Page 34
He stops me. “Don’t worry about it, Savannah. It’s an easy thing to happen when working with all that paper. But you might want to consider using the binding machine next time. Or better yet . . . keep it out of sight altogether.”
His smile grows. “After all, not everyone at Pennington shares the same appreciation of the more . . . adventurous fiction as you and me.”
* * *
I slide my key into the lock thirty minutes later and find myself still a little amazed by how everything went down. Replaying the look on Tom’s face as Will tore his hands off me and stepped in. Hearing Will’s authoritative voice declaring he was taking Tom from now on. Hearing him exonerate me for my manuscript slip without any questions raised.
It was priceless.
All of it.
Priceless.
But as I play it all back in my mind, questions jump in here and there. Like what were all those thoughts so clearly occupying him half the time? And who exactly is up in New York that he misses?
But then, as I open the door, comes that other, higher-priority thought that I won’t be rid of for a month. Forty-four days. It’s nearly midnight now, yet again, but I can’t be deterred.
I take a step into the living room and am greeted by the whirring of the Peloton. Olivia, in the middle of flicking a page of her book, pauses as she sees me come in.
“How many are you at?” Olivia says.
No hello.
I drop my laptop bag off my aching shoulder and wearily check my watch. “Nineteen thousand. And hello.”
“Nineteen,” Olivia breathes, looking so proud she might cry. “Excellent work today, Savvy. What did you do today? Whatever it is, just repeat it every day for the month, and you’re gold.”
Right, I think, moving away from her beaming gaze and taking my poor, aching body toward my bedroom, along with the laptop bag I drag across the floor. All I need to do is repeat the chaos of today and—
I stop at the sight of the small bouquet of flowers on the table by my bedside. As I move toward them, for one insane moment I think with a stutter, Did Will Pennington send these to me?
But no, I realize, seeing the scribbled handwriting on the small card sticking out of the bundle. I take the note, flick it open, and read the inscription:
Hope you hit it out of the park today.
Leave it to Ferris to drop by some flowers on behalf of the two of them, just to make sure I cheered up from this morning. They aren’t from Olivia, I know. But they are a team now, just like how Mom always adds Dad’s name to the Christmas cards without his awareness. I’ll have to thank them tomorrow.
I take a couple of moments to stop and smell them, inhaling the scent of the petite yellow roses. Read the card again. Hope you hit it out of the park today. Well, in a way, I did hit it out of the park, didn’t I? I had a brave conversation with Claire; I asserted myself when I could have cowered, and now I have a tremendous opportunity before me. Not to mention I no longer have to deal with Tom. Ever again. It really was a home-run kind of day if you think about it.
Propelled by my momentary burst of self-congratulatory encouragement, I turn toward my closet and, after much yanking and digging, find the tattered manuscript.
As I settle down on my bed, computer beside me, stack of papers in hand, I feel instantly better. I have a plan. It may be hectic. It may be incredibly busy over the course of the next month. I may have to hunker down and set all the other priorities in my life aside for a while, but I have a plan. I will get through this. Just so long as I have the direction found in these—
I halt.
All this time I’ve been flipping pages, reading through to see all the notes my mystery editor left for me, how much work I’ll have to do, how many words fill up the margins. But then suddenly, on page 16, it all stops.
Nothing.
I flip to the next page.
Nothing.
I flip three more and see nothing but the clear, clean white margin.
Nothing.
I flip through the rest of the manuscript, and all the while my heart sinks lower and lower. Why was I so stupid as to think whoever did this had actually read through the whole manuscript? Why would I be so ridiculous as to think they would choose to spend their afternoon jotting a thousand ugly notes in the margins?
