Page 33 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

“And now we’re both here, and I love you, and—and I am so scared, Bobby.

God, it feels like that’s the only thing I can say, but it’s true.

I’m scared because nothing in my life is what I thought it would be.

I thought I’d be an adult. I thought I’d have a career.

I thought I’d be successful.” Pain constricted my voice.

“I thought I’d be a writer. And I’m not any of those things.

I’m still—just Dash. And I’m bumbling along, usually making things worse.

And I’m not even a writer anymore. I don’t know who I am or what I’m supposed to be doing, and you’re so driven and motivated and good.

You’re so good , Bobby. At everything you do.

And you’re smart and handsome. And I know it’s crazy.

I know, okay? But I—” I stopped, because I heard the words the moment before I said them: I hate myself .

Somehow, I stammered through something else, the words barely strung together.

“—I look at you, and I don’t know why you’d want to be with someone like me.

And I’m not asking you to explain or make me feel better or anything.

I just need you to hear me say that. Because I don’t know how to stop feeling that way.

I’ve tried going to the gym. I’ve tried contacts and changing my hair and stupid clothes and, God, Bobby, I miss sugar so much, and jogging is the absolute worst. And it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t change. I’m still me. And you deserve better. ”

He got up slowly. He sat on the bed, and he pulled me against him.

We sat there for a while. His breaths were thick. My nose was stuffed.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my face. “I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He sounded unexpectedly calm, even through those heavy breaths. “Thank you for telling me.”

“It’s not a you problem. It’s a Dash problem.”

He kissed the side of my head. And then he asked a Bobby question: “Do you want to talk more about this right now? Or do you need some time?”

More time sounded good. Approximately a million years, give or take. But I said, “We can talk about it.” And then, because Fox was right, and I needed to ask: “Are you okay?”

“Great question,” he said in a tone that could have meant anything.

Then he was silent again. He was still holding me against him, pulling me to his chest, my head on his shoulder.

He ran one hand up and down my arm smoothly, rhythmically.

“The first thing I want to tell you is that I love you. You are the only person I have ever loved like this. And this is my fault for not making sure you knew that.”

“No, Bobby. It’s not your fault. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And I need you to hear me when I say that because it’s important to me.”

I didn’t know he was crying until a tear hit the back of my neck. His voice was still unbelievably controlled when he said, “Some of it is.”

“No—”

“Dash, I heard you. But I want to say my part.”

He was shaking again, and I could hear his breathing moving up in his chest. Bobby always tried so hard to keep things under control.

To keep himself under control. And I remembered other times when he’d finally been unable to hold everything back.

When it had become so much that he’d had a panic attack.

So, I rubbed his tummy and said, “Can we lie down?”

We stretched out on the bed, Bobby flat on his back, me on my side, pressed up against him.

I kept rubbing his tummy, and without me having to say anything, he slowed his breathing.

He was counting his breaths. He was reaching out, checking in with his body, letting himself be aware of what he was feeling.

He didn’t have to tell me; I knew, because what felt like a long time ago, I had taught him that.

After a while, his hand cupped the side of my face and turned my head. He looked into my eyes. Seconds ticked past on one of the old clocks. “Ever since my mom died, I feel like—like I’m not me. No, that’s not right. Like I’m outside myself, I guess. Or something.”

Rain pattered on the roof overhead.

“Bobby,” I said. Because I had known. But I also hadn’t. Finally I said, “Tell me about that.”

“It’s—” He grimaced. “It’s like I’m walking through a cloud. I feel like everything I see, everything I hear, it’s all coming through this fog or this mist, even when I’m trying to pay attention. Sometimes, it’s like I doze off, but I’m awake.”

“Bobby, you’re grieving. You lost your mom.”

He nodded, but what he said was “We haven’t had sex since she died.”

My face flushed. Pinpricks ran down my body. “That—Bobby, that’s okay. I understand. I should have—well, I should have thought of that, I guess.”

“It’s not because I don’t love you.”

I nodded.

He was still cupping my cheek, his hand warm and rough and solid. “I do love you.”

“I love you too.”

“What you said about not knowing who you are—”

“It’s okay. I’m going to figure it out.”

He paused, and I felt myself falling into that fresh silence. And then he said, “I feel like that some days. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. Or why I’m doing it. I want—” He shook his head, and he cut his eyes toward the ceiling and blinked. “I just want to feel normal again.”

Somehow, I managed not to jump in right away. The rain kept up its steady percussion. I moved my hand in slow circles over the dense muscles of his stomach.

“You know that’s not how it works, though, right?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral.

“I know.” A jagged lightning bolt of a smile streaked across his face, and he wiped the corners of his eyes.

“It doesn’t help. All I can think about is how to fix this.

What if we moved back to Portland? What if I went back to school?

What if we adopted a bunch of kids and bought a farm and lived off the land? ”

Something must have shown on my face because Bobby burst out laughing—a real laugh. And to my surprise (and relief), I started laughing too.

“I guess that’s a no,” Bobby said.

“Maybe we can work up to it.”

His chest rose and fell evenly under me, and he shifted his weight, freeing his arm so he could hold me closer. The sound of the rain rose and fell, and deeper, below it, came the crash of the waves.

“You told me what you loved about writing was that it was fun. Pure creation. And that you loved telling stories, and that you got to explore ideas, and that it meant something to you, finding ways to talk about big ideas in ways that were also exciting and thrilling and suspenseful. You told me you discover things about yourself when you write. What you said tonight, about writing to find me.”

I nodded into his chest, the smell of his deodorant, the hint of his body.

Bobby’s silence was a hesitation again, but less…

fraught this time. More trusting. But when he spoke, he was careful to phrase his words as a question.

“But you also want your writing to earn you money. You want it to be something you can live off. You want it to—to sell, I guess, for lack of a better word. And I keep wondering if that isn’t a lot of pressure to put on something you love so much? ”

I didn’t know what to say, but I lifted my head.

“I mean—” But Bobby stopped again. “You wouldn’t say that to me, would you?

You wouldn’t say that I need to provide for you, or you’re going to stop loving me, and if I don’t make a hundred thousand dollars a year, I’m a waste of your time.

” When I didn’t answer, he pushed some of the hair away from my forehead. “Right?”

“No,” I said. “But it’s different.”

“Is it?”

I didn’t answer because—was it? Bobby was right.

I had loved writing for a long time. I’d loved it before I’d ever needed it to make me money.

Before I’d ever hoped it would be a career.

I’d loved it because it was a natural extension of reading, which had been my first love.

Adventures and new worlds and other lives. For the joy of it.

“I don’t know,” I finally said.

“What if you let me carry us for a while longer?”

“Bobby—”

“Our expenses actually aren’t that high. The house is paid off. We don’t have any major repairs. All we have to do is keep the pantry stocked and cover your tab at Let’s Taco Bout Tacos.” Bobby frowned. “And the Cakery. Wait, do you still go to that candy store in Seaside?”

“Bobby, no. Thank you, but no. That’s such an amazing, loving offer, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, but I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not fair to you.”

“Dash, I want to do it.”

“It’s not right. I waste so much time.”

“Then think of it as an opportunity for career exploration if that makes it easier. Some breathing room.”

“It’s not sustainable.”

“It is, actually. Indira helped me run the numbers. You can keep teaching if you want—I know you enjoy it. But I want you to have some time when you can enjoy writing because you enjoy it. Reconnect with that. No pressure to produce. No need to sell stories you’re not ready to let go of.

You can be Hemlock House’s writer-in-residence. ”

Tears sprang to my eyes, and before I could blink them away, they fell to stain Bobby’s shirt. “Bobby, I don’t want you to have to do that. I want to be your partner. I want to help you.”

“I know, babe. And I love that about you. You help me in so many ways; that’s not going to change because you let me pay the bills for a while.

Listen, I know this is a touchy subject.

I know you worked hard to be independent, not to rely on your parents.

I’m so proud of you for that. But we’re a team.

This is the whole point of having a partner, so we can do this for each other.

If I got burnt out, or if I needed to change careers, we’d find a way, wouldn’t we? ”