Page 22 of Without a Clue

“Sorry. Realized a new piece for my ending.”

“Sure,” I say, totally getting it.

I totally don’t get it.

Personally, at least. But I do have two eyes and have watched plenty of times the extreme means by which Hugh works in words.

And Neena.

And all the others.

Inspiration strikes and suddenly they’re gone, usually physically, but at the very least mentally.

No matter how inconvenient.

In the middle of lunches. In the middle of important Zoom calls. In the middle of award shows.

Just . . . in the middle of anything.

They all get this look and—poof—they’re gone.

Which reminds me.

“Have you noticed anything off with Hugh lately?” I say, tucking the towel under my chin to keep out the chill.

“It’s Hugh. How would you define off?”

“Oh, you know, different. He’s been . . .” I hesitate, not sure of what to say. “Strange tonight.”

Nash shakes his head. “Hugh’s always strange in that luring sort of way. It’s why we all follow him. The whole group would follow him off a bridge.”

“Well, I don’t know about a bridge, but I know what you mean. But this was . . . it was different. Tonight he . . .”

And then his absurd promise he had me make comes to mind, and against all better judgment, I shake my head.

But obviously Hugh doesn’t mean Nash.

Then again, it was obvious he couldn’t really be serious about anyone—Gordon, Neena, Jackie, Crystal, or Ricky.

Okay, maybe Ricky.

But not everyone else, surely. Surely. The whole idea was just beyond logical.

“I know Hugh’s been dealing with a block on his next book. It’s been driving him crazy,” Nash says, filling in the gap of silence between us.

I nod, knowing all too well about the “book that will kill me” as Hugh has repeated at least ten times a day the past four months. “Yeah . . . there is that . . .”

Nash shifts in his chair. “The stress is getting to him.”

“Maybe . . . the trip will do him good,” I say, still unsure. “Give him something else to think about for a while.” I drag my knees up on the lounge chair now, abort the stars, and face him fully. I consider my words. “I worry about him.”

And to this, Nash laughs. “The man is seventy-five years old and sharp as a tack. I don’t worry about him. I worry about every other poor soul he’s ever made contact with.”

A.k.a. me.

Him, too, and all the other authors who have endured some crazy things for the sake of “research.”

“Sometimes I wish he wrote romance,” I say.