in the style of
Helen Albright Longacre
“What?”
His voice felt paper thin. The manuscript was suddenly heavy, his arms suddenly weak. The sounds in his ears seemed muffled.
“I finished it,” she said again. “I finished my own manuscript first, and then this.”
He was stunned.
“You did... you didboth? How is that possible?”
She shrugged. Then smiled in a way that suddenly seemed verylike Isabel Abbott’s trademark smirk. He felt awed and immediately powerless. He wondered if he had been an impediment, if he had been an unnecessary part of the thing they’d made together. He should have gotten out of the way far sooner. Had Merritt enjoyed writing without him? He felt stupid. He felt territorial, relieved, and then... oh.
“But,” he said slowly, “Merritt, there’s no point.”
She pulled her head back.
“What?”
“The deadline, it’s passed.”
“What do you mean? It’s still January.”
Whit felt incredibly tired.
“The deadline was two days ago.”
Her eyes widened.
“Joan called,” he explained. “I told her everything. She said they already have someone lined up anyway. It’s over, Merritt.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. God, he was sorry.
Merritt’s face began to scrunch up, but then she seemed to set her jaw and harden her eyes.
“Whit, no.”
He wanted to hold her. He wanted to lie down.
“I know,” he said softly. “But... but I’ll read this. Of course I will. I want to know how it ends.”
He gave her a weak smile, but she was shaking her head. She was angry.
“Whit,” she said again, “no. We can’t just give up. I finished it for us—”
He closed his eyes halfway.
“Merritt, we talked about this. Helen—”
“Helen wrote some stuff down in some journals, yeah, I know, Whit.”
His eyes shot open.
“Wow,” he said. He could not believe her.
