“Neither did you.”
“I’m alright.” There’s that word again. “I’m sure you have questions.”
“A ton,” I admit.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why can’t your wife finish the series?”
“She was in a car accident,” he says. His response is mechanical, as if he’s forcing himself to detach from any emotion right now.
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.” I shift in my seat, not knowing what else to say.
“I wasn’t on board with the idea of someone else finishing out her contract at first. I had hope she would fully recover. But—” He pauses. “Here we are.”
His demeanor makes sense to me now. He seemed a little reserved and quiet, but now I realize all the quiet parts of him are just grief. Palpable grief. I’m not sure if it’s because of what happened to his wife, or what he told me in the bathroom earlier—that his daughter passed away several months ago. But this man is obviously out of his element here as he’s challenged with making decisions heavier than anything most people ever have to face. “I’m so sorry.”
He nods, but he offers nothing further. He returns to his seat, which makes me wonder if he thinks I’m still contemplating the offer. I don’t want to waste his time any more than I already have.
“I appreciate the offer, Jeremy, but honestly, it’s not something I’m comfortable with. I’m not good with publicity. I’m not even sure why your wife’s publisher reached out to me as an option in the first place.”
“Open Ended,” Jeremy says.
I stiffen when he mentions one of the books I’ve written.
“It was one of Verity’s favorite books.”
“Your wife read one of my books?”
“She said you were going to be the next big thing. I’m the one who gave her editor your name because Verity thinks your writing styles are similar. If anyone is going to take over Verity’s series, I want it to be someone whose work she respects.”
I shake my head. “Wow. I’m flattered, but…I can’t.”
Jeremy watches me silently, probably wondering why I’m not reacting as most writers would to this opportunity. He can’t figure me out. Normally, I would be proud of that. I don’t like being easily read, but it feels wrong in this situation. I feel like I should be more transparent, simply because he showed me courtesy this morning. I wouldn’t even know where to start, though.
Jeremy leans forward, his eyes swimming with curiosity. He stares at me a moment, then taps his fist on the table as he stands. I assume the meeting is over and start to stand as well, but Jeremy doesn’t walk toward the door. He walks toward a wall lined with framed awards, so I sink back into my chair. He stares at the awards, his back to me. It isn’t until he runs his fingers over one of them that I realize it’s one of his wife’s. He sighs and then faces me again.
“Have you ever heard of people referred to as Chronics?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I think Verity might have made up the term. After our daughters died, she said we were Chronics. Prone to chronic tragedy. One terrible thing after another.”
I stare at him a moment, allowing his words to percolate. He said he’d lost a daughter earlier, but he’s using the term in plural form. “Daughters?”
He inhales a breath. Releases it with defeat. “Yeah. Twins. We lost Chastin six months before Harper passed. It’s been…” He isn’t detaching himself from his emotions as well as he was earlier. He runs a hand down his face and then returns to his chair. “Some families are lucky enough to never experience a single tragedy. But then there are those families that seem to have tragedies waiting on the back burner. What can go wrong, goes wrong. And then gets worse.”
I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I don’t question it. I like hearing him speak, even if the words coming out of his mouth are dismal.
He’s twirling his water bottle in a circle on the table, staring down at it in thought. I’m getting the impression he didn’t request to be alone with me to change my mind. He just wanted to be alone. Maybe he couldn’t stand another second of discussing his wife in that manner, and he wanted them all to leave. I find that comforting—that being alone with me in the room still feels like being alone to him.
Or maybe he always feels alone. Like our old next-door neighbor who, from what it sounds like, was definitely a Chronic.
“I grew up in Richmond,” I say. “Our next-door neighbor lost all three members of his family in less than two years. His son died in combat. His wife died six months later of cancer. Then his daughter died in a car wreck.”
Jeremy stops moving the water bottle and slides it a few inches away from him. “Where’s the man now?”
I stiffen. I wasn’t expecting that question.
The truth is, the man couldn’t take losing everyone that meant anything to him. He killed himself a few months after his daughter died, but to say that out loud to Jeremy, who is still grieving the deaths of his own daughters, would be cruel.
“He still lives in the same town. He remarried a few years later. Has a few stepkids and grandchildren.”
There’s something in Jeremy’s expression that makes me think he knows I’m lying, but he seems appreciative that I did.
“You’ll need to spend time in Verity’s office going through her things. She has years of notes and outlines—stuff I wouldn’t know how to make sense of.”
I shake my head. Did he not hear anything I said? “Jeremy, I told you, I can’t—”
“The lawyer is lowballing you. Tell your agent to ask for half a million. Tell them you’ll do it with no press, under a pen name, with an ironclad non-disclosure. That way, whatever it is you’re trying to hide can stay hidden.”
I want to tell him I’m not trying to hide anything other than my awkwardness, but before I can say anything, he’s moving toward the door.
“We live in Vermont,” he continues. “I’ll give you the address after you sign the contract. You’re welcome to stay for however long it takes to go through her office.”
He pauses with his hand on the door. I open my mouth to object again, but the only word that comes out is a very unsure “Alright.”
He stares at me a moment, as if he has more to say. Then he says, “Alright.”
He opens the door and walks out into the hallway where Corey is waiting. Corey slips past him, back into the conference room where he closes the door.
I look down at the table, confused by what just happened. Confused as to why I’m being offered such a substantial amount of money for a job I’m not even sure I can do. Half a million dollars? And I can do it under a pen name with no tour or publicity commitment? What on earth did I say that led to that?
“I don’t like him,” Corey says, plopping down in his seat. “What did he say to you?”
“He said they’re lowballing me and to ask for half a million with no publicity.”
I turn in time to watch Corey choke on air. He grabs my bottle of water and takes a drink. “Shit.”
I had a boyfriend in my early twenties named Amos, who liked being choked.
It’s why we broke up—because I refused to choke him. But sometimes I wonder where I’d be had I entertained his urge. Would we be married now? Would we have children? Would he have moved on to even more dangerous sexual perversions?
I think that’s what worried me the most with him. In your early twenties, vanilla sex should satisfy a person without the need to introduce fetishes so early on in a relationship.
I like to think about Amos when I find myself disappointed with the current state of my life. As I stare at the pink eviction notice in Corey’s hand, I remind myself that it could be worse—I could still be with Amos.
I open my apartment door farther, allowing Corey to step inside. I wasn’t aware he was coming over, or I would have made sure there were no eviction notices taped to my door. It’s the third day in a row I’ve received one. I take it from him and shove it into a drawer.