“Half of that statement is accurate,” said William.
Sam laughed. “Thanks,” she said, and then thought, Wait.
Their server seated them at the table in the window, lighting the candle between them. They ordered quickly, dinner as well as drinks, mindful of the late hour. William took off his horn-rims to polish them dry and beamed at Sam. In the way of most people with glasses, without them he looked completely different: less austerely impressive, more vulnerable and sweet.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming to my reading. And signing with me.”
“Thanks for inviting me. And for your amazing letter. It was so generous I just slammed my laptop shut and backed away, and I’m embarrassed about that. I’m sorry I didn’t respond.”
William slid his glasses on and smiled at the server bringing their beer. “I suspected I might have overstepped.”
“I did wonder...” said Sam.
“Whether I wanted to get into your pants?” They laughed, and Sam shrugged, feeling her face heat. “It might have been a motive, had I checked your author photo first. But no, my intention was pure. I was so moved by your magnificent book.”
“I’m grateful,” said Sam. “ToLambent Souls.”
“ToSodbuster.” They clinked glasses.
“That crowd back there was bananas!” said Sam. “Has your whole tour been like that?”
“Pretty much,” said William. “How was yours?”
“It was—fine,” said Sam. “I love tour. I know most authors hate it, but I honestly would drive over an old lady in the street to get to a mic.”
William laughed. “Same. I relish it.”
“I can tell,” said Sam. “You’re very good.” She thought of how William had charmed the audience with humor, then taken the emotional deep dive into the Darlings story. You couldn’t capture a crowd like that unless you loved speaking—a rare trait they shared, apparently.
“If I am any good, it’s because I love the readers,” William said. “I spend most of my life in sweatpants, in my basement, cranking out pages. And on the other side of that process are angels who read my books and come hear what I have to say. Some filament of me I threw out into the void landed on somebody and connected us. If that’s not a miracle, what is?”
Sam realized she was staring. If she’d ever written these thoughts down, she might have accused William of plagiarizing.
“Exactly,” she said.
“Do you know, Samantha, how rare it is we make our living writing books? We’re in the top point-oh-five percent, not just of the general population but thewriterpopulation. We’re so lucky.”
Sam was horrified to feel her eyes fill with tears. She pressed her wrist to them, making an embarrassed face at William, who was smiling kindly at her.
“I see I’ve drawn blood,” he said, “but I don’t know how. What’s wrong?”
To her astonishment, Sam found herself confessing her fears to another writer—a potential competitor at that: her half-empty tour and flat sales; her feeling of writing the same book over and over; the pressure to getGold Digger’s Mistresson track. Damn. William was good. Maybe she should join his Darlings support group.
“Samantha,” William said when she was done. “May I call you that?”
“You may, but it’s not my name.”
“Then I’ve been a perfect fool. Whatisyour name?”
“It’s Simone,” said Sam.
“Simone Vetiver... ? But that’s enchanting. Why don’t you use it?”
“Because it sounds like an eighteenth-century French prostitute dying of syphilis,” said Sam.
William laughed. “I think it sounds like its owner, utterly beguiling. Simone, is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sam.
