Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
I’d thought Mom only sent those out to the band of boss-bitch friends she’d gathered in her travels.
“Your first question. Good. And my answer is, obsessively,” he admitted without shame. “How else was I going to know which state you two were in, or keep up with every installment of August’s Adventure Corner over the years?”
My doubt must have been obvious because his lips quirked. “I admit I’m mostly an audiobook man nowadays, but I can still read. I’ve read every one of your books.”
And the shocks kept rolling in.
This one was flattering, and yet it made me feel…exposed. There was a lot of me in my published books, even if they weren’t as sexually explicit as my current work in progress.
There’s also a lot of him.
Had he noticed?
“I thought you’d be more into biographies and true crime novels now instead of fantasy fiction.”
He made a face. “No thanks. Books and movies are my escape from reality. Usually science fiction, but I make an exception for fantasy if the author is talented enough.”
Everything he said was making him more attractive. How was that physically possible?
“What about you?”
I tensed, discomfort twisting in my stomach. “This is silly, isn’t it? We’ve known each other for thirty-two years and we’re floating around asking each other dating profile questions in a hurricane. What books do you read? What shows do you like?”
“Twenty-six of those we didn’t live in the same state. We’re neighbors again, but we’ve both changed a lot through those years. If we want to get to know each other as we are now, the little details matter.”
“I don’t know anything about my other neighbors,” I pointed out. “The green house across the street? I have no clue why that woman gets so many deliveries from Amazon. Is she trafficking in knickknacks? Building a sex-bot? I’ve never asked and she still waves at me like we’re old friends.”
“That isn’t the same thing and you know it,” he said, his good humor starting to dissipate. “I’m trying here, August.”
And I’m not.
Ugh. “My answer is I have been rereading everything on my shelf and on my e-reader. I’ve also been rewatching shows on Netflix and binging reaction videos online.”
I glared at him, daring him to call me out for my odd admission. At least I knew it was odd.
I’d looked it up once, and it didn’t surprise me that it was a sign of depression. All I knew was it was comforting. Odd. But comforting.
After a moment of silence, he said, “I don’t know what reaction videos are and I’m not sure that I’ve ever watched a show more than once, other than the Stargate series with Phoebe, since she liked to watch it when she was sick. I might be tempted to skim Stranger Things again for the 80s references.”
He didn’t ask a follow-up, or look at me with condemnation or pity—both of which I’d been bracing for.
“What’s that face about?”
“What face? I didn’t make a face.”
His look said he knew me well enough to realize I’d just told a lie in the honesty pool. At least I hadn’t peed, but I’d probably feel the same amount of guilt if I had.
I sighed. “I was waiting for the question everyone gets around to eventually.”
“What question?”
“How’s your book going? Is your book finished yet? Is there another book in the series coming out soon? Something along those lines.” Just saying the words shot my anxiety into the stratosphere.
“You’ve been writing every day since I’ve been here, Gus. I wasn’t worried about it. But if you don’t want to talk about your work, we can take it off the list.”
I had been writing, just not the book I needed to be working on, and no, I didn’t want to talk about it. Yet I couldn’t seem to help myself.
“The writing is new,” I admitted. “For the last few years, I’ve kept my laptop and my Word documents shut ninety-seven percent of the time.”
“That’s understandable,” he started.
“Is it? Aren’t you curious about what I’ve been doing with myself instead? Do you want to know the last show I watched? The Good Place. It was the fifth time I’d seen it, Wade. In a row. I cried at the end every time and I’m pretty sure I could get a degree in philosophy at this point. That’s one example of the very important things I was accomplishing instead of working, and I can’t even call it research, because I’m supposed to be writing about witches, shifters and complicated blood magic, not losers who can’t get their acts together. You think that’s understandable?”
“You are not fine.”
“You were sick, August. And before that…” He shook his head. “Nobody’s judging you for taking the time to heal.”
I was judging me. It was impossible not to beat myself up over all the newsletters and online posts I’d started, making promises to my agent and readers that I couldn’t keep when my body crashed on me yet again. The trips to the emergency room that had rarely amounted to anything but wasted time and giant bills. The brain fog that made me lose words or forget what I was looking for mid-search. The grief and depression that made it all feel so hopeless.