when I said, “Can I talk to you?”

He was Bobby, so he nodded.

“I’m sorry I got so upset when you were trying to help me,” I said. “Actually, I feel like that might be understating the case. I’m sorry I ran out of the house like a lunatic when you were trying to help me.”

“No, I’m sorry. I knew I was overstepping; I figured that out when we—” Bobby clearly didn’t want to say got in a fight , so he settled for “—talked about your revisions. I knew I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in. But I was excited, and I might have this need to fix things.”

“You’re good at fixing things,” I said, running my fingers through his hair.

I didn’t even think about it, but all of a sudden, it felt too much, too intimate, after weeks and weeks of feeling like we were far apart.

But it was happening, and I couldn’t stop myself, and to my surprise, the world didn’t end. “I knew you were trying to help.”

“It’s your career, Dash. I’m not an expert. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I didn’t ask you what you wanted. I charged in with my advice like—”

“Like a man?” I asked.

A surprisingly boyish grin crooked across Bobby’s face.

“Bobby.” I paused, like I needed to take a breath, but to my surprise, the words came easily. “I’ve been in a weird place. A really weird place, actually. And I’ve been super unhappy. And I was scared to talk to you about it.”

Bobby stilled, but his hands were on my knees, and faint, invisible tremors ran through them. I kept my hand moving, combing his hair lightly. He swallowed. Something clicked in his throat. And then he nodded.

“Part of it—a big part of it—is that—” I gave the weirdest little laugh. “—I think I’m scared of writing.”

But Bobby didn’t laugh. His eyes didn’t flicker. Nothing. When I still didn’t say anything, he nodded.

“You knew?” I asked.

“I didn’t know. But I thought—Dash, up until a couple of months ago, the one thing you never got tired of talking about was writing.

Ideas for stories. Or a new technique you wanted to try.

Different characters you were excited to explore.

” A hint of a sideways smile turned on his lips.

“There was a lot more talking about writing, most days, than actual writing.”

“Oh. My. God. How dare you?”

But he didn’t rise to the bait. He stayed where he was, his hands trembling on my knees, like he thought he was about to be executed.

And I realized he was being brave. For me.

Which meant I needed to be brave too.

“And the other reason I’ve been so unhappy,” I said, “is us.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t close his eyes. But there was this—almost this relaxing, like he’d known it was coming, and now that it was here, he could stop dreading it. “Dash, I’m sorry. I haven’t been a good partner to you, and I promise I’ll do better. I know I haven’t—”

I shushed him. I gave his hair a little tug, and then I moved my hands to cover his, wrapping them in mine, holding him tight. “Can I tell you a little more, please? First? And then you can tell me whatever you want?”

The struggle showed in his face, but he was Bobby Mai; he nodded.

“I don’t like that I’m afraid of writing,” I said.

“I’m—I’m ashamed of it, actually. Ashamed of myself, I guess.

And it’s like this vicious cycle because then I’m angry at myself.

I give myself these awful motivational speeches.

‘If you’re ashamed of not writing,’ I tell myself, ‘then write.’ And I go into the den, Bobby, and—and I can’t.

I can’t explain it. I can’t even explain it to myself.

I lock up or I freeze or whatever. And I still can’t write. ”

He opened his mouth. But then he shut it again.

“I love you so much,” I said. “More than I ever thought was possible. I didn’t even know if love was real, but it is, Bobby, and it’s you.

I was talking to Fox about writing, and they asked me why I wrote.

And do you know what I should have said?

I should have told them that I was writing to find you.

Because my whole life, I’ve been writing to find you.

I know that doesn’t make any sense, but I have.

Every time I went into that place inside myself, I was looking for what it meant to care about someone, to love someone, to be in love.

But you weren’t in a book. You were here. And I found you.”

Bobby’s frantic blinks couldn’t keep a tear from falling. It shone hot and silver on his cheek.