I jump in my seat as Charlie slides into the chair beside me. “Not much. ‘Dave’ simply filed a motion to rename every Peter in town to something less pornographic.”
“Did anyone cry yet?” Charlie asks.
“People cry?” I whisper.
He drops his mouth beside my ear. “Next time try not to look so excited at the thought of misery. It’ll help you blend in better.”
“Considering we’re in the hecklers-only section of the crowd, I’m not all that worried about blending in,” I whisper back. “What are you doing here?”
“My civic duty.”
I fix him with a look.
“There’s a vote my mom’s excited about. I’m nothing but a hand in the air. I’m glad I came now though—I finished the new pages. I’ve got notes.”
I spin toward him, the end of my nose nearly brushing his in the dark. “Already?”
“I think we should try starting the book at Nadine’s accident,” he whispers.
I laugh. Several people in the row in front of us glare at me. Libby smacks me in the boob, and I smile apologetically. When our audience returns to watching the new argument at the front of the room, between a man and woman whose combined age must top two hundred, I face Charlie again, who smirks. “Guess you needed help blending in after all.”
“The accident’s fifty pages in,” I hiss back. “We lose all context.”
“I don’t think we do.” He shakes his head. “I’d like to at least suggest it to Dusty and see what she thinks.”
I shake my head. “She’ll think you hate the first fifty pages of the one hundred she’s sent you.”
“You know how badly I wanted this book,” he says, “just based on those first ten. I simply want it to be its best version, same as you. And Dusty. By the way, what did you think about the cat?”
I worry at my lip and get a shot of pure, undiluted satisfaction at the way he watches the action. I let the pause go longer than is strictly natural. “I’m worried it feels too similar to the dog in Once.”
Charlie blinks. I see the moment he finds his place in the conversation again. “My thoughts exactly.”
“We’d have to see where she plans to take it,” I say.
“We just mention the similarity and let her make the call,” he agrees.
The redhead pounds her gavel, but the old man and woman at the front keep shouting at each other for twenty more seconds. When she finally gets them to stop, they—no joke—nod, take each other’s hands, and head back to their seats together. “This is like something out of Macbeth,” I marvel.
“You should see how holiday event planning goes,” he says. “It’s a bloodbath. Best day of the year.”
I smother a laugh with the back of my hand. His face twitches, and my heart flutters at the extraordinarily pleased look on his face. In my mind I hear him saying, You’re way more fun this way.
I turn away before the look can sink any deeper into my bloodstream.
“What did you make of Nadine’s motivations?” he whispers, managing to make the words sound innately sexual. Four different points on my body start tingling.
Focus. “For which part?”
“Running across the street before the sign changed to WALK,” he clarifies, the decision that lands Nadine in the hospital, when a bus clips her.
That’s right: my proxy nearly dies fifty pages into the book. Or on page one, if Charlie has his way.
“I wonder if having her be in a legitimate rush undermines Dusty’s argument,” I whisper. “We’re supposed to think this woman is a cold, selfish shark. Maybe she should be rushing for rushing’s sake, because that’s what she does.”
I swear Charlie’s eyes flash in the dark. “You would’ve made a good editor, Stephens.”
“And by that,” I say, “you mean you agree with me.”
“I think we need to see Nadine exactly as the world sees her, before the curtain gets pulled back.”
I study him. He’s got a point. It’s always a strange thing, working with only a chunk of a book, not knowing for certain what comes next—especially for someone who doesn’t even like reading that way—but I know Dusty’s writing like my own heartbeat, and I have a sense Charlie’s right on this one.
“So,” he whispers, “you’ll tell her about the first fifty?”
“I’ll ask her,” I parry. Even when we’re agreeing with each other, our conversations feel less like we’re taking turns carrying the torch and more like we’re playing table tennis while said table is on fire.