Page 6 of Hidden With You

I force a chipper smile and a laugh, but this is the uncomfortable part. When you first hit the New York Times list at seventeen, then have five more bestsellers between then and now—which happens to be the ripe old age of twenty-three—some people get really weird. Like they think I’m a total fraud who’s been writing her books in crayon.

Or maybe I’m just touchy.

I shift the conversation to praising the screenwriter who wrote the adaptation. She’s not at the party—instead she’s in Manhattan having quality time with her family—but I describe some of our conversations, and how much care she took to understand the characters, and on and on, until I’m not listening to myself. It’s just a hum of noise, and I’m the one doing the buzzing.

“Is it true you wrote Intercontinental in two months when you were only—” someone begins to ask, but I’m not in the mood to talk about my age, my break-out book, my family, or anything at all, really.

“Sorry,” I interrupt, pressing my fingertips to my temple. “Light-headed. I’ve been going a mile a minute.” I flash a winsome smile, like the little soldier doing her duty. “I should probably track down something to eat and sit for a bit. But I promise this one has all the answers,” I add with a nod to Jamie, who frowns as if I’ve grown two heads. An understandable reaction. We’ve done a few public events, and usually I feed off the crowd’s enthusiasm. Or seem to, anyway. But until today, no one at our joint events has jumped on the age thing.

I start to turn away, and she reaches for my arm. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just didn’t eat today.” A lie. My childhood bestie was in town overnight, and I’d met her for brunch before she hopped a plane back to Ohio. I’d been so excited to see her, but the truth was the brunch had been awkward. Full of long pauses interrupted by inane conversation, like we were meeting each other for the first time or something.

I’d gone home depressed and in no mood to party.

Which probably explains why my Perfect Party Girl manner isn’t actually working out as effusively as I’d expected.

I need food. And alcohol. And a few moments alone to regroup.

“Find me later,” Jamie says, and I nod in agreement, then flash my brightest smile and offer a finger-wiggle wave to the group.

“I’ll be around,” I say, “so if you want to talk thrillers or whatever, just track me down. Ply me with drinks, and I’ll tell you everything.” My voice doesn’t sound as bright and shiny as I’d been going for, but I think I pulled it off, and with one final flash of my cheeriest smile, I turn and slip around the group clustered behind us and talking local politics.

Since that sounds like death masquerading as conversation, I pick up my tempo and slip inside the house right as one of the caterers is coming out of the side door that leads to the breakfast area.

I’ve been to Jamie’s new house twice now, and I pause long enough to skim mentally over the floor plan. Then I slowly grin and hurry deeper into the house to the best place I can think of to be absolutely alone.