Sienna smiles ruefully. “As long as you wait till the food’s ready, it’s all good with me.”
Kenzo chuckles, and Sienna laughs too, and Malcolm looks over sharply, as if they’re talking about him. Sienna clocks it and smirks, a poke-the-bear smirk, before leaning closer to Kenzo. “So how would you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Murder Jaxon Knight.”
Kenzo considers the man in question, who’s now wafting the steam from the pot toward his face in an ostentatious way. “How much time do you have?”
* * *
BY THE TIME THEY FINALLY SIT DOWNto eat, it’s after nine, and almost everyone is on their way to being drunk. Malcolm, Jaxon, and Millie are leading the pack, their collective volume climbing with every glass, though the nature of their inebriation has taken different forms. Malcolm seems involved in a one-man name-dropping contest, while Jaxon goes on a rant about the subgenre of space epic within the umbrella term of sci-fi, and Millie devolves at random intervals into giggles. Sienna’s face has taken on a rosy flush; at the more sober end of the spectrum, Priscilla has been nursing the same glass for the last hour, while Cate sips a soda and has the wide-eyed look of someone who’s just glad to be included.
Kenzo himself has traded his coffee for Scotch and is now in that pleasant lane of social lubrication between sober and sloppy.
The chili, for what it’s worth, is delicious. Maybe Jaxon was right about the cumin after all. Kenzo hates that.
“We need another icebreaker,” announces Millie when the bowls are empty. “You know, so we can get to know each other better?”
“Is that really a good idea?” asks Kenzo.
“Right?” says Jaxon, in a rare moment of agreement. “I mean, no offense, Mill, but this isn’t a Girl Scout trip. It’s a competition.”
“So?” she counters. “Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends!”
“Okay then,” he shoots back. “How about Fuck, Marry, Kill, famous authors edition?”
Kenzo can see the cogs already turning in Millie’s mind, but the rest of the table gives a collective groan.
“What?” he continues. “I’ll go first. Let’s start with J—”
“I have a question,” Priscilla cuts in, swirling the inch of wine in her glass as the collective attention shifts toward her. “I want to know... what’s your why?”
The table looks at her, confused.
“Our why?” asks Millie.
“Yeah,” she says. “Your reason for writing. For sticking with it, even when the deck feels stacked against you. After all, that’s why we’re here, right?” She looks around, making eye contact with each of them. “Not just because we’re good enough, but because—with the exception of Cate, who hasn’t really started—the rest of us haven’t given up yet. So, tell me why.”
For a moment, no one speaks, Kenzo included. Drinks are lifted to mouths. Eyes go down. It’s honestly not a question they get asked that often. Where do you get your ideas? Will you put me in your next book? Whohurtyou? (But that one’s specific to him.)
Why do you write romance?
Why do you write crime?
Why do you write horror?
But not, why do youwrite?
“I like playing god,” declares Jaxon, to no one’s surprise. But while half the table rolls their eyes, Millie actually nods.
“Yeah,” she says, “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way, but at the same time, it’s kind of true.” She looks around. “I mean, real life is full of chaos, isn’t it? It’s messy, and unfair. The heroes lose. The girl doesn’t get the guy. Or maybe she does, and then he breaks her heart and everything goes to shit.” Millie’s hand goes to her mouth, as if embarrassed by the word. But it’s nice to see the real girl behind the chipper facade. “But when I write,” she continues, “I decide who wins. I get to choose what happens to the girl. I can give her the kind of story she deserves.”
Heads bob in agreement, and in the ensuing lull, Malcolm weighs in. “For me, it’s always been a calling.”
Sienna takes a pointed sip. “Nothing to do with fame and glory, then?”
“Well, we all wantthat,” adds Jaxon, clearly trying to defuse the obvious tension.
