Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Her lips twitch, and she looks down at the menu. “I have a friend who can trace IPs. Don’t try me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, but now my eyes are stuck on the side of her neck, the little spot where the skin dips and pulses. I want to taste it, to run my tongue over the scar she told me was from a childhood bike crash. Instead, I unfold my own menu and pretend to be very interested in the pasta section.
The waiter shows up, pencil tucked behind his ear. “Drinks?” he asks, notepad at the ready.
Kat doesn’t hesitate. “Cabernet, please. House is fine.”
“Old Fashioned,” I say, and he nods, already gone.
I watch her scan the appetizers. “You ever been here before?” she asks, not quite meeting my eyes.
I shake my head. “No, but I googled it. Best lasagna in a hundred-mile radius. Or so they say.”
She huffs, amused. “Who’s they?”
I lean in, dropping my voice. “Yelp. The true arbiters of taste.”
Kat giggles and gives me a sidelong look. “You know, it’s weird seeing you like this, Talon. Not, like, in a flannel and writing cave. You almost look like a different person.”
I feign offense. “I’ll have you know this shirt was a gift from my publicist. She said it would make me seem more ‘approachable.’”
“Does it?”
I shrug. “You tell me.”
The golden girl studies me for a second, her gaze flicking down to my hands, up to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Yes. Maybe.”
The drinks arrive, the waiter setting them down with a flourish. Kat sips hers, eyes over the rim, and I want to ask her what she’s thinking, but I know better. The wine stains her lips a deeper red.
We order, trading food choices with the easy banter of two people who already know each other’s worst habits. She giggles when I order a salad as an appetizer (“I know you don’t like salad”), and I tease her about the way she says “bruschetta” like a Food Network host. The waiter disappears with our menus, and for a minute the world seems to settle.
I lean back, relaxing for the first time all day. “Thank you for coming, Kat,” I say, more serious than I intend.
She shrugs, lightly smoothing the condensation on her wine glass. “Figured it was time. You already know everything about me anyway. Or at least, you wrote it down.”
Oof. I wince, but she softens the blow with a smile. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”
I shake my head. “No, you’re right. I did. And I’m sorry, again, for everything.”
She looks away, out the window, where the streetlights glaze the sidewalk in gold. “You know, the funny part is I read the book a second time. Just to see if I could learn more.”
I hold my breath.
“Did you?”
She nods.
“A little,” she says, the words coming carefully. “I started seeing it more as fiction, and less as a diary. Like the heroine is someone else—”
“No,” I interrupt, “She’s not. I wanted you to see what I saw. That you’re the most beautiful, caring, intelligent, most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.”
Kat shoots me a lopsided smile. “Careful. I might start believing you.”
The drinks work their magic. By the time the salads arrive, we’re talking easily and teasing each other. I’m grateful because I wasn’t sure I’d ever have this with Kat again. I thought that maybe, we were too far gone and I’d fucked up, but our easy conversation gives me hope. We swap stories about terrible childhood pets (hers: a hamster named Hamlet who lasted a single week; mine: a rescue cat who peed on all my manuscripts), the weirdest things we’ve ever eaten (her: deep-fried pickles at the state fair; me: raw octopus in Tokyo), and the time I almost got banned from Twitter for flaming a food critic who didn’t like bourbon.
She laughs, for real, when I tell the story. “You know, your agent emailed me,” she says, out of nowhere. “Jonah, I think his name is.”
I nearly spit my drink. “What?”
“He said you were thinking about going off grid again. Asked if I’d heard from you. I told him you were probably just out in the woods, thinking big thoughts.”
I groan. “That man is the worst. But also, he’s probably outside right now, waiting for me to slip up so he can yell at me about deadlines. I can’t believe he contacted you though. What the fuck.”
She laughs again, and it’s like music. My pulse slows, my head clears. I want to freeze the moment, just soak in the way she glows in the restaurant’s cheap candlelight.
Then, right before the main course arrives, a woman approaches our booth. She’s maybe twenty-two, hair in a messy topknot, glasses perched low on her nose. She clutches a hardcover copy of Angel’s Share to her chest like a holy text. I recognize the look instantly—fan, probably from the reading.