Page 139 of The Story Between Us

Which felt accurate, actually. The last twelve hours existed in his memory as a blur of boarding passes and bad coffee and the horror of a middle seat between a snoring businessman and a teenager who kept elbowing him while playing some game on her phone. He’d written most of the flight, closed laptop balanced on the tray table, notebook on top, the new ending taking shape in the same frantic scrawl that used to mean Emma was feeding him ideas faster than he could type.

But Emma wasn’t here. And the words were his. And now he was standing in Livvie Fox’s studio apartment in Manhattan, surrounded by evidence of a life he’d never seen but desperately wanted to be a part of.

Book stacks climbing the walls. Post-it quotes in her handwriting, stuck to mirrors and window frames and the edge of her desk. A sad-looking plant on the floor next to a laptop bag. The winter hat, the one he’d given her, lying on the table, where she’d tossed it after walking in the door.

She’d kept it. Worn it today.

Something loosened inside him, warm and aching.

“First,” he said, and his voice came out rough, uncertain, “I need to give you this.”

He held out the envelope.

Then he stopped. Ran a hand through his hair—a disaster, he knew. He caught a glimpse of himself in her bathroom mirror and nearly turned around. Looked at the envelope like it had betrayed him.

“I’m doing this all wrong.” He laughed—a short, frustrated sound. “I need a rewrite.”

Something shifted in her expression. The wariness didn’t disappear, but it softened. She was watching him the way she’d watched him in Maple Lake—like he was a manuscript she was trying to understand.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

“New pages. For the ending.” He thrust the envelope toward her again. “I thought—I wanted you to see them first. Before anyone else.”

She looked at the envelope. Looked at him. And something in her face closed.

“Nate.” She pushed the envelope gently back toward his chest. “I can’t.”

His stomach dropped. “What? Why?”

“I’m not with the agency anymore.”

The words hung in the air between them. He stared at her, trying to make sense of them.

“What do you mean you’re not—since when?”

“Since yesterday.” She moved past him into the small kitchen, and he watched her reach for the kettle with hands that weren’t quite steady. “Richard fired me. Accused me of stealing an author—you remember Nora Whitcomb? The manuscript I gave notes on? Turns out she’s a senator’s daughter, and suddenly everyone wants her, and Richard decided that meant I was trying to poach talent for myself.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s publishing.” She filled the kettle, set it on the stove, turned the flame on. She wasn’t looking at him. “I stood up in his office and listed every book I’d recommended that became a bestseller, every author I’d nurtured who got reassigned to senior agents, every idea I’d pitched that got stolen and presented by someone else. I told him someone should know what invisible people accomplish.” She shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “And then I walked out with my sad plant and my laptop and whatever was left of my dignity.”

The kitchen went quiet. She finally turned around.

Nate stared at her. The fierce, brilliant woman who’d shown up at his door and refused to leave. Who’d read his books. Who’d asked the questions no one else had thought to ask and then waited—trusted him—to find the answers.

“They fired you,” he said slowly. “Because you helped someone.”

“They fired me because I went around Richard.” She leaned against the counter. “Because I wasn’t invisible enough anymore.”

“Livvie.” Her name cracked in his throat. “I wrote the wrong ending.”

“No duh.”

He raised an eyebrow.

The kettle started to whistle. Neither of them moved.

“I hate to tell you this,” she said quietly, “but…”