“Perfect. More time to discuss your emotional problems.”
I drop my head against the steering wheel. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t. I’m your only friend.”
“That’s not true. I have—” I try to think of someone else. “Rodney.”
“Your agent doesn’t count.”
“He sends me a card at Christmas.”
“Because you make him money.” Grayson stretches out again, settling in. “Face it, Scott. You’ve spent so many years hiding that you forgot to have a life. I’m literally the only person who knows you.”
The worst part is he’s right.
I stare at the mud flats surrounding us, the boat tilted slightly as the water continues to recede. A fiddler crab emerges from a hole, waving its one oversized claw like it’s taunting me.
“So,” Grayson says. “This manuscript. What happens in it?”
“I’m not summarizing my own book for you.”
“Does the hero grovel properly?”
“There’s groveling.”
“Grand gesture?”
“A modest gesture. Proportional.”
“Does he get the girl?”
I watch another crab emerge. Then another. The mud flat is coming alive with them, hundreds of tiny bodies going about their crab business.
“In the book, yes.”
“And in real life?”
“In real life, I’m stuck on a sandbar having feelings while crabs swarm around me.”
Grayson laughs. “This is the best Saturday I’ve had in months,” he says. “Michelle is going to love this.”
“You’re not telling Michelle.”
“I absolutely am. She specifically asked me to report back.”
“Grayson.”
“She’s invested, Scott. The whole book club is. Apparently there’s a betting pool.”
“A betting pool about what?”
“Whether you two will get together by Thanksgiving, Christmas, or ‘never because you’re both too stubborn to live.’” He grins. “I’ve got money on Christmas.”
I close my eyes. Take a breath. Remind myself that murdering your business partner, while satisfying, would be logistically complicated.
“When we get off this sandbar,” I say, “I’m pushing you in the water.”
“No you won’t. You love me. I’m your only friend.”
