I laugh. “A little better this morning, thanks. Nightmare wasn’t as graphic as some of the others.” Niall winces. “It’s fine. Well, it’s not, but maybe one day it will be. Anyways, that’s kinda why I’m here.” I reach into my messenger bag and slap the contents on the table.
“Erm…care to share what we have here? I feel like one of your students.”
“You’re kinda right. I might be giving you some homework.” Niall eyes me suspiciously. “I’ve been trying to figure out how I can work through my Michael trauma.”
Niall’s eyes widen. “Is this—”
“His manuscript, yes. It’s like eighty-ish percent done. Maybe more. And it’s really, really good. I’m not just saying that because it’s Michael’s, but from what I’ve read it’s something I could easily see on store shelves.”
“What exactly do you want me to help with?”
I gesture to the store. “You have a degree in English. I have a degree in English. You have a bookstore and so do I. We know how to write, and we know how to tell a story. The formula of how all of these books we love are written. The beginning, the middle, and the end. Michael wrote a really strong beginning and middle. You and I are going to write the end.”
Niall chews on his slice, looking down at the folder. He flips the cover and notices the title page just has a question mark. “He didn’t have a title?”
I laugh. “No. He never did, and never gave me any indication on what he could have been leaning towards.”
“Titles are notoriously one of the hardest pieces for an author to figure out.”
“Not necessarily. I don’t think it took Suzanne Collins all that long to come up withThe Hunger Games.”
“You’re saying we have to write the end and figure out the title of this.”
I meet his gaze and smile. “So that’s a yes, then?”
He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “If there’s anything I can do to help you through your grief, I’m here for you. It might be good for the both of us.”
***
I’m sitting at the table, killing some time reading before I have to be on campus, when my phone vibrates.
It then vibrates again. And again. And again.
I was actively trying to ignore this.
Mom:Happy birthday sweetie!
Mom:I hope you’re having a good day and you have something fun planned
Mom:Don’t be too embarrassed by my post on Instagram
Mom:Of course it has the picture :)
Mom:Tell Niall I said hi!
I scroll over to Instagram and, sure enough, the annual photo montage is up and I’m tagged in it. Including the picture of—”
“I’m sorry. Couple of things.” Niall is striding towards the table, holding out his phone. “First of all, is this a little Danny naked in a bathtub? Am I able to call this adorable without being called a pedo?”
“Nope. You’re a pedo.”
Niall pushes my book off the table. “And, more importantly, it’s your fucking BIRTHDAY? Were you just planning on not telling me, or something? For fuck’s sake Danny, I should have bought you lunch today.” He, probably out of guilt, picks up the book from the floor.
“It’s not a big deal. It’s thirty-eight. Not a milestone year. Not a lot to celebrate as of late. I was just going to order takeout,open a decent but not too expensive bottle of wine, and binge some low rent horror movies.”
Niall vehemently shakes his head. “Nope, nope, nope. You of all people should know every year should be celebrated. You will not be ordering takeout, and will certainly be aiming higher than a decent bottle of wine.”
“Niall—”
