Emerson had told him about his spreadsheets, right?
And moving onto the farm was supposed to be Luca’s fresh start. His opportunity to try something different.
He was still determined that the fresh start would involve leaving all of this bullshit behind. But maybe trying something different could include this. Actually talking out loud about what was always in his head.
“I, uh. I was trying to sell a book.”
Emerson’s eyebrows shot up.
“Like, a book that you wrote?”
“Yeah. Well, Iwaswriting it, for a long time. When I finished it the first time, I tried getting an agent for it. You need an agent to sell a book to a traditional publisher, and you have to reach out to kind of a lot of people, keep track of a lot of things. That’s when the spreadsheets started.”
Emerson nodded, his gaze still steady and interested. Even though Luca already felt like a tool. Maybe he shouldn’t have attempted talking about this out loud after all.
“What kind of a book?”
Luca looked away, out the sliding glass door toward the barn. The sky was gray, full of heavy clouds, as it often was on the Oregon Coast, even in August. He ran a hand over his head, the short hair that was starting to grow back in prickling his fingers.
“A fantasy novel.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s always trying to sell their fantasy novel.”
A low, amused sound rumbled from Emerson, drawing Luca’s eyes back.
“I’m not,” he said simply. “Trust me, Luca. I would never even contemplate doing such a thing.”
“Well.” Luca shrugged, looking down at his screen. “You must be more mentally well than I am.”
Emerson actually laughed then, a resonant, hearty sound that Luca had never heard before. It settled in Luca’s chest,warm, joyful, almost enough to make him comfortable talking about any of this.
Almost.
“You said youwerewriting it? That you reached out to agents when you finished it the first time?”
“Yeah.” Luca cleared his throat, opening up folders in a new tab. “I’ve kind of…taken it apart and rewritten it a bunch of times. I’m trying to…”Move the fuck on with my life. Stop being mentally tortured by a world that’s not even real.“Start something new, now.”Like being a farmer. Once I can actually put these spreadsheets to rest, forever.
“That’s amazing, Luca.”
Luca stared at his screen, trying to figure out what to say. If there was anything to say. Emerson’s words had sounded genuine, almost awe-filled. Yet?—
“It makes me kind of miserable,” Luca eventually said.
And was rewarded with another soft, amused sound, rumbled up from Emerson’s chest.
“Relatable, Luca,” he said, looking back at his own screen. Another thrill ghosted down Luca’s spine at Emerson saying his name once more. “Relatable.”
They settled into a silence then. Emerson studying his laptop, Luca studying his.
Emerson didn’t ask any of the questions Luca had been dreading.So I assume you never got that agent, then? What’s the book about?
Luca sank into the quiet with relief.
Except it wasn’t fully quiet; life never was. Even with the absence of Daisy’s noises now that she was in Portland for the week, the sounds of the house slowly filtered in, settled in Luca’s body. The soft rushing whir of the dishwasher, almost like a small imitation of the ocean, a sound that had practically raised him. The wind outside picking up, whipping around the house and the land around it. The quiet clicking of Emerson’s typing, the occasional clink of his coffee cup hitting the counter. The even quieter tick of the clock, an old, retro-looking one above the sink with a red rim, decorated with chickens and eggs, that didn’t fully seem to match Emerson’s style, somehow, but that made Luca smile nonetheless.
It didn’t take Luca long to go through his writing inbox. It was empty, aside from the spam and the newsletters of other writers he admired, full of their successes and advice. No word about any of his own queries, which he had expected. He frowned, mouse hovering over the newsletter of a guy he’d followed for years. These emails had felt like a lifeline, sometimes. Luca had never studied writing professionally, but the information authors handed out on their own felt like Luca’s education. They’d helped hone his skills, taught him about world building and plot structures, what querying an agent even was. Had given him a road map that others had followed and won. Even if it had always been tinged with a feeling of personal fantasy, imagining life as an author from the cramped, musty quarters of a fishing boat, from his one-room cabin in a coastal town no one had ever heard of, almost as far across the country from the publishing capital of New York City as physically possible.
It was still a comforting fantasy, though, some weeks. Checking his email and checking in on his parasocial relationships.
But when was the last time he’d actually felt comfort from them? When reading querying advice didn’t only fill his gut with doom?
