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“You’re amazing at this! You’ve barely had any time to think. Roadkill Chronicles: Tales From the Asphalt. You should help me name my next book.”
“That’s why you were here in my little slice of heaven, weren’t you? Working on your next book.”
“Yep. I suppose I should tell you the book’s real name, though. Roadkill Chronicles: A Roadside Eulogy.”
He closes his eyes as his face lights up with a close-lipped smile. I’ve seen pictures of wine lovers on TV when they sample an expensive bottle of wine and savor the taste. That is exactly what he looks like right now.
He gets me. He really gets me.
Chapter Sixteen
Sylas
Perhaps it’s that I was forged in the fires of the evil scientists’ lab, lived in a cell barely large enough to lie down in, and was then rescued only to be hidden away from the public for years, but my mind doesn’t exactly work like people who’ve lived so-called normal lives.
I have a highly developed appreciation for the quirky, peculiar, wacky, and strange. Some might call it gallows humor. Exactly where or how Cally developed her sense of the bizarre, I don’t know, but I want to find out.
What a brilliant way to grab people’s attention to the danger innocent animals face on our roadways. All I know is that although I liked her before I found out about Roadkill Chronicles, I have a much deeper appreciation of her now.
“I have so many questions. But I’ll start with the obvious. It got published? Some big company took a chance on such a cutting-edge concept?” I return to my stool, unable to stay more than a few feet from this amazing woman.
“Nope. I self-published it and somehow it caught people’s imaginations. It rose to number one in Amazon’s Photo Essays category. I got some,” she clears her throat nervously, “notoriety. I was even…”
She looks embarrassed as her gaze dips to the counter and her cheeks pinken.
“On The View.”
“The View? Not a fan, but I would have watched it in order to see you, Cally. Wow! You’re the only famous person I’ve ever met.”
“Five minutes.” Her tone is self-deprecatory and she can’t even meet my gaze. “It was my five minutes of fame.”
“Don’t put yourself down. What are you, twenty-five?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You’re twenty-two and you’re a self-made author and you’ve been on The View and you traveled by yourself all over the country and…” I run out of steam and all the air whooshes out of me because her career is like a runaway freight train and I’ve derailed it. “I’m so sorry. I’ve messed up your meteoric career trajectory.”
She snorts with laughter and echoes, “Meteoric career trajectory. Really, Sylas. I figure when all this settles down, I’ll write some of the prose for my current work in progress while I’m under house arrest.”
“Let me apologize. I wish I could let you go. It’s just that…”
“I told you, Sylas. I understand. It’s not your fault. If anything, we should blame it on Tater who should no longer hold the title of World’s Goodest Dog.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever lose the guilt I feel for keeping her on what she calls house arrest, but her sincere forgiveness means a lot to me and eases the tightness in my chest.
“Do you think he’ll drop into a depression?” I ask, my tone a caricature of sincerity. “Lose interest in b-a-c-o-n? I wouldn’t want to damage his fragile mental health by removing his hard-earned title?”
Her pretty face quirks into an adorable smile. “Nah. I guess we’ll let him keep his privileges.”
“Now that we’ve straightened that out, Cally, you’ve got to tell me. What amazing thing are you working on now? Please, please tell me it’s nothing ordinary like… The Mundane World: A Collection of Generic Photos.”
“Nope.”
“The Joy of Waiting: An In-Depth Study of Queues?”
“So, so close. But no.”
“Seamless Carpet Patterns: A Never-Ending Odyssey?”
