Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
I step forward a few paces around the side of the water as she crosses over to meet me. She looks at me with an admixture of… something and… something else. I’ve never seen her look like this before and I have no idea what this look portends.
I think I’m gonna have a heart attack.
“What—?” I start. But before I can get any more of the sentence out, Britney just grabs me, pulls me close and wraps me up, enveloping me in a hug. She whispers in my ear…
“You are so goddamn talented, I can barely stand it.”
I’m glad she’s hugging me because I feel like I’m going to collapse. The relief I’m experiencing is like… I dunno. Like someone who just found out they had their death sentence commuted. Which is a terrible metaphor because it trivializes death and almost sends me off into a brain spiral about the complicated ethics of the judicial system, but I rodeo my mind back into the moment and just let the feeling of release and gratitude roll through me.
Britney pulls back and I can now see she is, indeed, smiling. Which, in turn, causes me to smile through the tears of joy I can feel forming around the corners of my eyes.
“Really? You think it’s good?”
“It’s beyond good. It’s a masterwork.”
My heart leaps. I have so many things I want to say. So many questions I want to ask. So much I want to talk about. I want to throw my head back and laugh to the heavens. I want to pop champagne and go shopping. Which are not things I typically enjoy or think about doing, but right now it’s what I want.
Still smiling, Britney takes me by the shoulders, looks me in the eyes, and with a tilt of her head and an apology creeping into her expression that is at odds with the mood I feel like we should be sharing, she says something that you don’t expect to hear from someone who’s basically just told you you’re a genius.
She takes a deep breath and says…
“You can’t publish it.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE DAY BEFORE THE CONVENTION
I’m just about to throw a dart when my phone starts buzzing on the kitchen counter behind me. I pause. Close my eyes. Count to five.
“You gonna get that?” That question comes from my friend, Terry.
“Want me to grab it?” That’s our friend, Luke.
“Yello.” That’s Shawn, who doesn’t ask questions. “This is Steve.” He’s also a big believer in the idea that every moment is an opportunity to be someone else. I guess that’s why he’s such a great fiction writer. He pauses for a moment, listening, and the rest of us look at him expectantly, waiting to see what will happen next.
“Mmm. Wow.” Shawn looks at me and winks. “Glad you’re all OK.” He nods, listening again. “Yep. OK, Mom. See ya when ya get here.” He ends the call, trying not to laugh. Then he tosses me the phone.
I catch it. “Well?”
“Your mom and dad are about twenty minutes away—there was a fire on both sides of the 10, just east of Palm Desert, they had to drive right through it and she thought she was gonna die. Oh, and she says you need to get a real job and stop mooching off your sister.”
This is why I don’t answer the phone when my parents are coming into town. I throw my dart, stick it in the bullseye, and then grab a beer from the fridge.
When I turn, I see nothing but ocean and sand though the completely open wall of the lower level of my Malibu home. I hear waves and distant laughter of people outside enjoying a day on the beach.
I count to ten, looking for my Zen. But my parents, man. They’re not easy to be Zen around. And I have to spend the next six days with them.
A hand slaps my back and I turn to find Terry standing next to me holding his own beer. “You’ll get through it, dude. Just… just…”
“Just think about the money.” Luke is the one who finishes that sentence. He throws his dart, hits my wall, and says, “Oops. That’ll buff right out,” as he snags the dart and grins at me.
Shawn has started a game of Pac-Man over in the corner so that stupid waka-waka-waka noise drifts through the room. As far as man caves go, mine is pretty spectacular. Ocean front view, sand just ten feet down, air hockey, darts—obviously—pool table, fridge stocked with beer, and a variety of arcade and pinball machines lining one whole wall.
It’s also my living room. I don’t even use the other two floors of the house.
I am living the dream. Every man wants what I have. Hell, it’s an empire at this point.
Pac-Man dies and the death sound that comes with it is the perfect background noise for how I feel about what will happen tomorrow.