Molly shrugged. “I knew you’d have some kind of self-deprecating argument as to why you couldn’t publish your stories. So I did some research.”
“This is a lot. I need to process.”
“I figured you would, but I couldn’t stay silent any longer.”
Cleo raked her hands through her hair and shook her head. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that, too.” Molly leaned over the edge of her bed and grabbed her laptop. “You already have the stories written, believe it or not, that’s most of the battle.”
She opened her laptop and hit the power button. “I mean, it’s hard AF work from here on out, but so many people don’t ever finish writing. You have enough short stories under your bed for at least two whole books.”
“Should I be freaked out by the amount of time you seemingly spent under my bed, Mol?”
“I mean, you could do with using a fucking vacuum sometimes…”
Cleo giggled.
“This is where you start.” Her friend spun the laptop to face her. The browser was open to a Facebook group.
“20Booksto50k?”
“It’s a ‘what you do now you’ve done the writing part’ kind of group. It has everything you need to know about publishing and marketing your book.”
Cleo’s jaw dropped open. Her heart warmed at the amount of work Molly had put into this before bringing it to her. “Is there anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” Molly snapped her laptop shut and leaned forward far enough to flick Cleo’s forehead. “Stop being a fucking idiot about Lincoln fucking Scott.”
Chapter 30
Lincoln
“Go away!”
The knocking on Lincoln’s door was persistent.
Bang, bang, bang.
One thing was for sure, Russell wasn’t going away. Linc groaned, shoved the quilt off his face, and rolled over. His muscles ached and his bones clicked and popped. How long had he been lying in bed? He sat up and stretched on a yawn. The knocking continued.
“Russell, man, I swear to fuck, unless someone is dying, you’re about to get your ass kicked.” He jerked the door open. “D-dad?” A ball of icy dread settled heavy in his gut.
His father wedged a foot against the door and smacked an open palm onto the wood. “Took you long enough. Get showered and dressed – we’re having food.”
And probably a lecture.
“Yes, we’re going to talk, Lincoln. That’s what grown-ups do. They don’t avoid their parents’ phone calls and lie in a pit of their own filth for three days pretending the world isn’t still spinning outside. You stink. Wash.”
***
Linc lingered under the jets of hot water for longer than he should have, but there was something almost biblical about having a hot shower after three days without one. When he stepped back into his room, a towel wrapped around his waist and water dripping from his hair. His bed linens had been changed, and his father sat against the headboard cradling a cup of coffee.
“Seems you’re having quite the time of it.” He blew over the rim of his mug and took a tentative sip of the black liquid. Black, just like his soul. Linc wasn’t sure exactly what profound, holier than thou bullshit was about to spew forth from his father’s mouth, but he didn’t want to hear any of it. It wasn’t new – he’d given the same variation of the “it’s your job to carry the torch” spiel countless times over the years.
“Can we wait until I’ve at least got a plate of food in front of me before we start the Linc lecturing?”
His father’s eye twitched, but he fell silent and sipped his coffee while Linc got changed.
“Did Russ call you?”
