Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Vee, what are you doing?” I ask, my voice sleep-rasped. “Baby, it’s two o’clock.”
She glances up from her laptop, her hair wet and clinging in thick coils to her scalp. She’s wearing only a bra and underwear, transparent with water.
“Why are you wet?” I ask, frowning.
“I had to get this out of the pool.” She holds up her missing shoe and goes right back to typing, like it’s not unusual for her to be dripping on the rug in the middle of the night, her laptop and a shoe cradled in her lap.
A kernel of unease I’ve tried to ignore has been growing inside me the last few days. I can’t help but wonder if Verity might be approaching a manic episode. I’ve been hesitant to ask her about it because I’m no expert and she knows her body, her mind, better than I do. But also we’re in a great place. Finally. She’s been at my house more than her own, and I prefer it that way. I want her around all the time. That intensity, that heat and affection and respect we had before when we were younger—it’s back, but so much better now that we are more mature and there are no secrets between us. I didn’t want to mess that up by confronting her about something that I’m probably wrong about.
But tonight was real.
Yes, we had some of the best sex of my life, but there is a relentless energy swirling around Verity. Cooking so much food. Diving into the pool for this one shoe and then just sitting here, soaking wet. Being up at all hours, not sleeping. This happened before when we were at Finley, what I chalked up to her being stressed about school. Those were all threads in a pattern. One I missed because I didn’t know what I was dealing with or looking for.
Now I do.
“I think you should come to bed.” I walk over, crouch down, and close her laptop. “Get some rest.”
Her head snaps up and she immediately opens the laptop again.
“Monk, you don’t understand.” Her eyes fix on the screen. “I need to get this down before it leaves again. I got it! I got the angle for the show.”
“I thought you already had it.”
She gestures toward the keyboard. “That was before this.”
“And this is?” I sit down beside her, ignoring how the puddle she’s sitting in soaks my sleep pants.
“Black Pearl!” Her face animates like someone pulled a lever. “It used to be one of the few beach towns where Black people could safely vacation.”
“Right, yeah.”
“You always hear about Martha’s Vineyard, Oak Bluffs, but you don’t hear as much about the beach in South Carolina called Black Pearl. At the time, it was the only all Black-owned oceanfront in America. So I woke up with this idea that combines the elements of crime fiction and drama the studio is looking for with the romance and history I love set in Black Pearl.”
“Crime fiction?”
“Yeah, so it’s the 1940s and there’s this group of family friends who vacation at Black Pearl beach every summer. One of the daughters goes missing, but it’s not just her. Three girls have gone missing that summer. So it’s a race to find the girls, solve the crime, but there’s also all these complicated family dynamics. Like her parents were going to tell the kids they were divorcing, but this gives them perspective, forces them to communicate, brings them closer. That kind of thing.”
“Who’s gay?” I chuckle at the startled look she gives me. “I’ve seen everything you’ve ever written, and somebody always gon’ be queer.”
She covers her mouth and giggles, but angles me a searching look. “Have you really seen everything I’ve written?”
“Seen it on TV or movies, yeah, unless I missed something.”
“Why?”
I shrug, but consider it for a few seconds. “Even when I was angry with you, when I thought you’d cheated on me, I was still proud of you and all you’d achieved. Is that weird?”
“No, I felt the same way. When you won your first Grammy…” She shakes her head. “Even knowing you wanted nothing to do with me, I wanted to be in the room. Wanted to drink champagne and… just see you happy. I knew you deserved it.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that, but it means something to me that I was lodged as deeply in her thoughts as she was in mine even when we were on the outs.
“So who’s gay?” I ask again, trying to get us back on track.
“Well, there may be these two guys, detectives who are set for a bi-awakening as they investigate the case together.”
“I called it! This sounds great and I’m glad you found something you feel good about pitching.” I gently lift her hand from the keyboard and take it in mine. “But you need to sleep.”