His arms band about me even more. “Do you remember in Florida? You asked what I would do if it was my choice?” His lips are by my ear, his words coming out low and slow, as if each one is barbed and lacerating his throat on the way out of his mouth.
His breath is warm as it passes over the shell of my ear, buthis question causes a shiver of premonition to race down my spine. I close my eyes as what he’s saying lands like a punch in the center of my sternum.
He’s closing Squire.
My Max and Layla books aren’t getting published after all.
This was supposed to be my open door. The silver lining. The library is already closing the first door on me, and now Julien is slamming the other shut as well. Does no one want to let me in? Am I not good enough for anywhere?
If this is another of Julien’s grandmother’s divine signs, I have no idea how to interpret it.
I didn’t think it was possible, but Julien holds me even closer as tears spring to my eyes and the familiar taste of disappointment and crushed dreams clogs my throat.
“I am so sorry, Martha.”
It takes me a second, but I manage to swallow so I can speak. “It’s okay.” I pat his back between his shoulder blades, offering him what comfort I can. I know telling me this is hurting him too.
There’s a rebellious part in the recesses of my mind screaming to argue and fight back. Why couldn’t he stay the course? Why couldn’t he keep Squire open a little longer? Just a few days ago, he believed in me and my books enough to think they could save the dying imprint. Had he been lying? Couldn’t he give me a chance to see if I’m good enough? Or maybe he realized his father’s opinion of my work had been right all along.
I stay like that, hugging him. Letting him hug me. Trying really,reallyhard not to follow down the path of hurt that will leave me in a hole of self-pity and resentment. Once in those depths, it’s near impossible to claw oneself out.
“Your bookisgoing to be published,” Julien reassures me softly.
That stops me in my mental tracks. I pull back so I canlook him in the eye. His expression is a bit anguished but also determined.
“What?” I ask, afraid I’ve heard wrong. My books won’t fit with any of King’s other imprints.
“Your book is going to be published,” he says again. The straight line of his jaw could cut glass the way he’s firmed it with resolve. “I know it is. I’ve already reached out to several editors at other houses. I wouldn’t be surprised if the manuscripts go to auction.”
My heart cracks a bit more, but this time the fissures are letting the hurt seep out and the love soak through. This man. He didn’t have a change of heart. He actually believes someone other than himself will find worth in my stories. So much so that editors would fight over the right to publish them.
“I thought about waiting to tell you until I heard back from one of them. That way I would have good news to go along with the bad.”
“Your father recognizing your hard work and dedicationisgood news,” I say. Yes, I’ve suffered yet another personal blow, but I willnotlet that diminish the amazing thing that Julien has done. My losses shouldn’t dampen his victory.
He completely ignores what I’ve said in order to apologize again. “I really am sorry, Martha.”
“I know you are, Julien.” I run the backs of my fingers down the sides of his face, hoping to reassure him. A sigh so deep it seems to come from my toes crests over me and escapes my lungs in total deflation. Suddenly, comforting him takes more energy than I have. I need space. A moment to lick my wounds.
Extricating myself from his arms, I stand and pace to the kitchen under the ruse of needing some water. I go through the motions of filling a glass and even take a sip.
What am I going to do now? There aren’t any assurances that the library trustees are going to offer me my job back. And despite Julien’s confidence, there isn’t any guarantee thata children’s acquisitions editor from another publishing house will offer me a contract for my Max and Layla books. I know Ryan said not to give up hope, but at this point hope seems nothing but a cruel mistress that likes to play hard to get. I’m only going to keep getting my heart broken if I keep chasing after it.
“Don’t do that.” Julien stands as he says this, his voice the strongest it’s been all morning. His gray brows are slashes over his blue eyes as he strides purposefully toward me.
“Don’t drink water?” I ask on a forced chuckle, a weak attempt at humor and distraction, and make a show of taking a big gulp.
His warm palms grip my shoulders. He squares off with me, his gaze boring into mine, both his eyes and his hands holding me in place. “Don’t give up on yourself, on your dreams.”
Why not? You already have.It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I bite the caustic words back. They aren’t fair, and they aren’t true, and I still have enough sense to know that voice is the voice of my pain and not my reason.
Julien’s palms slide across my shoulders, up the sides of my neck, then cradle my face. “Tell me what I can do. Please, I want to help.”
He probably means professionally. Who can he call? What favor can he cash in on my behalf? How can he make this dream of mine a reality?
But I don’t want to think about any of that right now. I don’t want to think about rejections and words like “not a good fit” or “not what we’re looking for at this time.” I don’t want to think about the library trustee board meeting next week. I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to feel something other than this deep aching pain.
“Make me forget the hurt. Even for a moment,” I whisper, not knowing how he could even do such a thing. It seems impossible.
