“What’s at the top of the list?”
Another pause. “Terrifying. In a good way.”
I turned my head to look at him. In the dim glow from the space heater, I could just make out his profile—the straight line of his nose, the soft curve of his lips, the way his hair was still sticking up from sleep.
“Good terrifying?” I asked.
“Like the first drop on a roller coaster. You know it’s going to be fine, but your stomach doesn’t.”
I smiled. “I’ve never been good at roller coasters.”
“Neither have I. I once threw up on a date at Six Flags.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. Right after the Superman coaster. He never called me again.”
I laughed, and the tension in my body started to uncoil. “Okay, that makes me feel better about all the embarrassing things I’ve done in front of you.”
“The mustache was worse than vomit?”
“The mustache was a creative choice.”
“The mustache was a cry for help.”
“And yet you still kissed me. Well, you kissed me back. After the mustache incident.”
“I have poor judgment,” Farley said, but I heard the smile in his voice.
We lay there in comfortable silence. The storm continued to howl outside, but inside, the space heater hummed, and the bed was warm, and Farley was right there, close enough I could hear him breathing.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“You can ask. I reserve the right not to answer.”
“Fair.” I stared at the ceiling, gathering my thoughts. “What do you actually want? Not what you think you should want, or what’s practical, or what makes sense. What do you want?”
The silence stretched so long I thought he might not answer.
Then: “I want to stop being afraid.”
I turned to look at him again. He was still staring at the ceiling, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
“I want to stop second-guessing every feeling I have,” he continued. “I want to trust my judgment again. And I want to wake up in the morning and not spend the first ten minutes cataloging all the ways I failed the day before.” He let out a breath. “I want to read books that make me feel something, find authors who write like their words could change the world, and help them share those words with people who need them.”
“That sounds like more than just editing.”
“It used to be. Before I had to fight for every acquisition that wasn’t a guaranteed bestseller.” His voice had gone bitter. “I used to love my job. Now I just... survive it.”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I know exactly what that feels like.”
He turned his head, finally looking at me. “Your turn.”
“My turn, what?”
“What do you want? Not what Sabrina wants, not what the network wants. What does Samuel Bennett actually want?”
I’d been asking myself that question for months. Years, maybe. And lying in a dark room with Farley, a storm raging outside and the space heater humming, I finally had an answer.
