Just when I thought it would be best to leave and come back later, she put down the last page in her hand. I would give her time to collect her thoughts, not pounce on her right away, though I desperately wanted to.
Shit, I always wanted to pounce on Syd, physically and/or literarily. And Literally.
She looked at me, her expression unreadable. Fuck, what did that mean? I could usually read Syd.
Not being able to stand it, I opened my mouth, but she held up a finger.
“Wait. Not yet. I…I want to try something,” she said.
Try something? My throat was clogged with uncertainty and she wanted to “try something?”
“Okay,” I said, keeping my cool, though I did think my voice might have cracked a little.
She got off the couch and walked over to where her backpack sat on the floor by the coatrack. After pulling out her laptop, and sifting through a bunch of flash drives she had in a side pocket of the backpack, she moved back to the couch, snatching a bagel from my desk as she passed.
“Mmm, good, thanks,” she said, taking a bite and then booting up her laptop, and inserting the drive, as she sat on the couch. “This is all I want. You finish the rest.”
I was stuffed from my half of the breakfast, but when I saw her start to work on her laptop, and then heard the printer a minute later, I dug into her breakfast with the zeal of a compulsive eater.
Comfort food for sure. But comfort from the unknown?
About ten minutes later she put her laptop aside, then came over and moved the guest chair in front of my desk over to the corner of the room. I rose to help her, even though I wasn’t sure what she was doing.
“Sit, sit. I’ve got it,” she said. “I just want lots of floor space.”
“What’d you have in mind?” I asked, putting a lecherous tone in my voice.
She laughed (God, I loved that sound) and wagged a finger at me. “Not yet.” Then she turned her back to me to get the papers off the printer. She looked over her shoulder, certain I was looking at her ass—which of course I was—then shot me a slow, sexy smile. “But soon.”
I went hard, and only my writer’s ego kept me from jumping up and telling her that my book could wait, and that we’d make better use of all that space on the floor.
Yeah, I wanted to know what she was going to do. Even more than I wanted to bang her silly.
At least, right now.
She spent the next hour taking pages from my manuscript that she’d dog-eared while reading, and spreading them out on the floor. Then she’d take a page from the ones she’d printed and intersperse them with the others, writing notes all over both sets.
I sat, mesmerized, but not saying a word. I didn’t even feign doing any of my own work, just sat and watched as Syd worked. Her hair was loose this morning—she must have pulled her ponytail out at some point while reading—and it swayed against her back as she stretched to put different pages in piles. She’d created a circle around herself, with the papers on all sides of her, some two or three pieces of paper wide, creating a petal effect, as if Syd was the center of a daisy. No. With her coloring, it would be more of a black-eyed Susan.
She stood up gracefully, careful not to catch any of the paper. Hands on hips, she surveyed her work, turning slowly in a circle until she faced me.
“Okay,” she said. “First let me say thatDown in Flames, as you have it written now, is…” She took a deep breath and let it out. I knew mine was held, but I couldn’t seem to exhale. Not yet. Not until she finished her sentence. “Brilliant.” Exhale.Bigexhale. “It’s really…so, so good, Billy.”
Really big exhale.
“I mean, your voice is there, for sure, but this is also new and fresh. It’s not you just trying to recreate the beauty ofFolly.”
I put my hands together, lacing my fingers, so they wouldn’t shake in front of Syd.
“You’re being honest, right? I’ve got lots of people who will blow smoke up my ass, Syd, please don’t be one of them.”
She looked semi-offended, and then waved a hand at me, as if dismissing what I’d just said.
“Of course not. I mean, as your…Valentine, I’m gonna gush of course. But as your assistant, it doesn’t help you to not tell you if there are problems.”
I pointedly looked at the paper flower surrounding her. “And are there? Problems?”
She didn’t break her gaze and said—quite professionally for a nineteen-year-old—“Not problems. Anopportunity.”
