Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
I nod, acknowledging his request, and collapse on the closest park bench I can find. My mind is jammed with thoughts vying for my attention. Thought exercise was supposed to clear your head? I guess it did while I was doing it. I scramble to my feet and take the lazy, short way home—the subway.
A recurring thought crosses my mind—my redhead. Charlie. She’s off-limits because she’s Rachel’s friend, but being on the subway reminds me of yesterday and how she handled herself so quietly. She has a story, and the more I think about her, the more I want to know it. Rachel’s friend, I remind myself. Don’t go there. I push the thought and the subway doors aside, and walk the remaining block home.
Sunday offers me a new perspective on the life of a New Yorker. On this one particular day, they seem to become elusive or in hiding, relatively speaking. On Saturdays, the streets and shops are packed with people, then Monday rolls around, tripling the crowds again, and on Sunday, no one. There’s always a seat on the subway, an available park bench, and no lines at the coffee shop. Where do New Yorkers go on Sunday?
I determine a walk around a surrounding neighborhood is in order to prove my point. Since I recovered quicker than expected from the torture—I mean, run—yesterday, I put my sneakers on again. Leaving my jacket at home, I race down the stairs and out onto the street.
The nearest neighborhood bordering mine has classic architecture and young families. Several small children play while their parents sit on the stoop keeping a watchful eye on them. Kids are interesting little creatures. How does so much life fit into such a small package?
As I turn the corner, I come across the dog park. Even though Rachel seemed to garner a different idea from my story Friday night, it doesn’t hinder me from leaning against the fence and watching the dogs run free in the enclosed area.
I return home two hours later, encountering only a few people during my walk, thus proving my point. I spend the rest of the day at my computer, typing and surfing online with moments of staring out the window mixed in. I go to bed before my usual time and pay the price when I wake at three in the morning. Flicking through the late-night selection on television, I find a program I know will put me to sleep again, and it does.
Monday rolls around just as I was starting to enjoy my lazy weekend. I remember dreading these days when I was younger, but my career has given me lots of freedom that make Monday just as good as Friday. With plenty of much-needed sleep, I leave the house bright and early. I stop by The Bagelry before taking the train over to my agent’s office.
Walking into his offices, I’m always surprised by his importance. He’s just Alec to me—more of a friend who makes demands of my time every now and again. But here, he’s the boss. With ten employees already bustling around the large space, it’s easy to see where my commission goes. It gives me a sense of pride to play a small part in his success. He’s doing better than me—that much is obvious—which makes me chuckle. No one said I’d get rich following my passion, but I’ve done quite well.
The receptionist calls him as I gaze out the windows of his eighteenth-floor suite. “He’ll see you now, Mr. Adams.” Her tone makes me think she doubted he would as she signals me around the decorative wall behind her.
I walk into his office and make the couch my own. Alec looks up and smiles. “You could’ve just emailed the articles and saved yourself the trip.”
“What’s the fun in that? Anyway, I haven’t been here in a while and had the time.” I stand, handing him the disk. “There are five on there. Do we have takers for all of them?”
“And more. Two were due today, and I have some interested parties in your work. They’re looking for something different. You have a unique voice in your writing. I’m sure they’ll want them.” He stands, leaning his body against the windowsill. I can tell he’s about to get serious. Folding his arms over his chest is always his giveaway. “What’s the big picture, Charlie? What do you want to do?”
Oh, we’re having this conversation again. “I’m doing it.”
“I think you’re wasting some of your talents. I love your writing, and it sells well, but you can do more . . . bigger things. What about a book? Have you given serious consideration to writing a book?” He half smiles to ease the tension I must be revealing through my own expression. “I’m asking because I’ve received a few calls from interested agents and publishers.”