Finding peace, p.13
Finding Peace, page 13
My eyes widen, but I don’t try to speak or to squirm away.
“I don’t care what a bunch of stupid, overeager critics think. Their only value comes from tearing someone else’s work down. What have they ever created?”
I shrug.
“Nothing,” he says. “That’s what. Stop worrying that I’ll be that stupid and trust that I’ll find the Anica in your stories. Because I can tell you right now—I like Anica in pretty much everything I’ve seen her in so far.”
“Maybe you should write the rest of my story.”
He kisses me again, but this time he’s the one who pulls away. “I can’t have you crashing on the side of the road, can I?” He spins me again, but this time I end up right next to the driver’s door of my car. “Go home and stop worrying.”
“That’s what I do,” I say. “I worry, and I know things.”
“All right, then do what you do. But don’t worry about me. I haven’t read a word, but I’m already a fan.”
At the end of the day, more than washboard abs, more than a shoulder to cry on, more than a thrill that runs down my spine for a second and then disappears, I think that’s what I really need. A fan of Anica.
I’m so tired when I get home that my eyelids feel like overstuffed bags of groceries, tugging inexorably downward, threatening to burst at any second. Even so, I flip my laptop open and bang out a one-line message to Henri and attach my sample chapters.
Then I click send.
When I wake up the next day and check my email inbox on my phone, there’s a message waiting on me.
LOVED IT is the subject line. My heart races and my fingers fumble to open my laptop.
Anica,
Yes, yes, yes, yes, I’ve been waiting on this for years. I am delighted you replied, and I love those chapters. I’ll send an agency agreement over later so we can submit this to Avon.
Have you written anything else you want me to take a look at?
Henri
I collapse back against the pillows and begin to sob. I’ve been waiting for her to be excited about something I wrote for so very long. More than five years, in fact. It feels good, even if it’s only an IP project. Even if there’s no way this deal will ever be announced on Publisher’s Marketplace, let alone listed as a “significant” deal.
Who cares? Worry about my own life, not anyone else’s, right? Ethan’s brilliant. It feels good to focus on my triumphs, not my losses for a change. And now that I’ve got an agent again . . . something feels right about the world.
Before I can second-guess it, I pull up the chapters I’ve written on Ashes and send them to her. I don’t mention that it has taken me three years to do those seven chapters, writing only a few hundred agonizing words at a time. Surely with the right incentive, I can finish it faster.
I’m beaming when I walk downstairs.
“Someone’s happy,” Luke says.
“I sent some sample chapters to my old agent,” I say. “And she loved them.”
His eyes widen. “That’s phenomenal. Really?”
I nod.
“Great work!”
“What?” Chase asks. “What is it?”
“Aunt Anica’s writing another book,” Luke says.
“Are there cars in it?” he asks. “Oh! Or trains?”
“Not really,” I say. “It’s not that kind of book.”
Chase tilts his head and scrunches up his nose. “What kind of book is it, then? Are there animals?”
I laugh. “Not so far.”
“Then what?”
I swallow my bite of Little Bites Frosted Mini Wheats and crouch down next to him. “Well, it’s a book with kissing in it.”
The look of horror on his face is priceless.
“I wish I had my camera ready,” Luke says. “It would have made a great video to play at his wedding someday.”
“Right?” I return to my chair. “You’ll get it eventually, buddy.”
“I doubt it,” Chase says. “Dad still likes trucks.”
I laugh. “That he does.”
“And tools,” Chase says. “And trains. Right, Dad?”
Luke ruffles his hair. “Right you are, mate.”
“Well, Amy will get it one day for sure,” I say.
“Are you working again today?” Luke asks.
I shake my head. “I’ve got big plans to hide in my room and write on this book while ideas are rolling around in my brain.”
“Ideas about kissing?” Chase frowns.
“Exactly,” I say. “Unless you guys need me for anything?”
Luke shakes his head. “Not at all. I’ll tell everyone to steer clear.”
“Thanks.”
I send a quick text to Ethan before putting my phone on airplane mode. FEELING INSPIRED. GOING TO WRITE. HOPE THAT’S OKAY.
Luckily he texts back immediately. OF COURSE.
I sigh in relief and settle back into my make-believe world of kissing and shy girls overcoming their hang-ups. When I’m in the groove, I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t even stop to go pee, unless it gets really unbearable. When I finally take a bathroom break and unplug my headphones, my phone tells me it’s almost four in the afternoon.
I check out my total word count for the day. Three and a half chapters—more than nine thousand words. A very, very good day. One of my best, for sure. I flip my phone back into service and turn my laptop Wi-Fi back on.
DINNER? Ethan texted at some point. WE CAN GO SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN A DINER. ;)
I’m about to send him a response when my email on my laptop loads, and I notice another one from Henrietta. Has she already read my sample of Ashes, or is this the agency agreement she mentioned? My knees begin to bounce, and I drop my phone.
I force myself to click the email open.
Anica,
I’m still very excited to submit to Avon, but after reviewing Ashes carefully, I’m not sure I’m a great fit for that project. Since you’re still wanting to take your career in that direction, I’ve attached a provisional agency representation agreement that will only be applicable to the single IP title.
Best,
Henri
A provisional agency agreement.
She hated my other chapters that much?
I know it’s not a ‘relationship,’ but it sure feels like I’ve been dumped. Again. And for some reason, my absurd hope and glee this morning makes it a rougher gut punch than it was the first time. It feels like she’s saying that she’ll use me for the kissing books, but if I want anything more, she’s out.
I shake my head and try to refocus. It’s still good news—an IP project is work.
But all my energy and excitement is . . . gone.
I FEEL PRETTY LOUSY, I text Ethan. RAINCHECK?
PLEASE TELL ME I DIDN’T SAY SOMETHING STUPID. A moment later, Ethan sends a gif of a puppy dog making sad eyes.
If I wasn’t so bummed, it would make me smile. NOT AT ALL. JUST DON’T WANT TO GET YOU SICK IF I’M COMING DOWN WITH SOMETHING.
DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME, he texts back. IF YOU DECIDE YOU WANT COMPANY, I’M NOT AFRAID OF A COLD.
Poor Ethan. All I would do is mope. GOOD TO KNOW, BUT I’M STILL GOING TO STAY PUT TONIGHT.
FAIR, BUT PROMISE ME ONE THING.
?
DON’T GO KISSING ANY HOT DOCTORS, NO MATTER HOW MANY KIDS THEY’VE SAVED WITH EMERGENCY SURGERIES IN SERBIA.
IT’S MONGOLIA, I text. But I’m actually smiling when I do it. AND I’M NOT MAKING ANY PROMISES.
YOU VIXEN. WELL, THEN DON’T FAULT ME FOR MAKING OUT WITH A REALLY HOT BARISTA WHO WANTS TO BE A BROADWAY DANCER.
He’s reading my first book, which is ridiculously cute of him. Life is always better when you have someone who tries to cheer you up. I had almost forgotten the feeling.
11
Ethan
When Anica blows me off to write about a fictitious doctor who saves kids in third world countries, I feel adrift. No surfing. No Sunday brunch. Nothing at all to do in this town where I no longer have any friends.
So I call my sister.
“Hey Ethan,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about you, but I wasn’t sure whether you wanted to talk to me when you didn’t reply to the photo I texted.”
Her photo of Phillip with his arm around her. I didn’t call her to talk about him. I don’t even want to think about him being around her. I grunt.
I can imagine her rolling her eyes at me. Or maybe flopping back on her bed with exasperation. “How was your first week back?”
“Fine,” I say. “Dad didn’t lie—the hotel’s a disaster. Badly mismanaged and coasting on a reputation the current management was working hard to destroy.”
“Well, you’re great at turning things around.”
“I hate firing people,” I say. “And hiring new people is always a gamble, but at least a few of them should be as motivated as I am to turn things around.”
“I could never fire anyone,” she says, “which is probably why Dad never bothered trying to talk me into joining the family business.”
“You like what you do,” I say. “Don’t you?”
“I love it.” She sighs. “It doesn’t pay well, but we’re blessed enough that it doesn’t matter.”
She doesn’t want to fire people, but I’m not sure I could do what she does either, teaching special education at a local elementary school. “Doesn’t it depress you at all? All those kids who won’t ever have a normal life?”
“Normal is vastly overrated, Ethan. I help them fulfill the maximum of their potential, and for many of them, we have no idea how high they might fly.”
Anica should write a book about her. “You want to grab lunch?”
“I would love to,” she says, “any time next week.”
A sense of unease settles across my shoulders. “Why not today?”
She gulps. “I’m happy to meet you today, but I’m guessing you won’t be so happy about it.”
My jaw clenches. “Why, Ana?” But I already know.
“If you came to lunch, you might understand. He’s not the man you remember.”
“People don’t change that much,” I say. “And even if he has changed substantially, are you really saying you’ve forgiven him for killing our mother?”
Ana sighs. “Ethan, that was a really long time ago, and he can’t undo it.”
“It wasn’t an accident.” I force myself to relax my hand where it grips the phone. If I break it, I’ll be stuck spending hours at the cell phone store. “He hit her so many times her head flew into the side of the bathtub and she cracked her skull.”
I’ve never said that out loud, not in almost twenty years. I don’t add that I should have stopped him. That I should have yelled, or hit him back, or just taken her place. I don’t add that seeing him makes me hate myself even more than I already do at a baseline. She’d never understand, or she’d argue with me and tell me that it’s not my fault, blah blah blah. I’ve heard that from counselors already. They’re right . . . and they’re wrong.
Phillip is a bad person.
But I’m generally a good person, which makes my failure to do anything for her even worse. I knew she needed help, and I was too afraid of being hit again myself to offer it. Maybe Phillip’s going to tell her today that he can’t see her anymore. Maybe today will be the last time she takes him to lunch.
Or maybe he’ll find a job on his own, and she’ll be going to lunch with him forever. Or at least until he hurts her so badly that she can’t or won’t meet him again. That’s what I’d really like to avoid.
“Promise me this, Ana.”
“What?”
“If you ever feel threatened by him, if he ever scares you in any way, you will leave immediately and call 911 and then call me, in that order. Promise.” And I’ll make sure he never sees her again if she ever does make that call, but I can’t say that or she won’t do it.
“Sure, Ethan. If that makes you feel better, I will absolutely call you if I’m ever afraid. But you’re wrong if you really think that will happen. He’s not the man he was. He can’t even find a job, but he’s not drinking. He’s not angry, just discouraged. If you gave him a chance, you might find out that the past twenty years have been harrowing for him. He really loved Mom—”
“Ana, I love you, but don’t ever say that to me.”
She groans. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s get together next week, okay?”
“Sure,” I say. “Text me a day. I’ll drive to you. I know now that school has started, it’s hard for you to get away.”
“Thanks.” She hangs up.
And I have a burning desire to punch something. Again. Every time he comes up, he ruins my day.
I text Anica one more time, hoping against hope that she’ll have time to see me today. DINNER? WE CAN GO SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN A DINER. ;) But after half an hour, when she still hasn’t replied, I assume she’s not going to reply any time soon. Which is good for her, truly. I’m glad she’s writing, but I need to do something other than sit around my house or go for another jog.
Harrison’s not there when I reach the gym, but there are a handful of guys who are only too happy to demonstrate the many ways they can catch the new guy in yet another hold.
I’m starting to hate wrestlers.
But that helps me. The angrier I get, the better my brain processes stimuli. By the time Chad shows up, I’m spoiling for a real fight—to test how well I’m picking up my new wrestling lessons. And if I read something right that first day, it’s that Chad is always happy to spar.
“I’ve got a big fight coming up next week,” he says. “So no blows to the face, and we tap out. Fine?”
I shrug. “Fine with me.” I vow to myself not to rely on punches at all, except to keep him away. If I win this, it’s going to be with kicks, holds, or a takedown.
Even with him avoiding any blows to my face, fighting him without relying on punches is hard. I suck at kicking, for one. And I have to think way too hard about each hold and how to line them up. My muscles don’t know the moves instinctively yet.
Which is how, after a particularly effective blow to my solar plexus, I drop my head and wind up in a guillotine choke. It works by cutting off my air, so it’s way slower than the rear naked choke. Knowing that and doing something about it aren’t quite the same, but I don’t just throw in the towel. I flail and thrash and twist, all the while weakening.
Then when I’m about to tap out, the pressure lessens, just for a second, but it’s enough. I shove with my knees to distract him and pop my hand between his inner elbow and my neck, and then I slide out. In spite of my resolve not to punch at all, I pound him with an uppercut, and when his head rocks back, I see my opening. I slide past his guard and throw him into a wicked joint lock—if he pushes at all, I’ll break his elbow.
He taps out.
And people around us start clapping. I hadn’t realized anyone was watching. Sundays aren’t usually big days at the gym, so a six-person audience is surprising. Harrison’s smiling bigger than anyone else.
“Nicely done,” he says.
“Way better than before,” Chad says begrudgingly. “For real. You’re getting better fast.”
“I lined up a fight for you—in four weeks. A qualifier.”
“At the open?” Chad asks.
Harrison nods. “Izzy Volkov.”
“Volkov?” Chad whistles. “You sure, coach? With only five weeks’ training in UFC?”
“It’s not up to me,” Harrison says. “I told Whiting it’s too soon, but he said his boy’s been struggling to find a matchup. He’s like a bulldog, that one. Takes people out with holds, and UFC brass is sick of his methods so they aren’t giving him many good options.” He leans forward and grabs the side of the ring with both hands. “Holds are boring, right? Crowds want strikes—they want boxers. They don’t like watching two grown men roll around on the floor gasping for air.”
“You told them you had one?”
Harrison shrugs. “An older one, yeah. A comeback story. Their very own Rocky, except instead of the underdog, I’ve got a corporate raider who’s as comfortable in a board room as he is in a UFC ring.”
“Excuse me?” Chad asks.
“I did a little digging on our boy here.” Harrison’s smile is so big I can see two gold crowns in the back of his mouth. “Turns out he’s been using a fake name all this time. You’re looking at Ethan Trainor, heir apparent to the Trainor family fortune, including more than ninety hotels across the world.”
I groan. There’s no way I can fight now. Dad would kill me.
“We’ll have to lay some ground rules,” a loud voice calls from the entryway of the gym.
Everyone jumps, except for me. It’s a voice I’ve always known. “What are you doing here, Dad?” My voice sounds calmer than I expect.
“There’s been an incident at the Riviera we need to discuss,” he says. “I came to find you, and imagine my surprise at locating you here.”
“You’re his dad?” Harrison takes a few steps toward Dad. “Pleased to meet you.” He extends a hand.
Dad walks toward him and clasps hands with him, pumping my old trainer’s arm up and down. “I’ll want to know details on the venue, and I need to approve any and all press releases, obviously.”
“That sounds fair,” Harrison says, as if my dad’s my manager or something.
“Whoa,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“We need to talk,” Dad says. “Outside.”
This can’t be happening. How did he even find me here? “I’ll get back to you about that fight,” I say.
“And we’ll need to approve any monikers or nicknames,” Dad says to Harrison over his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch with a list of options.”
The second we clear the gym door, I spin toward Dad. “Why are you here?”
His eyes crinkle up every time he grins. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“How did you even know where I was?” I glance around. “Are you having me followed or something?”
“Please.” He snorts. “I gave you a car worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. They come with anti-theft monitoring systems, obviously, and I simply tracked you.”
