"I'm reheating this," he said. "And then we're eating dinner. And then you can spiral quietly for the rest of the evening while I pretend not to notice."
"That's actually a very good plan."
"I have my moments."
Jack fell asleep around eleven, one arm slung across her waist, his breathing deep and steady.
Clara lay awake.
The lighthouse was dark except for the glow of her phone, which she held in front of her face like a teenager hiding under the covers.
She'd pulled up both of Nora's emails. Read them again. Then again. Studied the language, the tone, the specific things Nora had said about the work.
I genuinely believe this work has a readership well beyond what it's currently reaching.
Her response was enthusiastic. She used the word "brilliant."
Clara minimized the emails and opened Tidal Lock's admin page. Scrolled past the analytics—the slow, steady climb in readership that she'd been ignoring, the comments section that had tripled since the indie blog mention in Chapter 5—and stopped on her profile.
C.H. Winters
The avatar stared back at her. A cartoon lighthouse, clean lines, simple design. She'd drawn it in fifteen minutes three years ago, sitting on the floor of her bedroom with mascara tracks on her cheeks and a half-empty box of crackersbeside her.
It was a good avatar. Recognizable. On-brand. Perfectly designed to saya person made thiswithout sayingthis person specifically.
Clara zoomed in. The lighthouse in the cartoon was her lighthouse. Same proportions, same gallery railing, same light at the top. Anyone from Beacon's End would recognize it in a heartbeat. But nobody from Beacon's End read Tidal Lock—or if they did, they'd never mentioned it—and the anonymous internet was a big place and C.H. Winters was a small name in it.
A small name that a New York literary agent had sought out. That an editor at a real publishing house had called brilliant.
Clara set the phone on her chest and stared at the ceiling.
The cracks in the plaster looked like a map of somewhere she'd never been. Jack had mentioned patching them. Had said the plaster needed resealing before winter, that the moisture would widen the cracks if she left them. Another repair planned months ahead. Another sign that he was thinking in terms of staying.
Everyone was asking her to open doors she'd nailed shut.
Jack wanted her to let him in. Nora wanted her to let the world in. Both required the same impossible thing:standing behind her own work—her art, her heart, her choices—and sayingthis is mewithout flinching.
She picked up the phone again. Opened a new email. Typed in Nora's address.
The cursor blinked in the empty body of the message.
Dear Nora,
Clara stared at the two words. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Dear Nora, thank you for your emails. I've been thinking about your offer and I'd like to
Delete.
Dear Nora, I appreciate your interest in Tidal Lock. Before we go any further, I should let you know that I
Delete.
Dear Nora,
She sat with it. Just the greeting. Two words and a comma.
Then she typed:
