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Chapter 20

Message Sent.

Just two little words, and how the earth quakes beneath my feet.

Message. Sent.

I stare at the words in the bubble in my in-box and for a long moment sit in silence.

My manuscript is now in the in-box of Claire Donovan. My hopes entirely in her hands. It all comes down to this.

I suck in a deep breath and look around the room. Something feels different about the space. The same late-afternoon sunshine makes the floating dust specks glitter; the books all around still hold their musty, leathery smell. But the air is cooler, and the February chill rattles at the sparrow glass in a solitary way unlike before.

It’s funny. When all this first started, I was angry at discovering someone else was using my haven. I treasured the privacy of my little cove. I treasured the solitude and the time I had it all to myself.

Now, I can’t help feeling alone. Like I’m on my own in a chilled room in a musty old attic space where the strands of lights wait cold and lightless.

For three days I’ve kept the lights off, waiting to see a sign of his return. Holding off on sending this final email in hopes that I could do it after we’ve had that talk.

But so far, nothing. No coffee brewing. No lights glowing. No candlewick flickering and the scent of gardenias filling up the room.

No notes.

Nothing.

And while I wouldn’t take back what I said, every run-in with Sam in the flesh only confirming our lack of chemistry, I can’t help but wish he would write to me here. Again. If not for a relationship, at least as a friend.

Worst of all, it pains me to think he could’ve felt I took advantage of him.

That’s the hardest thought of all.

That I just took all his time and energy for my own gain. That I let eager conversation fill up the margins. And the moment the manuscript was done I left him waiting up here, alone. I never intended that. Never in a million years. And everything within me wants to make sure he knows.

It hasn’t been easy, though, to get the message across. Sam has avoided me like the plague these past three days. And while I’m trying to respect his wishes, I can’t help but feel like it would be best for the both of us to clear this up. I won’t keep it long. I won’t overstep. But he needs to get a proper thank-you from me.

And as for the manuscript itself, I never did get that final kiss right.

I read through a dozen classic scenes, watched four iconic eighties rom-coms, and read a dozen articles on the topic. And still the words fell a little flat. Better. But still . . . flat.

And I wasn’t about to ask him to help me.

Anyway, I think, snapping my laptop shut and standing, what’s done is done. It may not be the best kissing scene in the world, but the story as a whole is truly the best I could give. Kisses can be edited in the end if it’s acquired.

All I can do now is wait for her answer.

* * *

“You’re wanting . . . to include a photograph of your son . . . riding a go-cart . . . on the cover of this book.”

Even as I walk into the office I can hear the slow, long intake of breath through Lyla’s nostrils. When I look, her eyes are screwed up so far toward the ceiling her false lashes are brushing against her newly waxed brows.

“Dr. Shaw. Sweetie.”

My antenna rises as I hear Dr. Shaw’s name. My author, Dr. Annabelle Shaw, revered professor of anthropology, to whom I sent the cover for her new release, Extraterrestrial: How Theories of Life Beyond Earth Have Affected Culture. (And yes, after editing her book, I do look up at the sky a little more warily these days. And I do sometimes get a little nervous as I brush my teeth while looking back at myself, and the shower curtain behind me, in the mirror.)

The point here is Lyla is talking. To my author. On my phone.

Lyla pinches the crown of her nose with her eyes closed. “As adorable as your son is in your family albums, this isn’t the vibe we’re going for with your book.” There’s a pause. There’s silence as she listens. Then Lyla opens her eyes. “Because it’s a book about extraterrestrial theories through culture and history. Now, unless you want to inform me that your son is actually an alien, I don’t know how slapping a picture of your son across the cover applies—”