Page 46

“You wrote about us. You can dress it up however you like, change names, and make up whatever other shit you want, but this is about us.”

“I changed the details,” I whispered.

“Not nearly enough.” Her eyes were wild with anger.

We both stood there, the smell of the roast filling the space between us, while the sound of Sophie’s laughter floated in from the other room.

“Does Everett know?” She asked, crossing her arms in front of her.

“He knows about the book. He’s even read parts of it.”

“Does he know that every private moment, every single part of his grief is going to end up on a shelf at the Book Nook for strangers to read while they drink their lattes?”

I couldn’t answer her. The truth was more complicated than yes or no. He’d read parts of it, yes, and he knew the characters he’d read mirrored us, but I don’t think he realized what publication would mean. I don’t even think I had.

“That’s what I thought.” She pulled herself up to her full height. “I won’t make a scene in front of Sophie, but I will speak to Everett about this. I am going to finish my visit with my granddaughter. I want you to consider what you are doing here, Ember. You’re not just writing a story.”

She turned and left me standing in the kitchen. I stood there, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I walked over and closed my laptop, and then I pressed both hands to the table and tried to take a breath.

Margaret was right. Even though this book was fiction and it was the best thing I’d ever written, the foundation of it was real. Every single emotion in this story had come from an actual place. If she could see it, anyone would be able to. Every single person who’d ever met this family would know.

I moved through dinner on autopilot. I served everyone and refilled their drinks. I’d never been so happy to see someone leave, and I watched as Margaret hugged Sophie for a long time while whispering something in her ear that made Sophie’s face light up.

She didn’t say goodbye to me, and after they were gone and I’d put Sophie to bed, I found Everett in his study. He was leaning back in his chair, his tie loosened, glasses on, reading something on his laptop. He looked up and smiled when I appeared in the doorway.

“Everything okay?” He asked, reading my expression. “You were really quiet at dinner and I couldn’t help but notice that you barely ate anything.”

I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms in front of me, trying to hold myself together.

“Margaret read my manuscript.”

Everett went still and pulled his glasses off slowly. “What?”

“She found my laptop open on the table. She read it.”

“How much did she read?”

“Enough.” I took a breath.

Everett said nothing for a moment. He set his glasses down and pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, the same gesture I’d written into Ethan a hundred times because I’d seen Everett do it.

“What did she say? She mentioned something to me about wanting to talk as they were leaving.”

“She thinks I came here and turned your story into my book. I told myself over and over that I’d changed enough.”

“Ember…”

“Oh, and Sophie knows,” I said, my voice cracking. “She told Margaret about the book. She is proud of it because she thinks it’s about fictional people.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying Margaret is right. The main character is based on you. I think you know that. So, I can’t stand here and pretend what I am writing is fiction. People are going to read this, people in town. I love this family, Everett. I love you and I love Sophie and apparently I have been using you both, using every piece of you as raw material for a fictional story.”

“Ember, you wrote a beautiful book.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I wrote about your life. There is an enormous difference,” I said, sniffling.

I could tell he wanted to argue with me. He wanted to tell me it didn’t matter. But I didn’t want to hear it. The damage had already been done.