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“Lucas!” Jason shouts after me.
I push the door, laughing evilly when I hear him call my name again.
“Don’t make me fire you!”
“Ha!” I scoff. “Like you would ever do that.”
The door slams closed and I lean against it, answering the phone with a brisk, “Hello?”
”Is this Lucas Brent?”
I purse my lips, my heart slamming hard and fast in my chest. I don’t recognize the voice. Lori did say there would be consequences for my actions, but her lawyer hasn’t contacted me. No one from her company has dared to call or send me a letter. Maybe this is finally her attack on me?
“Yes,” I say hesitantly.
“This is Oliver Stone. I work with Ruby Bright Publishing Company. Our location in in Boulder, Colorado, but we also have some businesses run in Boston and New York. Do you have time to speak?”
“S-sure,” I say while moving away from the door and sitting down on a little stool near the trash. I wrinkle my nose, smelling Jason’s ash tray resting near the stool, wanting desperately to chuck the thing now while Jason isn’t looking.
“I won’t take too much of your time, Mr. Brent. I am calling, because we haven’t received word back from any of our emails.”
“Emails?”
“Yes, we sent you at least three since I saw you perform at Boulder. My first email is dated shortly after the Poetry Night. Did you not receive?”
I shake my head, my fingers stroking my chin as I say, “No, I don’t think so.”
“I suspected as much. Sometimes our emails get sent to spam folders. I don’t know why. Maybe some IT God has it out for us.” Oliver’s awkward chuckle has me smiling, but before I can say anything, he continues, “I was very impressed by your performance that night, and I was wondering if you write more than poetry. Perhaps any novels, or short stories? Novellas?”
I pop up from my stool like I’m a jack-in-the-box. My excitement sends the stool flying backwards and the ash tray toppling over. “Yeah. I have a story. It’s a novel. I’ve only written about half. Would that do?”
“Perfect. Send it over. Call me if you’re unable to find my emails. Looking forward to reading more of your work.”
“Wait. Mr. Stone. How did you get my number?”
Oliver chuckles. “It was on your application. When you didn’t reply, I called the event organizers. Had to give them my card and everything to prove we were a legit publishing company. I was really fascinated by your work, Lucas. I hope we will be able to work together in the future.”
I hang up, but I don’t return inside. I feel absolutely stunned, numb. Is this really happening? I pinch myself, wincing at the pain. I guess not. Someone is actually interested in my stuff, and not because of my family. This is amazing. Are things finally looking up? Will I be able to quit my job here and now? Doubtful. However, it looks good.
I go to my email on my phone, stabbing my thumb on the spam button and there they are, the three emails Oliver Stone sent me, requesting for more of my work. A part of me wonders if this will lead me down the wrong path, like Lori. I should be wary. I should discuss this with Rachel and the bros.
Instead, I go to my apps, finding where I keep all my writing documents. I pull up the story I have written about Rachel and the bros. My thumb hovers over the attachment image. Is this really my best work? I wonder. I have others, but I don’t love them as much as this one. It’s hardly edited. I should have a read through, but I’m too excited.
I press the button, attaching it to a short message and send it off to Oliver before I can second guess myself. People take many paths in life, and some of them lead to dead ends. How can we know unless we take a chance? And this chance could be it.
I inhale deeply, pushing back my shoulders and slapping a cheerful smile on my face, deciding I have no regrets. We will see where this takes me. I throw open the door and waltz inside the cafe, calling at the top of my lungs, “Jason! You’re closing today!”
Chapter 27
RACHEL
Ican’tbelievethisis happening to me. I squat in front of the toilet, my hands braced on the wall while I try to catch my breath. My stomach twists over and over again while I feel another wretch coming on. The May Art Market is today and I, of course, won’t stop puking up my insides. I felt fine when I woke up this morning. It wasn’t until Seth and Alex came in from their run that I smelled something that set me off. I think it was Seth’s deodorant. I don’t know why that would make my stomach act all funny. We did go to thatwingsplace last night. I could have food poisoning, but then, why did I feel absolutely fine when I woke up?
It’s probably nerves, I keep telling myself. However something inside me tells me something is terribly wrong. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad before without a fever.
When my stomach calms, I finally lift myself up, wobbling to the sink and guzzling down as much water as I can. My hands shake while hovering over the faucet. I hear the door creaking open, but I don’t bother turning toward it. My thirst needs to be satiated. I’m suddenly so very dehydrated, and exhausted. If this was a class I would call in sick, but it’s the market. I paid five hundred dollars to have a stall. I worked all semester to create work to sell and show off. There’s no way I can miss this. I will have to find some way to buck up, tough it out. I can rest tonight.
“Rachel,” I hear Seth—hear the worry in his voice.
