Regardless of how little he thinks of my writing, he doesn’t even bother to consider the deadlines I have for my freelance clients.
Tucking my chin, so sick of this battle already, I close my laptop and return my AirPods to their case. I won’t be writing any more today.
“And what about all the time you spend reading?”
Is he referring to me curled up with my Kindle before bed?
“It’s for research,” I sneer, slapping a hand on the mattress.
“How muchresearch,”—he puts up air quotes—“are you going to do, Beck?” He hops off the bed and storms toward the tiny en suite bathroom.
“Do you think scientists ever stop searching for a cure for cancer?” I challenge him.
“This isn’t cancer, Joey.” He turns and stands in the doorway. “This is writing a book.” With that, he spins on his heel and disappears.
I gape at the empty doorway, my stomach knotting.
“Are you going to write the fucking book or sit here all day and yell at me like you always do?”
The thrum of my pulse intensifies. “I don’t always yell at you.”
“You do. And it’s getting really old,” he calls from the bathroom.
I pop off the bed and stand in the doorway, blocking him in. “You wouldn’t get it.” I’m pushing it, but I can’t help it.
“What?” He glares at me through the mirror, yanking at the handle of the faucet. “What wouldn’t I get?”
“You didn’t have to climb your way up in the industry.”
His eyes are hard, cold, as he scrubs his hands under the stream of water. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oh boy, I’ve really started it now. “It means—”Don’t say it, Josefine, don’t say it.“It means—”Oh shit.“You’re only successful because you’re a fucking nepo-baby.”
“The fuck did you just say?” He whirls around so fast hygiene products go flying off the counter with a clatter.
I flinch, my heart leaping into my throat. I may have taken it too far, but he pissed me the hell off.
I can’t party with him and his wild colleagues and clients “for work” nearly every night, then wake up with a clear, creative head. Though it may sometimes look like I’m staring off into space, in reality, I’m allowing my characters to work out their shit in my mind. Until now, I thought Tyler understood; he works with massively imaginative people every day.
He shoves by me and grabs his keys and boots. He doesn’t bother to put them on his feet before he slams the front door with a “Fuck you, Joey.”
My vision blurs and I wipe away my tears. I slump against the mattress and search the ceiling for answers. When I come up empty, I extricate my journal and a pen from the nightstand and pull the covers over my legs. There’s so much power in writing things down, pen to paper, and I’m determined to work it all out before Tyler comes back.If he comes back.He doesn’t always.
The room is dark when I open my eyes. A sole streetlight flickers outside.
“Wake up, Beck,” Tyler whispers, nudging my shoulder.
I roll onto my back. “What time is it?” I croak.
“Late.”
I sit up and pull my legs into my chest. “Listen?—”
“No, me first,” he urges. “I’m so sorry.” He puts a hand on my knee and rubs circles against the sensitive skin on the inside with his thumb. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. Your writing is important. I’m just so fucking stressed at work right now. The new crew we’re working with is full of prima donnas and it’s driving my whole team crazy. Our deadline is this week, and everyone is asking for more money. It’s just stressful as hell right now.” With a hand pressed to my cheek, he leans closer. “Please forgive me.”
“I forgive you,” I say, leaning into his touch. “I’m sorry too. It was shitty of me to say that stuff about your career. I didn’t mean it.” Though my words were true—Tyler’s career is certainly attributed to nepotism—it was a low blow. He gets trashed for benefiting from his father’s fame enough as it is. He doesn’t need it from me too.
“Can we just forget about this stupid fight?”
