Page 42 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

“I don’t know how else to say that,” I said.

“I’m happy they exist. The world is a better place because you made them.

Do you know what I thought when I looked at this one?

” I motioned to the mixed-media piece that showed the too-big moon rising over that crooked version of Hastings Rock.

“I thought, ‘That’s right.’ And then I thought, ‘How have I never seen it like that before?’”

“Well,” Fox said quietly. A second ticked past. Then another. And then, in a different voice, they murmured, “Thank you, Dash.”

We stood there a moment, considering the mobile with its posed wedding dresses.

Around us, people continued to revolve. Cyd Wofford, the town’s resident Marxist, was explicating the underlying socialist message of one of Fox’s paintings to Bliss Wilson, who had apparently forgotten her cheaters and was trying to get her phone out of her bra.

“Also, this is way too late, and for some reason Hallmark doesn’t make cards for this kind of thing, but thank you for saving my life.”

“Happy to be of service. I did drag you into it. Thank you for everything you did to help me and my father.”

“How did you know I was in trouble?”

They looked slightly pained. “I didn’t. I was running late, and then when I got there, Nora was already marching you around with that gun.

I called the sheriff, and then I had no idea what to do—I couldn’t run in there, or Nora would shoot me.

I decided I’d try to distract her from the catwalk and hope you could make your escape—or at least keep her busy until the deputies arrived—but then I saw Betty, and, well, the rest is history. ”

“The rest is history? The rest is the part where you saved my life.”

“Oh yes, I’ll be sure to remind you about it frequently.”

“How’s your dad?”

“He’ll survive,” Fox said dryly. “They’re still not sure how long he’ll need to stay at this new facility, but I’m not sure that bothers him; he’s already courting one of the assistants—she’s almost forty, which makes her shockingly acceptable compared to my father’s usual tastes.”

“I’m sure he’s upset about the play. Did he lose a lot of money?”

“Oh, it’s all insured. He’ll land on his feet; he always does. Do you know what he was most upset about?”

“The logical answer is Nora trying to kill him, so I’m guessing that’s not it.”

A surprisingly wicked grin flashed across Fox’s face. “He’s outraged that Nora didn’t actually consider him a threat and only attacked him to draw our attention—I believe his exact words were ‘like I was nothing but a convenient prop.’ Now he’s convinced himself that he suspected her all along.”

A laugh worked its way out of me. “Good God.”

“Yes, well, that’s my father for you.” A pause stopped him. “Jonni did come to say goodbye.”

“That was kind of her.”

“She’s not a bad person. An unhappy one, I think. And one who causes more trouble than she ought to.”

“She must be going through a lot. Learning about Ray. About what happened. And then being arrested.”

Fox nodded, but they said, “Do you know, I think she’ll be better for it in the long run? I think not knowing for all those years was harder.”

There didn’t seem to be much more to say about that, so after a moment, I said, “I’m sorry about Tinny.”

“At least she’ll be out of our hair—although I can’t imagine they’re going to find her a jumpsuit in a soothing neutral.”

We shared a grin.

“May I show you something?” Fox asked.

I nodded, and Fox led me toward the back of the gallery. They stopped in front of another mixed-media piece I hadn’t seen yet, some sort of textile painted with a design—

“Oh my God,” I said. “That’s the wallpaper from Hemlock House.”

And it was—or a reproduction, anyway, of the patterned damask wallpaper that was the bane of my existence. (You have to be so careful, and if you bump it or smudge it or stumble and your plate of chocolate cake flies out of your hands, Bobby and Indira make you clean it up.)

“This is what you’ve been working on! Oh my God, Fox, this is what you were working on when I moved here—it’s one of the first things Vivienne told me.”

“Yes, well, what is wallpaper but the backdrop against which we live our lives?”

I could tell they’d been saving that one up, so I made an appropriately impressed sound.

“To be perfectly honest,” Fox said, “I didn’t know what I wanted to do with it.

But I thought the paper was quite lovely, and I’ve always found Hemlock House…

stimulating. For the longest time, I thought it was going to be something historical—the history of the house, or maybe the history of the town.

Perhaps something to do with tragedy, because there is so much tragedy in that house.

But then I realized I wasn’t interested in the past. I was interested in the present. And the future.”

Something had been traced over the wallpaper. I leaned closer to get a better look. Neat lines in dark graphite ran horizontally across the wallpaper. There were six of them, each at a different height, with letters next to them. DD, BM, F, IS, MN, KC.

Us.

It wasn’t something my family had done, but I’d seen it in movies and TV shows (the source of most of my knowledge).

They were lines showing how tall we were.

Like we’d all grown up in the house together, and year after year, we’d measured ourselves against this same spot to see how much taller we’d gotten.

Only we hadn’t. But we had. If that made any sense at all.

Because we were, at the end of the day, a family.

My eyes welled, and I hugged Fox.

They made a startled wumpf sound.

“I love you,” I said. “Thank you.”

Fox patted my back, and they sounded surprisingly choked up when they said, “I love you too.”

“I want to buy it. Which means Bobby’s going to pay for it. So we’re going to have to work out some sort of payment plan because you would not believe how detailed his budget is. He has a line item for the Cakery. Oh my God, Fox, I love it so much.”

With a watery laugh, Fox said, “Perhaps you’ll let me give it to you. To thank you. For everything, Dash.”

I hugged them even tighter, and they felt kind of like my pillow when I fluff it a little too hard.

(Side note: I’m not much of a hugger, but in that moment, I got a glimpse of why Millie loves it so much—there’s something weirdly empowering about being the aggressor in a hug.)

“Also,” I said, releasing Fox so I could get another look at the piece. “Do you see how much shorter Keme is than me?”

“Charming.”

I had a response for that, but that was when Keme walked up behind me and gave me a snake bite on the neck. (If you’ve never had a snake bite, it’s when someone takes two fingers—like snake fangs—and drives them into your body as hard as they can.)

It was like electricity. Like my whole body locked up. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.

All I could do was stand there, paralyzed with agony, while Keme said behind me, “See? That’s a pressure point.”

“That’s amazing,” Millie said.

By that point, my body had decided not to die, so I said, “It’s not amazing! It’s incredibly painful! And normal people don’t sneak up behind someone and attack—come back here!”

“Excuse me, Dash,” Fox murmured as they drifted away. “A potential buyer. As always, it’s been a pleasure.”

Rubbing my neck, I watched them go. Keme and Millie had already disappeared, which meant I’d have to bide my time and wait for the perfect opportunity for revenge. Would pantsing Keme in public be going too far? No, my brain told me. If anything, it wouldn’t be going far enough.

I was still rubbing my neck and glancing around when I caught sight of Bobby.

He stood with Mr. Cheek, head bent to hear him over the competing conversations, nodding at something Mr. Cheek said—and then, just as quickly, shaking out a definitive no.

His hair was in its perfect part. The burnt-bronze of his eyes was fixed on Mr. Cheek’s face, in that kind, attentive sincerity that was Bobby Mai’s trademark (even with someone like Mr. Cheek, who had once invented what he called a “fire-pole carry” and tried to get Bobby to do it to him, but it turns out, there’s no such thing as a fire-pole carry, and what he was talking about used to be illegal in every state, and Bobby used a word they do not teach you in fireman school.) (Is there such a thing as fireman school?) Bobby had cuffed the sleeves of his gingham shirt at the elbows, and honestly, if it’s at all possible, I highly recommend you get yourself a man with fantastic forearms. His collar was rumpled in back; my hands itched with the need to fix it—and, in the process, touch him again, if only for a moment.

And then it happened. It wasn’t like all the clichés, not exactly.

It wasn’t a key turning in a lock. It wasn’t a lightbulb going on.

It wasn’t a flower unfurling its petals.

But all of a sudden, I knew. I knew how to fix my story.

I knew how to make A Work in Progress better.

Because everyone who had told me that the story was cold or mechanical or that it didn’t move them—they were right.

It was too old-fashioned. Too much of a puzzle box. Because my story needed a heart.

And my heart was Bobby Mai.

(By the way, I know how mushy it sounds. But it’s true. And I’m not changing it.)

Maybe Bobby felt my gaze. Maybe it was chance. But he looked up, spotted me, and smiled.

My answering smile trembled on my lips, and I tilted my head toward the door.

A furrow appeared between Bobby’s eyebrows, but he shook Mr. Cheek’s hand, and with a murmured excuse, slipped away.

Mr. Cheek saw me then. He did not look happy, but at least Bobby had taken his shiv.

Outside, the evening was cool, the breeze high and sharp with the ocean’s tang and the faintest hint of those wild roses, and the sky was purple like the deepest part of a mirror.

“What’s up?” Bobby asked as he joined me.

“Lots of people,” I said. “Want to go for a walk?”

It’s a credit to Bobby that he smiled and offered his arm.

Fox’s gallery was only a couple of blocks from the beach, so we made our way to the water.

The tourists had gone inside, leaving behind evidence of a day spent with sun and sand: a forgotten beach umbrella; a SpongeBob kite; a heart drawn in the wet sand, slowly being erased by the surf.

Moonlight made a negative of the water: everything dark except the bright tracery of crests and swells.

And out across the water, the sun was gone, but a last bit of red smudged the sky.

We walked for a while before I said, “I think I figured out how to fix my book.”

“That’s great. How?”

“Will Gower needs a boyfriend.”

Listen, Bobby’s pretty much perfect in every way. But there was something endearing about how satisfied he looked at that answer. And his chest did puff up a little. Then he said, “Wait, seriously? That’s all?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”

The dry sand made for hard going, so we worked our way down to the water.

We passed the heart in the sand that was slowly being washed away.

Bobby was way too diligent about sneakers to let the surf reach us, but I liked getting as close as possible, risking it.

It didn’t hurt that stuff like that drove Bobby positively bonkers.

If it were up to him, we’d be walking a straight line along the safest possible route, and that would be the end of it.

Here’s the proof: the third time I yelped and laughed and tried to run away from the water as it came in, Bobby gently caught my arm and steered me higher up the shore.

He was proud of himself.

(I loved it, of course.)

“Remember when we talked about moving?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I was thinking about that.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I don’t want to move.”

“Okay.”

“Ever.”

Bobby nodded.

“I love living here. I love our lives here. I know I hit kind of a low point the last few weeks, but I do love it, Bobby. I love you. I’m so excited you’re going to be a detective.

I’m so proud of you. I love Hemlock House, and I love our friends, and I love Hastings Rock. I don’t want anything to change.”

“But things do change,” he said—albeit gently. “Eventually.”

“They don’t have to.”

In the dark, the burnt bronze of his eyes seemed so much darker. “But they do, Dash. Nothing can stay the same forever.”

“But sometimes,” I said, “they can get better.”

Some of his hair had come out of its part, and it fluttered against his forehead.

“Do you want to move?” I asked.

He stopped. He turned to face me. He took my hands in his, and he turned them palms up, and the wind off the water skated over my palms and turned my fingertips to ice. He shook his head slowly.

“Good,” I said.

“I want to say something,” Bobby said, “and I’m not expecting you to say it back right now because I know it might be hard for you.

And I don’t want you to think I’m rushing things.

I know I have a bad habit of—of trying to hurry things.

To control things. To feel safer. But this is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

And it’s something I want to talk about with you whenever you’re ready.

So, tonight, I want you to know how I feel.

I love you. I know nothing stays the same forever, but I want us to keep growing together.

I’m so happy with you. I’d be happy with you anywhere. And I want—”

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” I blurted. My face was hot. My eyes stung. His face swam, the beach blurred, and I felt like my heels were coming up off the ground.

The seconds slid past, and his face gave nothing away. The waves kept rolling in. Spray tickled my cheek. I thought, for a moment, I could actually feel the weight of the moonlight on my skin.

Then his hands tightened around mine, and he ran his thumbs over the pulse points in my wrists, and he held me like I might fly away. “Hey,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “That’s my line.”