Page 10 of The Story Between Us

And sure, he had royalties twice a year, but even they had started to wane.

Apparently, readers had moved on to other series, other authors.

He didn’t blame them.

His phone buzzed.

Voicemail. From Richard Ames, the head agent from Pemberton, the agency he was still attached to.

He hadn’t let himself hear from Pemberton in a long time. Maybe they’d finally given up on him.

He pressed play.

“Nate.” Richard’s voice sounded tired. “I know you’re screening. I get it. But I need you to call me back.”

A pause.

“The publisher isn’t asking anymore—they’re demanding. We’re past extensions. Past grace periods. If I don’t have something to turn in within the next two weeks, they’re canceling the contract. You know what that means.”

A cool half million he didn’t have.

“I don’t want it to come to that. Nobody does. But I can’t protect you anymore, Nate. Not if you won’t give me something to work with.”

Another pause.

“Call me. Please.”

The voicemail ended.

He deleted it.

Then, somehow, he was upstairs, standing outside Emma’s room.

He opened the door.

The smell hit first.

Her perfume—faded but still there, clinging to fabric and paper and memory. Something floral. Something sweet. The smell of her.

Everything was preserved exactly as she’d left it, which meant everything was slightly chaotic. Emma had never been neat, had left clothes draped over chairs and books stacked on every surface, had lived in beautiful mess.

He stepped inside. The floorboards creaked the way they’d always creaked. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight, disturbed after years of stillness.

Her bed, still made. The quilt their grandmother had stitched—purple and blue, a wedding-ring pattern—smoothed over pillows that no longer held the shape of her. He used to sit on the edge of that bed and read her chapters while she was too sick to hold the pages herself.

Her desk, exactly as she’d left it—minus her laptop, which had been donated to the library. Art supplies cluttering the desk. Notebooks with drawings and half-finished outlines for books she’d never get to write. Sticky notes in her handwriting—loops and energy and impossible to read unless you knew her.

The corkboard above the desk. Story ideas, character sketches, photos of the two of them. Ticket stubs from concerts they’d gone to. A postcard from the one trip to Ireland they’d taken when the second book made enough money for extravagance.

A whole life in pushpins and paper.

Her cardigan.

It was draped over the desk chair. The ratty gray one she’d worn in the hospital, the one that was too big for her, the one she’d stolen from him years ago and never given back.

He picked it up. Held it to his face. Breathed in.

Emma.