Page 43

“Thank you,” I say, still feeling the world spin a little. “But could I get another Coke by chance?”

Her expression turns to sympathy. “Sure thing. Are you starting to feel dizzy, honey?”

At the words, Ferris’s attention breaks from the handful of graphs in his hands, with their corresponding pictures of flower bouquets. “You doing okay, Savvy?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Just . . . I thought it might be a good idea.”

The nurse nods. “Of course. Let’s get you some sugar just in case. I’ll grab some crackers too,” she adds and drifts off toward the mini fridge across the room.

My cheeks tingle as I feel Ferris’s gaze on me. I hate to be the perennial problem patient.

A buzzer on the machine goes off at the farthest end, and Dad raises his own Coke like he just won a horse race. “That’s me!” he calls.

Ten seconds later, Mom’s buzzes. “Oh darn,” she says. “I was so close this time.”

Leave it to my family to make this into some sort of game.

Fifteen minutes later, and I’m nowhere close to done.

“I told you to stop drinking all that caffeine,” Olivia says to me as the nurse checks my bag and comments on how the blood is slowing down. “You drink all that coffee and expect your blood not to turn into molasses—”

“She had one cup, Olivia,” Ferris says in my defense. “I doubt it made any difference.”

“That’s not what my research says,” Olivia retorts. “I read that caffeine not only blocks your neuroreceptors for adenosine, it has a half-life of three hours, and—”

“I read five,” Dad chimes in.

“Oh, I’m sure it was three, Dad,” Olivia says. “I’m positive.”

“You’re talking about the article in the Washington Post from 2017?” Dad asks. “Because I could almost gamble on the number five.”

And while everyone else in the family engages in a research-driven discussion on blood coagulation, my mind slips back into the single idea pervading my thoughts.

Will Pennington.

Oh my goodness, Will Pennington.

He’s blunt.

He’s no-nonsense.

He’s incredibly intimidating.

The timing works out, really. He’s freshly back from New York City just around the time I get this surprise. But . . . is he really that rude? Really?

How is it possible to know, when nobody you know actually knows him aside from his own mother (and you’d never ask her in a million years)?

I sit on the thought for a solid minute, and then the lightbulb turns on.

Of course.

What better person to ask about how he edits than one of his own authors?

With one arm trapped on the armrest, I tilt my hip and reach into my pocket for my phone. My fingers, not used to doing the typing, fumble the name Trace Green into Amazon’s search bar.

It’s a little industry trick I learned when I started two years ago. Almost every book includes acknowledgments, and while for the typical reader this is just a page to be skipped over, for the nosy author, agent, or editor, it’s gold.

I tap until the acknowledgments page of Green’s most recent book pops up, then skim the page for Will’s name. Green’s publicity team. Green’s fabulous literary agent. Green’s second cousin’s boating companion’s brother, for all his inspiration. Green’s wife, three kids, and two puppies.