Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I heard him get out of bed and dress this morning. I heard him leave the cottage, and I’ve been waiting anxiously for him to return. Now, I know we’re going to have an uncomfortable confrontation, and I’m just trying to brace for it as best I can.
“You don’t need to worry. I’m going to leave just as soon as it’s possible. Without cell service, I have no way of calling a cab, and I didn’t want to start walking until you gave me directions.”
He keeps unloading groceries while I talk, refusing to look at me. Then he reaches for a cast iron skillet from the open shelf and sets it down hard on the stove. I startle at the sound, but with his back turned, he doesn’t see my reaction.
“But, just so you know.” I step forward again so I’m finally at the entrance to the kitchen, a large opening supported by ancient wooden beams. “I’m not leaving England. I came prepared to do my job, and I think if you’d hear me out, you would see that I can be really helpful to you.” I hold up a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, filled with so many letters I could barely get it zipped. “I brought you some fan mail—”
“Burn it,” he says, point-blank, as he starts laying bacon down in the skillet.
“Are we that low on firewood?” I quip.
My teasing falls on deaf ears. I hate this! I’m trying my hardest here, and he couldn’t care less. He’s so selfishly wrapped up in his own world he doesn’t understand how this affects me. My job is on the line here, my future, my success. I open the bag and pull out the first letter. I’ve read them all. We get thousands sent to InkWell every year. Jaclyn down in reception is responsible for filtering through them.
“Dear Nathaniel Foster, I hope this letter finds you well.”
I look up just as Nathaniel’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t say a word or turn around. Clearly this letter does not find him well. Still, I continue.
“My name is Franklin Wynne and I live in Phoenix, Arizona, with my wife. She was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme last year, and our entire world flipped upside down overnight. I’m happy to help take care of her, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t isolating. I thought our lives would look much different than they currently do. I had hoped…well, I had hoped for a lot more. Maybe you’ll find us in a different spot in a few years, my wife healthy and happy, but for now, I’m by her side day in and day out, taking her to doctor’s appointments and treatments. I’m helping her endure something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I’m writing to you because of how impactful your books have been on my life. You might think I’m exaggerating when I say your stories, especially The Last Exodus, got me through some of the darkest days—”
The letter is suddenly wrenched out of my hand as Nathaniel steals it from me, tearing it in two, and then in four, again and again, until it’s nothing but bits of confetti getting pushed down into the trash can beside the kitchen counter.
I’m too stunned to speak.
He’s breathing hard as he leans over the top of the bin, trying to compose himself. His hands are squeezing the edge of the counter. His head hangs between his arms. I can see the muscles in his biceps ripple and bunch beneath his shirt, his chest rising and falling.
I’ve struck a nerve I never meant to touch, never even meant to skim.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, unsure of where I’ve gone wrong.
He squeezes his eyes closed.
The silence seems to go on forever before he says with a defeated voice, “It’s hard enough.”
That’s all the explanation he gives.
“I didn’t realize.”
He shakes his head. “When I first started to write, I did it solely for myself. It was a complete secret I kept from everyone in my life.” He pushes off the counter and looks over at me, his pale blue eyes so painfully expressive. “Now, I write to meet the expectations of millions of people I don’t even know, people I have never and will never meet. They want so much from me… It’s paralyzing.”
My lips part but I don’t have any idea what to say. I didn’t understand the circumstances surrounding his publishing delays. Maybe it’s been a common discussion around the office, but I’m new and I assumed it was different. There was a chance Nate was just being a bit lazy about the whole thing. It’s not out of the question for authors to garner a little success, tuck away a bit of money, and then leave writing behind altogether. That celebrity status can do a number on the most innocent soul, and Nathaniel’s success has been on another level entirely. I made a mistake assuming things about him, and I feel bad for exacerbating the problem.