AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What the hell kind of question is that? You weren’t an accident, Noah. We wanted a child. We wanted you. But your mother and I came from nothing. Do you understand? I don’t want to get into the details, but your mother’s family was poor as fucking dirt. You know my family had money, but Dad left everything to you, because he was a bitter old asshole who enjoyed torturing me. Mom and I wanted you to have everything we never had, but neither one of us had examples of great parenting in our lives. We worked hard to provide for you and we loved you as best as we could. I’m sorry that was never good enough for you.”
I’ve heard bits of this before, but I never thought he might be afraid he’d be a bad parent. It doesn’t justify him not trying harder, but it helps to hear my parents wanted me. “Were you happy?Areyou happy?”
He grunts. “I provided for my family. I’m happy as a damn cat in sunshine.”
“Did you love the work?”
He sighs. “Yes, Noah. Is that what you want to hear? I loved the work. I’m good at the work and I love the chase, love the grind, and I fucking love making money. It was easier for me to leave you in someone else’s care and do what I’m good at. I’m a selfish asshole and you deserved better, but I’m all you got.”
Not exactly a declaration of love, but I appreciate his honesty. It feels true to me. And it occurs to me I could have been anyone. I could have been the most perfect kid in the history of kids and it wouldn’t have made him pay more attention to me, because that’s not how he’s built.
For the first time, I understand the problem was never me. And maybe that means there’s not something inherently wrong with me. Maybe that means I’m not destined to be left by everyone I love. “Ever think about retiring?”
“Fuck you, kid. What have I told you about saying that word around me?”
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in years. “Sorry, Dad. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Daisy
Isip my tea and smile at Elise Peyton on the other side of the screen. It’s a forced smile. Fourteen days in this new position I was ready to sacrifice everything for, and I’m wishing to be anywhere else in the world.
The woman, a debut author with tangled hair and a sleeping baby in her arms, does not smile back. “I was so happy when my agent told me Tenth Avenue Books wanted to publish my book. I had no idea what a nightmare it would be.”
“How is it a nightmare?” She’s the second author I’ve talked to today, and I’ve talked to three agents and the design team about a cover. It’s not even noon and I’m exhausted. I never realized what a true introvert I am until my job became talking to people all day long.
Her baby fusses, and she bounces him gently. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I wrote a romance because I love romance. I want to publish a romance. But the romance editor said my book isn’t light enough. It’s got the heaviness of literature, maybe women’s fiction. Why can’t women have romance that’s literary and serious? But, okay, whatever. Then they wanted me to change my story because literature can’t have a happy ending. Then yesterday, my agent said you want to make my book some sort of literary thriller? I don’t know how to write a thriller. I don’t even read thrillers.”
She looks so exhausted and overwhelmed. I’m supposed to tell her we’re subject to the whims of the market and if she wants to make money, she’s going to have to learn to adapt. I’m supposed to tell her she’s a talented writer, because she absolutely is, and convince her it’s not that hard to write thrillers. “What do you want to get from publishing this book?”
She shrugs. “I want people to read my book and escape, the way I escape into romance books. I just want to make someone’s day a little easier or a little more interesting or a little brighter.”
“What do you want to do? This is an incredibly tough business. I could tell you if you want to make money, listen to what our editors are telling you to do, but the truth is if you really want to make money, reliable money, you should go out and get a nine-to-five job.”
“I’ve never wanted to do anything but write,” she says, determined. “But I want to write my books the way I want to write them.”
I nod and make a decision I probably should sleep on, because doing anything else feels cruel. “I’m going to email your agent some information about an indie press I’m familiar with. I can promise you, they’ll let you write the book you want.”
Her expression brightens. “Really? That would be amazing.”
The baby in her arms startles and fusses. She looks down at him, her face suffused with love, and rocks him gently until he calms.
“You get back to your baby, Ms. Peyton. I’ll be in touch with your agent.”
I hang up and I can’t help but smile. That felt really good.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
It must be a throwback from my equestrian competition days when the advice was to smile bigger if you make a mistake, because I give my boss a huge, over-the-top smile. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Fernwood?”
“You can help me understand why you just suggested one of our authors publish with a different house.”
I lift my chin, but I slump internally. “Have you read her book? There’s no way she’s going to make it into a thriller without substantially changing her characters, plot, and theme. She’s a romance writer. How is she going to write a thriller?”
“That’s not our job. It’s our job to listen to marketing and the execs and convince our authors to conform.”
“So the folks over in thrillers can decide she’s not a good fit there either? You’ve worked here for thirty years, you know how this goes. She’ll twist herself inside out to give them what they want and they’ll drop her, anyway. If not right away, then a few years from now when her books don’t sell because she’snota thriller writer.”
