I almost want to laugh. It’s a welcome relief from the last 24 hours.
“Sit, sit,” says Marty as he ushers me into a chair.
“I’m making you a plate,” Raj calls out.
Then he plops it in front of me, and soon the wine and both their plates appear at the table as well. Raj picks up some chopsticks and digs into what looks like vegetable lo-main.
“Mmm,” he says to Marty, “You were right. This is better than the place on 79th.”
Marty grabs a fork and gives me a friendly little elbow. “He’s just showing off with the chopsticks. You’re still a mensch if you eat with good ol’ silverware.”
Raj smiles at him. “That’s right, sweetie. You’re always a mensch.”
The food honestly smells delicious, and I realize I really am hungry. So I dig in, and I’m mostly quiet, basking in the friendly banter and conversation of Marty and Raj.
They really are lovely people—warm and fun and so very kind to come here and do this for me. I’m suddenly grateful George has them. I know they’ll be there for him. I know he has someone who will care, who will take care of him if he needs it.
If some asshole like me hurts him.
I manage to keep eating, but suddenly I feel like shit all over again.
DECEMBER 29
CHAPTER 48
GEORGE
I’m up again early,this time at least with a semblance of sleep (aided by sheer determination and a little bit of rum I found in the cupboard).
I’ve decided it’s time to push through, focus my energy on getting the book done. At least that’s something I cando. Maybe I am George Knight, eternal loser at love, but I am also George Knight, multiple New York Times bestselling author.
Right now, I am George Knight refining the hell out of this monologue my villain is delivering shortly before Steele fells him with a single bullet (Indiana-Jones-style, but with more finesse).
I look up from the kitchen table where my laptop sits, giving my eyes a short rest. Across the cabin, Owen’s Christmas tree stands cheerfully, all lit up and cozy, like it doesn’t have a care in the world.
I can’t take it.
I cross the room, bend down, and pull the plug. I mean that literally; obviously, I’m not going to kill the tree. But there’s something satisfying about yanking the cord out of the wall.
There. I plunk myself back down at the computer, and?—
And think about Owen lovingly stringing those lights from branch to branch. Putting his personal touch on the tree I’msure he went to some magical Hallmarky Christmas tree farm and picked out himself. And then carefully decorated with all his meaningful, handmade ornaments and childhood mementos. And that was intended to make his home bright and festive and warm all through the holidays.
Dammit.
I stalk back over, plug the thing back into the wall a little more aggressively than necessary, stalk back to my computer, and return to the book. I work very hard to pretend none of that just happened.
In the afternoon,I’m revising away when my phone rings, breaking me out of a methodical work trance I frankly probably need a rest from.
My stupid, hopeful, traitorous brain thinksOwen!for a split second before I look at the phone, see it’s my parents calling, and remind myself that both me and my brain are dumbasses.
“Hi, guys!” I put the phone on speaker so I can stretch. I’ve been sitting here too long. “How was your Christmas?”
“Oh, meh. You know, same old, same old,” my mom says. She’s downplaying because she knows I spent my holiday working.
“It’s okay, Mom. You can tell me. Did you guys go to the Hollanders’ big party?”
“Yes, and your father insisted on making his eggnog?—”
