Page 8 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
He pauses. I guess I would too, given my tone. I mean, clearly the answer is Nope, I emailed because we’re no longer living in the Victorian era.
But I can’t breathe. And this guy’s completely oblivious to it. He can’t see the blood draining from my face or feel the tingles pouring from the top of my head down as I’m rewinding his words all the way to In her first book, there’s this line…
Yeah, right about then, my head turned to static, like those old TV screens from the nineties. Fuzzy and warm.
And yet he kept talking: And I did something crazy. I wrote to her. Anonymously. A letter to her publisher, because I didn’t know how else to reach her.
That’s when the static cleared, his words slicing through the noise in my head. He couldn’t be…I almost gasp aloud at the realization. Oh no. No. I can almost hear the next words coming out of his mouth, and I have to resist the urge to slap my hands over my ears and shout “La la la!” Because there is no way—zero percent chance—that this man could be my mystery fan. Right?
Why do these things happen to me?
He pauses. I can hear the sheepish smile even in the dark as he answers my oh-too-obvious interruption. “Yeah. I know, it’s embarrassing. But yeah. There’s something about ink and paper. Blue ink, actually. In case you were wondering—which I’m sure you’re not.”
I press my lips together so hard they go numb. Blue ink.
I know the blue ink. I know the right-slanting handwriting and the way he signs B.B. at the bottom and the small, careful way he folds the paper into thirds, like the words inside are fragile.
I have five of those letters in a box on my desk.
It’s him.
“That’s not embarrassing.” No more embarrassing than the letters I wrote back to him. Yes. Yes, I did.
Could this get any worse?
“No, it is. But I appreciate you saying it’s not.” His voice is soft in the dark. Like his letters. Sweet. Endearing.
From a hockey player.
Am I breathing? I can’t tell. The silence settles around us, seeping into me through his jacket, the black swirling in my eyes. It stretches, and I fumble for something to say. “Did she write back?”
Why? Why would I ask that? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I know she wrote back. I know she poured her heart into five thoughtfully, carefully crafted responses, all signed S.B. Why? Because his letter deserved so much more than the standard response.
“Yeah, actually. She did write back.”
Aw, he makes it sound almost magical.
“The thing is…she didn’t have to,” he continues. “Who am I to a world-class author like her? I’m nobody. She could have thrown them away. Could have sent some standard prewritten response. But she didn’t. I don’t think she knows what that meant to me. So often, people take one look at the jersey and reduce me to a number on the team. She made me feel like I mattered.”
I swallow down something sharp. Shoot, now my eyes are burning. Talk about vulnerable. Sheesh, my editor would be thrilled. But I can’t—absolutely cannot—use this confession in a book. What kind of person do you think I am? “I think you probably did matter…to her.” The words scrape from my throat. Because they’re real.
“You think?”
“I know.” The words come out too fast. Too sure. I backpedal. “I mean—I know what reader letters mean to an author. E.J. gets them all the time, and they’re…they mean everything. So a romance writer? Someone whose whole job is writing about connection and vulnerability? Getting a letter from someone who actually felt those things?” I swallow. “Yeah. It mattered.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that I wonder if I said too much.
I definitely said too much.
His shoulder brushes mine. It’s strong, warm. “Can I ask you something?”
“You’ve been asking me things for the last forty minutes. Why stop now?”
“Fair point.” A beat. “Earlier, when I asked if you’d ever done something that would change how people see you, you said yes. You don’t have to tell me what it is, but…does it ever get heavy? Carrying it?”
I close my eyes. My fingers find the bracelet on my wrist, the tiny book charm, and I press it into my skin like an anchor. “Every day,” I say. “It’s like—you know how in thrillers there’s always a character who’s running from something? And you think, Just tell someone. Just say it out loud. How hard can it be?”
