He didn’t turn over.
Sometimes writing acquaintances of Jack’s asked him to read their manuscripts. Depending on his feelings about said acquaintances, he might do it. And when he did, he tried to offer what help he could. This brand of help had never been a two-way street. He had never asked anyone to readIn Time. His agent had been the first.
Sometimes people invited Jack to take part in, or to run, writing workshops. He always declined. The idea of sitting around in a circle talking about people’s writing, listening to people talking about his writing, made his skin feel like it was breaking out in hives. He had done enough of that during his MFA to last a lifetime.
Sometimes people asked Jack if his dad had read early drafts of his book, and all he could do in response to that question was laugh.
So there was no precedent for Blair having read those pages.
“Thanks for letting me read,” she whispered.
He waited for more. A signature Blair monologue. Whatever she had to say would probably be intelligent. She’d proven herself a thoughtful critic. But his whole body bristled at the idea of having to talk about his fucking book.
Nothing had ever shocked Jack more than what happened next, which was… nothing. Well, nothing verbal. She said not a word as she laid a hand on his shoulder.
He’d worked his way partially out from beneath his covers while he’d slept, so his shoulder was bare. Her skin was cool against his. Her hand felt like it could put out the fire that was burning inside him, and he didn’t mean that in the I-have-a-passion-for-writing sense; he meant it in the I-am-wildly-uncomfortable sense.
Her hand was soothing, was the point. But only somewhat. He was going to have to turn over eventually. He was going to have to talk. She was going to say more about the book, and he was going to have to listen.
The hand floated away. The bed dipped again as she got out.
She spoke from across the room. “Jack. You did it.”
How could she say that? She’d only read two chapters.
“I know I only read two chapters,” she said, and he smiled in and among his turmoil. “But trust me.”
The funny thing was, hedidtrust her.
“You did it,” she said again, and then he heard the snick of the door sliding closed behind her.
Chapter 16
Thanksgiving on the Island of Misfit Toys
We don’t usually say grace,” Blair said as they sat down for dinner the next night. She was so happy to have her daughter, her best friend, and her… Jack around the table. “But if anyone else wants to, that would be lovely.”
“Are you looking at me?” Jack asked in a way that suggested Blair was barking up the wrongest of trees.
“How about a toast?” Tiffany asked, raising a glass.
“Great idea.” Blair looked at Jack again. Why? Why was she doing this?
Jack looked at Blair, letting his expression speak for him.
“You’re the writer,” she said.
“You’re the host.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Esme lifted her glass—she had requested another reunion refresher from Jack. “To…” She trailed off and looked at Blair. “New beginnings?”
“Are you asking me?” Hmm. Maybe Esme wasn’t as upset about the divorce as Blair had been led to believe if she was toasting her mother’s new beginning.
“To new beginnings,” Esme said, this time decisively. She turned to Tiffany. “I just got some great advice that’s inspired me to declare a major and decide what I want to be when I grow up.”
Blair had to stifle a laugh. As Esme told Tiff about her plans, Jack caught Blair’s eye and smiled. He knew she’d been thinking Esme was toasting her, and he shared her amusement that she’d been so deluded.
Blair smiled back, but she had to order herself to keep the heart eyes in check. She had not been able to get Jack’s new book off her mind. And thinking about Jack’s new book made her giddy, a sensation she had heretofore associated with crushes.
