“Would you? Or might you grow bored? Feel the need to be part of a community. Writing is a fairly solitary act. I have writer friends with whom I communicate—but all over the internet. I don’t havereal-life friends who know my truth. My editor, my agent, and a couple of people at the publishing house know—but that’s it.”
“There’s been speculation that H.R. is a woman.”
Slowly, he smiled. “I’ve heard those rumors. Obviously not true. The assumption is also that H.R. is Caucasian.”
“You know, I’ve never thought about it.”
“Because those authors still dominate the market. Another reason I didn’t identify myself—I don’t want to be labeled as a certain kind of writer because of my skin color, you know?”
“Yeah. I really do.” I closed my eyes. “You haven't told me about this. You're a writer? You didn't bother to tell me? You think I didn’t need to know?”
He eyed me. “Why do you need to know? It’s just something I do in my spare time. It’s not who I am. Look, even after I published my first book, I went back to UBC to get a Master’s in Journalism. Writing fiction is…my stress outlet.”
“And when you left town?”
“I took a vacation.”
“You said you were working.”
“I was.” He held my gaze. “I was meeting my agent and editor in Toronto.” He pointed to the manuscript. “Sometimes it’s easier to have the meetings in person. Plus, checking in can prove to be a good thing. My editor wanted a different approach with this book. I argued if this formula worked, why mess with it?”
“Don’t you get bored of writing the same thing over and over?”
He shifted from foot to foot. “Maybe? Sometimes? But my fans want the same thing over and over.” He scratched his scalp with his fingernails. “I know what poor looks like. I don’t ever want to go back to that.”
“You’ve hit the bestseller lists. That means sales. That means money. You don’t seem to have some extravagant lifestyle.”
“That’s true. But I might lose my job tomorrow. I might have things fall apart and I have to dip into my nest egg. And the next book might be a flop. Lots of horrible things can happen. So I just balance everything precariously and wait for things to fall apart.”
I didn’t want to be swayed by his words, but I understood what he was trying to say. “Because of your childhood.”
“Probably.”
“Right.” I took a deep breath. “I've had you all wrong, all along, haven't I? I thought you were beginning to care for me.” I gestured toward the papers. “But you didn’t even trust me with the truth. With your truth. You planned to keep that side of you hidden from me. For what, forever?”
“I didn’t know.” He met my gaze. “I didn’t know we were going to turn into something. And I like what we are. I don’t want to fuck that up with bringing something that doesn’t matter into the relationship.”
“Doesn’t matter? Writing is a huge part of who you are. Hell, I write poetry. So I understand about having the need for a creative outlet. And before you go razzing me for not telling you, let me say I’ve had six poems published in the last five years. Not exactly something worth writing home about. Especially since only half of those actually paid me money. You’re H.R. Freaking Webb, for Christ’s sake. So not even on the same plane of existence.”
“Six published poems is impressive, Finn. You could’ve shared that with me. Poetry journals are notoriously hard to get published in. I’ve never tried writing poetry because I know it’s harder than it looks.” He extended his arm again. “Come back to bed.”
I shook my head. “Is this why you haven’t made progress on the shelter? Because you’re busy writing fiction?” I gestured to the manuscript. “I'm going home now. I need some space.”
“Finn—”
“No. Not this time. Just…let me go.” I brushed past him—heading to the bedroom to get dressed.
He didn’t follow me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ulysses
As I sat at the basketball game, I kept my eye on everyone.
Most especially Finn.
He wouldn’t look at me. I sat in the bleachers, across where he was coaching—and he wouldn’t make eye contact.
