Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Incredulity lines Mom’s face. “A book?”
“He called it redundant, repetitive, and sophomoric.”
“Is it?”
“What?” I flinch. “No. Of course not.” I rub my temples and shake my head. “How can I make you understand? It’s like …. you love your rose bushes. What if Dad hated them and—”
“I do hate them,” Dad says.
“Not helping, Dad.” I roll my eyes. “Fine. He doesn’t like them, but he trims them, feeds them, and is careful not to harm them when he mows the lawn and uses the weed eater. What if he trampled them and called them ugly weeds? What if he said anyone who likes roses is stupid? How would that make you feel?”
Mom’s body bounces while she chuckles. “Oh, dear. Did this guy you like call you stupid for liking the book you chose?”
“Well, no. But by degrading the book and the writing, it was implied.”
“Or just a difference of opinion.” Dad shrugs, closing the lid on the grill. “I love mushrooms, and your mom hates them.”
“Not the same thing.” I frown. “When you love a story, it resonates in some way with your heart or maybe even your soul.”
“What’s the title of this book? Maybe I need to read it?”
I smile at my mom. “I have my copy in my bag, and you really should read it.”
“But for the love of god … if you don’t like it, keep that shit to yourself.” Dad thinks he’s funny.
He’s not.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Eric
Anna left.
I didn’t chase her.
If we can’t be ninety-nine percent amazing together and let that other one percent (the book) fade into the background, I’m fighting a losing battle. After all, I can’t turn back time and pretend I love something I don’t. When I asked her never to surrender, I didn’t anticipate her taking it so literally.
“Hey! What’s up?” I answer my phone, seeing my dad’s picture pop up onto the screen.
“Can you thin my slush pile?”
I laugh. “Do I have to?”
“Yes. I already sent five. They’ll arrive later today, and I sent them to your store so you can sign for them.”
“And how long do I have?”
“A week.”
I shake my head, standing from my desk as the front door to the store rings from someone opening it. “Just fantastic. About a book a day.”
“You didn’t have other plans anyway. Right?”
“No, Dad. No plans. Gotta go.”
Two hours later, the package arrives, and I grab dinner on the way home.
As soon as I open the apartment building’s door, Anna glances up from the bike rack. Two other residents are in the entry, so I don’t feel obligated to acknowledge her. She didn’t want to sleep with anyone in the building because things could be awkward.
Well, here I am … smiling at everyone, including her. Same smile. Nothing special. I’m not making anything awkward as I carry my package and dinner past her. She tips her chin down and slips off her helmet.
That’s right … you should hide your face in shame. You crazy book lady.
She kicked and shoved me like a toddler having a tantrum. I didn’t appreciate her making me feel like I was forcing myself on her. I wasn’t.
After I get my dinner set out on my table, I open the package of manuscripts. The slush pile of unsolicited crap—at least ninety-nine out of a hundred is complete garbage. Occasionally, there’s a hidden gem. Dad’s looking for that one and must feel indifferent about other clients’ work. My parents have owned a publishing company for twenty years, and I’m expected to take over when they retire. In the meantime, they use me for fun stuff like the slush pile. My head already aches, and I haven’t even started.
All five manuscripts have tags on them. They’re the ones my mom peeked at and didn’t hate the first three chapters.
I thumb through them, deciding which will ruin my night the least.
Elenor’s Boyfriend
Hard pass.
Waking Up In His Arms
Hell no.
Journey to The Missing Planet
It’s a possibility. I’d rather go to the missing planet than meet Elenor’s boyfriend or wake up in some guy’s arms.
Sex on Medicare
What the fuck? I remind myself that my mom read at least a few chapters and saw something. She might need to get new glasses.
The Last Person
I chuckle. Great. Another book with that title, and sadly, it’s probably better than Anna’s obsession. My gaze slides an inch lower to the author—B. Ashton.
Fuck. My. Life.
Really? How did Anna pick an indie book submitted to my parents’ publishing house? I envision myself recommending this be the one they publish. B. Ashton gets her book in bookstores and airport gift shops. I take Anna to the locally owned bookstore on the corner and show her the colossal display of The Last Person in the window. Then I tell her it was because of me. I made it happen. She takes me back to her place. We fuck like rabbits. The End.