“You mean he plagiarized them somewhere else then? Like, in news articles or something?”
“Oh yeah, exactly,” I say, imploring my face to stay neutral as a swell of giddiness consumes me. “I assumed he did the same to you. But you’re saying your work is inFalling Apart? That’s next level.”
“I wrote the whole first fucking chapter.”
My mouth drops open—I can’t help it. I have to instruct myself to breathe.
“Are you serious?” I manage to get out, the ground suddenly unsteady beneath me.
She shrugs her confirmation, as if she hasn’t just handed me a career-obliterating bomb and the keys to my dream house all inone spectacular sweep. (I make a mental note to order those moss sofas tonight, since Crate & Barrel says they’ll take eight weeks to arrive.)
“That’s outrageous,” I say, stuffing my hands into the back pockets of my jeans so Dottie can’t see them shaking. “But why haven’t you called him out?”
She stares at her black Converse. “That’s a long story.” Then she meets my gaze again and narrows her eyes. “What did you say your name was?”
“Lisa. I’m withThe Chronicle of Higher Education.”
“Lisa what?”
“Waters. Lisa Waters.”
“How’d you even find me? I haven’t told anyone about this.”
“I guess we both have long stories to share,” I say. “I can keep yours off the record, if you want.”
She chews her chapped bottom lip. “I have to get back inside. Where are you staying?”
“A little ways up the mountain, in a cabin—1800 Black Bear Drive.”
Dottie’s pretzeled arms heave up and down as she lets out a heavy sigh.
“I get off work tomorrow around four thirty,” she says. “I’ll come to you.”
20
The A-frame is an urbanite’s take on mountain living—small but stylish, with modern furniture and a minimalist kitchen with dark green cabinets and open shelves stocked with white dishes. Wonder how much rental income it generates each month. Maybe a few years down the line, once Ian and I have built enough equity in the dream house, we can consider buying a second place like this.
The temperature barely reached sixty today, so I followed the meticulous instructions left by the Airbnb host for setting up a fire in the wood-burning stove in the living room. Phoebe Bridgers plays over the Bluetooth speaker system—some of the younger girls in my office just went to her show, and I want to make Dottie feel as comfortable as I can.
The grind of tires on gravel announces her arrival.
I pour myself a glass of Chardonnay to calm my nerves. A car door slams, followed by three solid knocks on the door. I take the wine bottle with me to open it.
“Hey!” I say, with a big smile. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Dottie wears nicely fitting jeans and a gray sweater. She’s even put on a little makeup. She cares what I think of her.
“Hi,” she says, eyeing the wine.
“Come on in! Can I pour you some of this? I have red, too, if you like that better?”
“White’s fine.”
I head into the kitchen to get her a glass, but she doesn’t follow. She waits awkwardly in the entry.
“Seriously, make yourself at home.” I wave a hand around. “Take a seat anywhere you want. Or help yourself to some snacks.”
I’ve laid out a whole spread on the kitchen table—chips and salsa, crackers, salami, pretty much every type of cheese the sparse grocery store back in town had available. It’s a mish-mash, but of all the excuses Dottie might think of to leave, being hungry won’t be among them.
