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He pulls the book out of the bag and a Sharpie too—that I had no clue he bought, by the way—and hands both to me like he’s expecting me to do something with them.
I raise my eyebrows, and he raises his back.
It’s mano a mano here, final death match, chicken at its best. I won’t break. I refuse.
With the tempting smell of pizza in the air, Benji gets annoyed with our stare down and sits on his hind legs with a groan while we continue the charade.
I raise an eyebrow in challenge as my eyes start to burn, and he narrows his pretty blue ones, which I’m afraid might be a better long-term tactic.
“Chase.”
“Brooke.”
“Ugh. What are you doing now?” I ask, giving in pathetically quick. It’s not so much that I’m a loser as much as it is that I’m starting to feel funny things in funny places from staring at him this long.
“You’re going to sign this book,” he tells me. “I’m going to put it somewhere while you go in and order pizza, and then, you’re going to post about it on social media.”
“Okayyy…?”
“And then,” he adds with a mischievous little grin. “We’re going to eat our pizza and watch as people flock to come get it.”
“Are you serious? You can’t be serious.”
“Deadass, my bro. No cap.”
I smile despite myself, because hearing him use Gen Z language semi-seriously is too much. And then, I sigh.
“What is your deal today, Dawson? You’re normally so easy to be around.”
He guffaws. “I’m still easy to be around, Baker. I’m just showing you that you’re easy to be around too. And that fans love you and your books and that you have nothing to fear on this tour or with this new book or with anything. You’re severely talented, Brooke. Seriously, if talent were violent, you’d have leveled everyone around you by now. Even Chuck Norris.”
“Okay, you’re annoying because even when you’re annoying, you’re nice. And that’s more annoying than just being annoying, so you’re double annoying with a cherry on top.”
He nods, fully accepting it.
I grumble and snatch the book and Sharpie out of his hand, signing the inside title page swiftly and then handing it back to him with a shove to his manly chest.
“I’m going to get pizza. Come find me and Benji when you’re done being a weirdo.”
He does that hot wink thing again. “Oh, don’t worry. I will.”
The truth is, I can’t wait. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
Much more of it, and I might really never want it to end.
Saturday, May 20th
Chase
The sun has barely risen, and I’m already up and a full hour into my day.
Coffee singes at the sensitive skin of my top lip as I take a sip from what I’ve now claimed as “my mug”—it’s got little black dashes on its white surface and a handle that perfectly fits my four fingers.
Yesterday, we spent most of our time exploring the city, and this morning, Brooke will be making a television appearance on Good Morning, Chicago to talk about all things Shadow Brothers.
While she’s busy getting ready, and since we’ll hit the road shortly after she finishes her TV interview, I decide to fit in a little work. Briefly, I check for any Longstrand emails on my phone, and when nothing urgent appears, I slide into the motor home’s kitchenette booth to resume my notes on Accidental Attachment.
The margins of Brooke’s book baby are filled with ideas, suggestions, and scribbles. Someone who isn’t familiar with the way I work might think this means there are a million changes to make and burn the manuscript right then.
I’ll have to be careful to remind her of this before she gets a wild hair.
But for me, the more notes I make, the better the book is. With books I don’t like, I find I have next to nothing to say.
When I love something…I’m the kind of editor who gets so enthralled, so attached, I can’t help but comment on both the good and the bad. And not just “more of this” and “less of that” but with the ways each joke made me spit all over my shirt or take off at a dead run with anxiousness. I want the creator of the work to know when I can’t breathe because of the tightness in my chest or when a character hits so close to home, I wish I could pick up my phone to call them.
I know the level of work that Brooke and all other authors pour into their manuscripts, and they deserve to have confirmation when their time and effort pay off. Sometimes, they need an editor’s reinforcement to be spoken, and I’m more than willing to speak it.
I set my mug down onto the table carefully, pick up my copy of the manuscript, and start to read a chapter about the first time River takes Clive to her apartment. It’s in her point of view, and I’ve read it several times, but it never fails to bring a smile to my face.
