“I was sad to hear about your retirement,” I admit. “I didn’t think you ever would, with the fervor in which you write, and I’ve become rather addicted to your stories. It came as quite the surprise.”
“I’m still going to write,” she says. “I’m just not going to publish anymore. I don’t need to, and it’s exhausting. The writing is the fun part. But publishing—especially publishing independently—it’s exhausting. Editing and marketing and worrying about trope trends and cover trends and doing my newsletter and ads and on and on and on until my eyes cross and my fingers bleed. I don’t want to have to do itall, you know? But even if I made a try for traditional publishing where there’d be less on my plate, that less is still a lot more than I can handle anymore. I’m burnt out.” She taps the pliers against the metal table, and Ted loses control of his faculties, the poor, stupid thing. “There’s a chance I might write something in the future that I think, ‘Oh, yeah, the readershaveto have this one,’ but mostly I’ve been using my newfound free time to write stuff forme.”
“And so, retirement,” I observe.
“And so, retirement,” she repeats.
“Will I get to read any of your post-retirement works?” I ask, enjoying the bolt of uncertainty that follows. I’m not often in the position of possibly receiving anothat I intend to honor. The potential that I might not get what I want and the anticipation of finding out sparks goosebumps along my skin even as my stomach riots.
Sarelia, my sweet angel, does not leave me to suffer in such a state for long—something we will have to work on. “I’ll write some just for you.”
Triumph, but not quite. “And the others that you write?” I push.
She nibbles at her lip, clicking the pliers open and shut. “I would have to edit them first,” she says.
Patience, then, because I will not be asking my wife to edit for me when she hasjusttold me she’s burnt out. I’ll ask her later, when she’s adjusted to life here enough to truly relaxand recover. Until then, it’s not like she doesn’t have plenty of content published. I can reread a book or twenty.
“I can wait,” I assure her.
She sighs and sends me a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
“No, Sarelia. Thankyou.” Silly wife. “I’m asking you to do laborious work for me for no reason other than that I am selfish for more of your thoughts, humor, creativity, and inexplicable ability to tug at heart-strings I did not know could be tugged. You’re agreeing to give me a gift. You should not be thanking me.”
“I’m not thanking you for the work,” she clarifies. “I’m thanking you for wanting it and for being willing to wait for it. Many of my readers are impatient for the next book, always asking for more andnow. I appreciate that you are willing to wait.”
Well. One cannot argue with that.
And so I don’t.
“Are you going to use those?” I ask, flicking my eyes to the pliers she holds tantalizingly close to Ted’s balled fist. “If you’re against the removal of entire fingers, we can start with just the nails,” I offer.
She looks down at her tool with surprise. “Oh!” Her eyes move to Ted, and her nose wrinkles. “Do you have any options that are a little less… bloody?”
My eyes spark as a grin marks my face, an edge of manic delight pulsing through me.
“Let’s get the needles.”
Chapter Seventeen
?
Archie
“When Millie found out about what we do here, she threw up. A lot. Like, everywhere.”
Sarelia’s nose crinkles.
“In my defense!” Millie interjects. “I didn’t just ‘find out’. He shot a man in front of me. There was blood all over the place.ThenRosie showed me that guy’s file. Anybody would have thrown up.”
When Sarelia looks like she might agree, I add, “She also went basically catatonic for a few days. Rosie only showed her the file to bring her out of it. Girlie waslosingit.” My mouth stretches into a grin, which I aim at Stryker. “Notmygirl, though.Mygirl snogged me, let me show her my project,worked on my project with me, then walked to family dinner on her own two feet.”
“Is this really appropriate dinner talk?” Rosie asks, rubbing her temple.
“At my first family dinner, Archie, Stryker, and Sal were debating which brand of pliers was best for pulling out teeth and toenails,” Millie replies with an eye roll. “That wasn’t even relevant conversation. At least this is current events.”
Rosie sighs the sigh of a woman who raised an assassin herself, then waves a hand at us. “Oh, carry on.”
I blow her a kiss across the table that Stryker and Basil set up in her fairytale back garden, then wink.
