Oh, right. He’d be leaving soon. Duh. I turned to face him and said, “About the job?” just as he said, “You look different.”
I raised my hand self-consciously to my hair, which I had stopped straightening recently. The loose waves had grown on me, plus it saved a ton of time in the mornings.
He took a step toward me. “I mean good. Different good. You look good.” He ran a hand across his chin, a gesture so familiar to me that a lump formed in my throat. “Jesus,” he whispered more to himself than to me. “And I call myself a writer.”
The book. Yeah, that was safe. “I heard about your book deal. Congratulations,” I said.
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you knew. I wanted to call you when it sold, but…” A pained look came across his face. He looked tired, but I supposed wrapping up his classes, getting ready to move, and selling a book would tend to take its toll on a man. Tired, yes, but he still looked amazing to me. His hair was a little longer and I remembered how I’d liked to sink my hands in it right at the base of his skull. Now, my hand would probably come to the bottom of his neck.
Not that I’d get the chance to find out.
He wore jeans and sneakers, with a black tee that only seemed to bring out the grey of his eyes. He watched me look at him and I knew the heat I was feeling being this close to him was creeping up my neck. “So, anyway, the job?”
He looked at me a second longer, then seemed to snap out of it and bring his focus back. Another familiarity that was both sweet and painful to remember. “Right. Right.” He moved past me and his bare arm brushed mine. “I have an early galley from my publisher that I need proofread.”
“And you wantmeto do it?” He nodded. “Don’t they do that for you at the publishing house?” I asked.
Another nod. “They do. But the final look is on the author. And I don’t trust myself, having seen it so many times. I need fresh eyes on it.”
“Not entirely fresh eyes,” I pointed out.
“No, but I think you’ll be surprised how different it is from the version you read.”
A little tingle of pride rippled through me. “Did you use some of theGangster’s Providencetext?”
A laugh, rich and throaty and so good to hear, came from him. “Oh, yeah. I used most of your suggestions. You’ll see yourself all over this version, Syd.” He picked up a huge stack of paper from his desk and walked toward me. It looked like an entire ream that you’d take out of the package and put in the printer, but when he got closer I saw that the outside margins were huge, with the text being the size of an actual book with page numbers and folios and everything, just centered on regular printer paper. This must be what a galley looked like.
I reached out to take it from him, but he held it back. “I couldn’t have done this without you Syd. None of it. I mentioned you in the acknowledgements, but it will never be enough for what you did for me.”
I was in the acknowledgements? I reached again for the manuscript, curious to see if acknowledgements were included in publisher’s galleys.
“But you can’t take it with you. I really need to have it in my possession the whole time. I had to sign a waiver and everything. They’re really afraid of leaks before publication.”
“You think I’d leak it?” I said, but he was already shaking his head.
“No. Of course not. But I told them I’d keep it with me at all times. They’re being really paranoid about it. I guess there’s a bunch of online leaks happening for anticipated books lately. Like the whole book, not just excerpts. Ebook pirating, all of it.”
“Oh, okay. So, how do you want to do this if you need to be in possession of it?” God, was he going to sit here while I proofread? No way would I be able to concentrate on his manuscript.
“Well, do you have some time now? Why don’t you take the desk and start in on it. I’ve got the last of my class papers to read, and I can do that on the couch.” He turned and grabbed something from his desk. “Oh, here,” he said, handing me my scarf. “You must have left this here that last night that—”
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the fabric from him. I’d known it was missing of course, even knew when I’d left it, having searched for it the morning after we broke up. There was no way I was going back and asking him for it, though it pained me to not have at least the scarf as a physical reminder of our time together.
“So…can you start now?” He didn’t seem to be waiting for my answer. Moving across the room, he picked up a batch of student papers from the credenza and made his way to the couch, where he plunked down, crossing one long leg over the other, ankle to knee.
“Uh, yeah…I guess,” I said and walked around the desk, then took a seat. He just nodded and then started reading, red pen in hand. Something was off about this whole thing, but I couldn’t figure out what. How was I even a qualified proofreader?
I studied him for a while, selfishly soaking in the sight of him while he was distracted. When he looked up and caught me, I just held up the manuscript in a “yep, I’m gonna read it now” kind of way. He just gave a tiny nod then returned to the paper he held.
A galley apparently is exactly what you see in a book, just in loose-leaf form. The title page with Billy’s name was first, followed by the copyright page. Next was the dedication, which was to his sister, and very sweet.
On to the acknowledgements. First his editor, then his agent. His parents were thanked. And then…
A special thank you to Sydney O’Brien, who worked as my assistant on this book. She offered great feedback, advice, ideas, and the occasional kick in the ass when needed.I smiled and read on.This book would not have been written without her.That was nice. And…She certainly earned the right to have theDown in Flamesprotagonist named in her honor.
Wait. What?
I quickly flipped to the next page in the stack.
