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Wilson sighs, and my chest flips over on itself, burning rage officially replaced by nausea. “No, Brooke. It’s not. Though, I imagine it is a similar feeling.”
Yeah, right. He doesn’t know what I’m feeling. He doesn’t know what I’m feeling at all. Turning this book in was the last thing I wanted, compadre, I want to say. And I want to scream, If I had any self-preservation at all, I’d have set fire to both my laptop and Longstrand and the internet altogether until no copies remained!
But instead of going off on him, I find myself muttering, “I’m scared.” Boy oh boy, is that an understatement.
“Yeah, well, this is the part they don’t talk about, babe. Dream-achieving is scary. It’s grand and unexplored, and it’s been a figment of your imagination for just a little too long to seem real. Everything you’ve ever wanted is coming true. Just enjoy it.” His voice lacks sarcasm. If anything, it’s soft and genuine, and that only makes me more irritated.
“Right. Simple as that. Just enjoy it. By God, Will, I…I think you’ve just performed a miracle. A true spiritual moment of epiphany, you know?” I shut my eyes tightly. “Frankly, I think that’s somehow done a better job than just telling me to relax. And as we know, that’s the reining cure for anxiety recommended by medical professionals!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, smartass. Silly me, trying to make you feel better about doing something you obviously don’t want to do.”
It’s on the very tip of my tongue to tell him that he, as my agent charged with representing my best interests, should be trying to get me out of the thing I don’t want to do instead of making me feel better about doing it anyway, but a very small, nearly minuscule, rational part of me blunts the edge of my tongue.
If I’d known what I was doing enough to plan this shit at all, turning in a book you’ve never even mentioned to your agent, behind your agent’s back, would be a pretty shitty thing to do to the guy who’s gotten you all the deals you’ve ever signed. Not to mention, most writers would sacrifice themselves to an evil spirit for the chance to take my place on a three-week tour sponsored by Netflix.
I take a deep breath to bolster the resolve to say the things I know I need to say.
“I’m sorry, Will. Really. I know you’re trying,” I admit and stare down at the pavement beneath my feet. I pick at a rogue piece of grass stuck inside a crack in the concrete. “I’m a pain in the ass with the change and a pain in the ass in the air with the no-flying thing. I get it. You’re trying to make it work, and I do appreciate that. I just… I’m not socially gifted, and this is pretty overwhelming for me.”
“You’re gonna do fine, Brooke. You’re a quick-witted, bighearted human. People are drawn to that, believe it or not.”
I grimace. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And if all else fails, at least you’ve got the dog. People love dogs.”
I look down at Benji, and he crooks his head in question. He is pretty darn cute, and he’d be even sharper in that Captain America costume if I reinstate the order.
“I’ll do the motor home thing.” The words just fall out of my mouth.
“With the editor?”
A scoff grows legs and leaps from my throat. “Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you have a choice, Brooke. I’d never dream of putting you in a truly miserable situation.”
I close my eyes tight and pinch my brain into a state of frozen blackness. There’s not enough fight left in me to stop this—not when a whole huge portion of me, specifically the vaginal region—is in complete opposition to my hesitancy in the first place. The ole hoochie-coochie wants Chase there like she wants her next breath, mental stability be damned.
“I’ll do it. Chase can come…drive the bus or whatever. I’ll behave. ‘You Won’t See Me Cry.’”
There’s a smile in Wilson’s voice, despite my own brand of musical water torture. “Great. I’ll tell Netflix.”
“Great.” I’ll gird my loins.
“Bye, Brooke.”
“Bye, Will.”
I hang up the phone and let my head fall back in despair. Benji still watches me closely, thanks to my still-very-present anxiety, but his face has melted right along with mine into acceptance. The fainting, the tour, the unbelievably hell-on-earth-ish three weeks on a bus with the man I’m embarrassingly attracted to—it’s all happening.
I give Benji’s head a scratch and stand up from my spot on the hard pavement. My ass is numb, I need a moral support glass of wine, and Benji needs some time to himself. We’re both going to be busy, busy, busy in just three short days.
Three freaking days, and then I can pretty much officially say that I’m living with the man of my fantasies turned private fan fiction turned soon-to-be published worldwide book.
