He still couldn’t really believe it. He was so tempted to send her a photo of the wordsThe endon the last page.
But all those unanswered texts. He had told her he wouldn’t have gotten the book done without her. He’d already thanked her. He’d already apologized.
He’d already said all the things.
If she wanted to talk to him, she would. To keep texting her when she had communicated, via her silence, that she didn’t want to hear from him, was not the move.
His fingers twitched.No texting Blair.
It turned out Jack didn’t have to text Blair. She texted him. On the sixteenth of March.
Blair:Happy ides of March.
Jack was having drinks and dinner with Teddy Knight, whom he hadn’t seen since last summer, when her text came in, and he nearly choked to death.
Blair:Happy day after the ides of March, I should say. I didn’t want to bother you yesterday in case you were turning in your book at 11:59 p.m.
Jack was not the kind of person who texted at the table.
Except… apparently he was the kind of person who texted at the table when the textee was Blair Kellermoon.
He didn’t know what to say back. Were they just going to pretend that last night in LA hadn’t happened? Revert to their old banter?
That worked for him.
Jack:How do you know I turned it in? Maybe I didn’t make it.
Blair:You made it.
Damn. How did she always—still—have such confidence in him? It was strange, being the recipient of such unstinting belief.
Blair:Didn’t you?
Jack:I did.
He navigated to his photos app and texted the “The end” picture he’d wanted to send yesterday.
Blair:I knew it.
Jack:How? Why?
Blair:I just knew.
Blair:I’m sorry I went radio silent after you left. You didn’t deserve that. I just suddenly felt like I had a lot of work to do, and I wanted to put my head down and do it without any distractions.
He didn’t know how to respond. He was having all kinds of unconnected thoughts he wanted to communicate and questions he wanted to ask. She didn’t need to apologize to him. What had she meant by “work”? Her confidence in him—her “I just knew” attitude—had made all the difference for his book. He’d taken that confidence home with him. How was Esme doing? Hell, how were Edward and Morticia doing?
“Look who’s turned into an asshole who’s glued to his phone.”
“Sorry.” Jack was having dinner—a celebratoryI turned my book indinner—with Teddy Knight, his rock star friend. It still boggled the mind—the friend part as much as the rock star part. They’d met last summer at Camp Wild Arts, where they’d both been artists in residence. They’d both been professionally stuck, though Teddy had pulled himself out of his own personal rut earlier and seemingly with more ease than had Jack.
“Somone was just texting me to congratulate me on getting the book in. I just need to send one more text, then I’ll stop being an asshole.”
Jack:I’m at dinner with a friend now, more to come…
“Someonewas congratulating you?”
“Yes.”
