“How can you not remember it?” Barb hammered him. “Are you even writing these books? How can a reader rememberdetails better than the author? That seems impossible to me.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Unless you’re just the guy they trot out to pretend to be the author.”
Brody made a sputtering sound. “What?”
“Oh, she’s going somewhere with this,” I intoned in a low voice.
Brody didn’t look at me. His attention was firmly planted on Barb. “I swear to you I wrote the books.”
“Or AI did.” Barb was clearly a suspicious person.
“It was not AI. I assure you. I don’t believe in using AI.”
“Then why don’t you remember?”
It was an impossible question to answer. Nothing he said would placate Barb. To my surprise, he was sincere when responding.
“As writers, we imagine every scene in about eight different ways,” he explained. “We also have a fully formed picture in our heads, where we catalog the big details and sometimes misplace the little ones. You look at that scene as something full and finished. In my head, that scene went eight different ways, and the little details don’t matter because I have to focus on the big details.”
Barb didn’t immediately respond. She seemed to consider it for a long time. “You could be bullshitting me,” she said finally.
“I could be,” Brody said. “But I’m not.”
She sighed. “Fine. I’ll let it go this one time. I’ll be watching you, though.” Her gaze moved to me. “Both of you.”
I managed to hold my laughter in until she pointed herself at Nathan, who was on the other side of the bar. “Apparently, she has a list for everybody,” I said when I was done laughing.
Brody shrugged. “I do like that she’s an equal-opportunity complainer.”
“Right?” I sighed then rubbed my forehead. “Only about an hour to go.” So far, I’d managed to avoid taking my five-minute breather. He had too.
He nodded. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“No, it’s been pretty fun actually.”
“Yeah.” We held each other’s gazes for a long, significant beat. “It’s been fun.”
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, ALL I COULDthink about was getting home. I was exhausted. I’d enjoyed the bulk of the evening, but a lot of the fans were relentless. They’d ask things like, “Why didn’t Dante run across a reaper in book one when you established in book four that reapers always respond to deaths in the Void Realm,” and expect me to have an answer for them other than “Because I hadn’t thought of reapers in book one yet.”
I loved my readers. I was a reader. I had huge enthusiasm for readers and reading. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help worrying that my truthfulness was a huge disappointment. Sometimes the easiest answer was the right one.
Hayley had left thirty minutes before. She’d called an Uber and snuck out through the side door. I should have followed suit, but I was genuinely having a good time. Now, though, I was over it. I wanted to go home, grab a tub of Phish Food ice cream from the freezer, and climb into bed so I could watch the new episodes ofParadise. I’d been looking forward to them for months, and they were finally available.
I was so lost in my fantasy that I barely noticed the man standing on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant when I exited. As far as I knew, I was the last author standing. The rest had made polite escapes over the past forty-five minutes. All thereaders had left, too, which was fortunate, because I didn’t want to be rude.
“Sorry,” I said when I almost bumped into the man. I’d been focused on my Uber app. My ride was still six minutes away, and he was standing in the spot where they would do our pickup.
“It’s okay.” The man had an easy smile at the ready.
He looked to be in his forties, with a receding hairline and uneven teeth that gleamed under the moonlight when he smiled. If it wasn’t for the hair—there was no such thing as a balding vampire in romance fiction—the teeth would have given me story ideas. They were prominent.
I smiled at him and glanced at my phone again. I hated awkward silences. This guy wasn’t looking at his phone, but given his location, he was likely waiting for a ride as well. This was going to be a long six minutes.
“You’re one of the authors, right?” he prodded after several uncomfortable seconds.
“Oh, um, yes.” I pasted the smile I’d been determined to lose back on my face. “Were you at the event?”
“Yes. It was a really cool night.”
Really cool?Why did those words sound so odd coming out of his mouth?
