Tabby laughed. “I hear that. Do you want to get some dinner?”
“I would,” said Sam, glancing in William’s direction, “but...”
“Ohhhhh!” said Tabby. Her face lit up. “NowI get it. Teacher’s got a new beau!”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Not really. We’re just getting to know each other.”
Tabby nudged Sam with her elbow. “You better hop to it, missy. Looks like you’ve got competition.” She meant the women clustered around William, including the one taking a selfie with him now: a brunette in skinny jeans and a tank top that saidms. write.
Tabby squinted assessingly at William. “I can see it. He’s cute. Just check his... you-know.” She crooked her forefinger and made it wilt toward the floor with a corresponding sound:wah, wah, wah. “At our age, you never know. But you can always slip some Viagra in his drink.” She yelled, “Hey, William! Look who’s here!”
“Tabby!” Sam hissed. The remaining writers turned. William’s face split in that delighted grin.It’s you!he mouthed. Sam gave an embarrassed tiny wave.
“You’re welcome,” said Tabby. “I expect a full report.”
They hugged again, and Tabby left. William, moving within a small amoeba of lingering acolytes, came toward Sam. “Simone!” he said. “What an excellent surprise.”
He bent to kiss Sam on the lips—just as delicious as before, except better without the scratchy goatee. Sam could feel his admirers watching, and sure enough, although two of the women drifted off toward the door,ms. writewas still there giving Sam the stink eye.
“Melody,” said William, one arm around Sam, “this is Sam Vetiver.I’m sure you’ve heard of her.” Melody shrugged, compressing her cleavage. “The Sharecropper’s Daughter,The Sodbuster’s Wife—no? Among the best novels of our generation.”
“I didn’t even pay him to say that,” said Sam, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Melody looked at Sam’s hand. “Anyway,” she said to William, “I’ll email you my query, okay?” She sashayed away.
Sam and William both watched her go, hips swinging in the tight jeans like a pendulum in a clock. “Wow,” said Sam. “You are one popular piece of writer man meat.”
William laughed. “Ground chuck at best. Thank you for saving me from the frying pan.”
“You owe me,” said Sam. She was lifting her hand to touch his smooth face when somebody fell over a chair a few feet away, grunting in pain. They both looked up, and William thrust Sam away from him so quickly that she stumbled.
“You!” William shouted at the woman, who had picked herself up and was bolting for the exit. “I know you! Come back here. Don’t you dare run off again!”
The woman dove for the door as William zigzagged through the maze of tables. She was short and round with a pink bob and a camouflage trucker’s cap, and something about her looked familiar to Sam. As William chased her into the hall, Sam realized why: It was the woman from William’s Boston reading, the unimpressed one with the cascading blond curls. There was no mistaking her overbite.
“I told you what would happen if I caught you again,” William was yelling as he sprinted after her. Sam heard him bellowing in the hallway. “I see you! I know you can hear me! I’m taking photos, I’m calling the police!”
The Rabbit
Holy f*ck, that was close. That was so close. That was way too f*cking close.
I lie under the bushes lining the exterior of the Marriott, my eyeball an inch away from a bunch of squashed cigarette butts, breathing sour dirt. I’m exhaling through my mouth, trying to do it soundlessly, because William is still a few feet away, looking for me. He almost caught me, he’s in so much better shape than I am, his legs about ten times longer. But first I hooked down a side corridor—I think William expected me to head for the lobby, and it took him a second to figure out where I’d gone, and then his bad knee gave out. I was just out the side door when I heard apop!and a yowl and he slowed way down. Now he’s gimping around the parking lot looking for me, pulling hard to the right. His feet limp back and forth not far from my nose. This is so bad.
Of course, this is his fault. He’s never caught me before at an event, either a reading or a Darlings meeting, and it would not have happened today except I’m exhausted by his ridiculous schedule. I’m so tired, I’m clumsy. I fell over that stupid chair while I was trying to inch closer to him and Sam Vetiver.
Gosh damn that woman. I so did not want Sam Vetiver to show up today. I was so hoping the email scared her off. I was so happy when I did not see her decrepit yellow Jeep in the parking lot. Then there she was, smiling up at William like a little Bambi in a forest with her stupid braid and her jellybean eyes. She went dark after I sent the email, I didn’t see her at William’sConnecticut or Rhode Island events, her car was not at his hotels. Then here she is today. Bad surprise. Very bad surprise.
Now she has visual on me too. She knows what I look like, or she would if not for the pink wig. Gosh damn it. None of this would have happened if I weren’t so tired I was graying out, tailing William all the way up I-95 and sleeping only a few hours at a travel oasis. Why can’t William put the rest of his life on hold like every other author on tour? But noooo, he has to keep holding Darlings meetings and book events too. Then again, he was always like this. Even back in our program at Harrington he was like the f*cking Energizer bunny, while everyone else was drinking and smoking and staying out all night and banging out pages hungover an hour before workshop, William was up at 4:00 a.m. writing for hours, then taking one of his epic naps, then writing more, then playing Ultimate or hacky sack, then attending workshop, then going to hear music or to bonfires or to the Castle. And of course f*cking f*cking f*cking any girl who moved. That man could never stay still to save his life.
You’d think he’d slow down at least a little now, though. He has a bad knee and a faulty ticker. He’s going to be sixty in three years, for f*ck’s sake.
He’s been on the phone while looking for me, and now the 911 operator must have patched him through to the local police, because I hear him say, “Yes, hello, officer, my name is William Corwyn, I’m at the Portsmouth Marriott, and I want to report an assault.”
An assault! I would scoff if my face weren’t smashed into the dirt. Please. As if. Ever the fiction writer. Nobody’s going to corroborate that.
“Yes, I’ll meet them in the lobby,” he says.
He hobbles back to the side door, which requires a key he doesn’t have. I hear him swear as it remains locked, balking him. He curses and lurches off toward the hotel entrance.
