Good for Mrs. King. “Why did their argument make you worried about me, though?”
“Well, I heard Julien’s name mentioned quite a few times. As well as that imprint y’all are trying to save. Squire, is it? Anyway, with the way Mr. King treated you in the past, and the reason for his fit of temper being something you’re wrapped up in, naturally I was concerned.”
I don’t know if I want to hang my head or pump my fist inthe air. My suspicions that Mr. King has been at the root of Julien’s behavior change have been confirmed. His dad must have been who he’d talked to on the phone yesterday. Probably adding pressure and impossible expectations.
“Thanks for checking up on me, Mom. It has been a rough few of days, but I’m okay.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too.”
We hang up, and I stare out at the surf. A kite in rainbow colors is taking advantage of the breeze, its long tail fluttering out behind the diamond.
Now that I have an educated guess about how the conversation went on Julien’s phone call, I’m left with a question: What am I going to do with the knowledge? I can’t do nothing. The experiences the authors have had at our table is bad enough, but honestly? I’m more concerned about Julien. But what can I say that’s going to get through to him?
I’ve tried getting him to open up, but he’s shut down tighter than Fort Knox. I’ve given him my sternest disapproving librarian stare, but it’s ineffective since he won’t look at me. I’ve straight-up told him to knock it off, but the only indication I have that he even hears me is his stupid ticking jaw muscle.
So, what? What can I do? What can I say?
Slowly, the answer comes to me, and I nearly groan when I realize what I have to do. Not giving it a second thought because if I do, I might chicken out, I slide my feet back into my sandals and pull my phone out again, texting Julien to ask him where he is.
Surprisingly, he answers right away and says he’s in the room going over some emails from partials we’d requested. He not so subtly—I know it’s hard to read tone of voice in a text, but I’m going to call it like it is and saysnidelyhere as well—comments about how I should be at the same location doing the same thing.
I punch the elevator button with more force than necessary and fume all the way up to the eighth floor. As I hold the key card up to the reader on the door, the thought that I should’ve practiced what I wanted to say flits through my mind. Off the cuff it is. Hopefully the hurricane of emotions swirling around inside of me right now won’t get in the way.
Julien is on the balcony with his laptop open on the bistro table. He doesn’t spare me a glance as I open the door and step outside.
Enough is enough. I reach out and push the top of his laptop closed.
“Hey!” he protests.
I glare at him, angry, concerned, a little hurt, and starting to feel vulnerable. Turning on my heel, I walk back inside to where my purse is sitting on the dresser. Digging around, I find my notebook and pull it out. I throw it on top of his closed computer, then plop down in the seat on the other side of the table.
“What’s this?” Julien tilts the notebook. “Wait. Isn’t this what I saw you writing in at the airport?”
“Read it,” I say, pretending those aren’t two of the scariest words ever to leave my mouth.
It shouldn’t matter if Julien likes my writing or not. That isn’t the point here. It’s not why I’m sharing my notebook with him. Even so, I can’t stop the twist in my stomach as I watch his eyes track over the words on the page.
He reads for what feels like hours but is probably only a few short minutes. Finally, he lifts his head and lets his gaze settle on mine. I’m punched in the gut by his cobalt irises. The clearness in them. It’s like I’m looking at my Julien again.
NotmyJulien. I know he’s not mine.
Oh, you know what I mean.
“Did you...” He looks back down at the notebook. Turns the page. “Did you write this?”
I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “Yes.”
Excitement paints a transformation on his face. He looks a hundred pounds lighter, relief softening the stony features he’s been wearing around the conference. He bolts out of his chair, then pulls me out of mine, right into his chest, where he hugs me to him and picks me up, spinning me in a tight circle.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had the manuscript that would save Squire all along? That you were the author?”
“You can’t publish that,” I say into the crisp fabric of his pristine white dress shirt.
He sets me on my feet and takes a step back, his brows low over his eyes. “Why not?”
“It’s not good enough.”
