Page 21 of Not a Strong Enough Word

I rolled over to my stomach and leaned my chin against his bare chest, waggling my eyebrows suggestively. “Probably had something to do with the page number and the promise of one such action if I finished early tonight. Which I did.”

He cupped the back of my head and kissed my forehead. “Your big, beautiful brain remains a mystery to me.”

My phone rang again from wherever it was hiding. “Well, it’s a mystery to me, too, apparently,” I said before we both jumped up to turn the comforter out. The phone hit the ground on Ryan’s side with a thud. He picked it up and handed it to me with a cocked eyebrow.

I shrugged and laughed. “Hey, you found it.”

His answering smile was warm and indulgent, as if he loved even this messy part of me. As if he could spend the rest of his life with me, between sheets and pages and words, discussing symbols and looking for my phone.

And maybe I could let him.

An unexpected pang of sadness at the memory catches me completely off guard. I rub at my chest as if that could ease the pain there, but my lungs squeeze all the air out of them when I click the screen on and Ryan’s name appears with three messages.

Ryan: Scarlett, it’s 2am.

Ryan: Please tell me you haven’t been working this whole time.

Ryan: This book isn’t that important.

He’s clearly worried, and I should ease his fear about me falling back into my old ways, but the truth of the matter is, minus his physical presence here, this is exactly how it used to be, no matter how hard I’ve tried to tell myself it’s different this time. He knows that because he was here with me then, even if he’s not now.

What bothers me more is how easy it is for him to dismiss the importance of this book. It’s not a comeback for him. It’s not really anything for him except another part of the job he already has—the one he’s had this whole time while I’ve been trying to find any kind of purchase on a cliff that seemed determined to move all the footholds just out of reach. For me, this book is everything. My work, my art, my identity. Who am I if I’m not Scarlett Frye, best-selling author? I’ve spent five years trying to figure that out, only to come to the conclusion that I’m no one and nothing without my words.

And so, here I am again. Back where I started and having to come to terms with the fact that this might be how it always is.

Scarlett: It’s important to me.

The message is too simple, even as it holds volumes of words unsaid.

Ryan: I didn’t mean that. I meant that it’s not more important *than* you.

I should be touched by the sentiment. It should be a revelation and a warning to me, that I’ve gone too hard again and am going to pay the price. But what he doesn’t understand, what he could never understand, is that my work is me. We are one and the same. It might have felt different this time, but that’s a tenuous foothold on the same cliff I’ve been hanging from for five years.

I think of over a million different things I could type back, but ultimately, my growling stomach and good sense win out. I power down the phone and toss it somewhere to be found in the morning. I smear the last of the peanut butter on the last tortilla in my fridge and shove it into my mouth before finally collapsing face down on my bed.

Chapter 11

Ryan

“All I’m saying is that she sent it at two in the morning.” I lean forward in my seat facing Casey’s desk, as if that could make him finally understand the gravity of the statement I’ve repeated twice now. The timing of her email bothered me all weekend, so when Monday rolls around, I didn’t waste any time searching out my friend for advice.

Casey twirls a pen between his pointer and middle finger. “And all I’m saying is that you got it at two in the morning. Just because someone is awake before the crack of dawn does not mean that person has made a habit of being awake at that time.” He drops the pen, and it twirls in a circle on the smooth desktop. Disregarding it, he presses his forearms into the desk and clasps his hands. “I know you’re worried about her, Ry, but…” He trails off and presses his lips together, shaking his head slightly.

“What?”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose. “It’s not really your place anymore, is it?”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. That old ache returns to my chest, and the best I can manage is a shaky inhale before snapping my jaw shut.

His expression softens, but it’s too late. Like toothpaste out of the tube, he can’t take it back. The damage is done.

“Look,” he says, but I stop him with a shake of my head.

“No. You’re right. My job is to edit this book. Nothing more. She made that clear, too, and I should keep my nose out of it.”

“What do you mean she made that clear? What did you do?”

“I…might have stopped by her apartment with my initial notes.” I lean back in my chair and take my glasses off to rub the bridge of my nose. “In my defense, I didn’t really want to take the time to type them up.” Hopefully my hand hides the grimace I make, because even I can hear that’s a feeble excuse.