The Last Person

Fishing a key from his pocket, he opens the door to his T-shirt shop. I grab the handle before it shuts.

He turns and glares at me. I don’t flinch. He’s done making me feel bad about myself and intimidating me. Reaching past me, he locks the door and takes my coffee to his office.

“If it were more than sex, you would not have made me feel bad about myself.”

He sets the coffee on the desk and looks up at me with a mix between amusement and total disbelief on his face. “I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS YOUR BOOK!”

Wow …okay. I’ve never seen anyone erupt like this.

He blows out a long breath, the expression on his red face softening into regret. “I didn’t know …”

“What would you have done … had you known?” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I … I would have lied. And maybe it wouldn’t have felt like a total lie. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to read it through clear glasses. A blinding desire.”

“I’m done. I’m going to pull the book from retailers and I’m just … done.”

Eric’s forehead wrinkles and he nods slowly.

“That’s it?” I cough on a second of disbelief. “A nod? You’re not going to tell me to not give up? To write another book?”

He eases into his chair and folds his hands over his red T-shirt clad chest. “Successful people have one thing in common. They’re self-motivated. If I have to tell you to not give up, to write another book, to fight for your dreams … you’ll never be a published author. Period.”

I thought my world was crumbling around me when he told me his parents owned Roseland Publishing and he had my manuscript. I had the same feeling when my mom texted me with her lukewarm opinion of my book.

I was wrong.

Right now … I feel like a huge failure because part of me needs outside approval, a pat on the back, and words of encouragement. This is my lowest moment.

Picking up my knocked-out ego, I slide it into my pocket and smile at Eric as I close the distance between us. He sits up straight, spreading his knees wide to accommodate my body to stand between them. My hands press to his cheeks. He leans into my touch. It makes things so much harder, but I do it anyway.

My lips press to his in a slow kiss. His initial hesitation tells me he wasn’t expecting this. Not now. Maybe not ever again. Pulling back, I hold his gaze, seeing the wonder in his eyes. He’s trying to figure out what’s happening. What it means.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Taking back my coffee, I walk out of his store. Out of his life.

Epilogue

Five years later …

Patience.

Nightmares require nothing more than fear and a few extra minutes to let the mind wander into dark places.

Dreams, however … they take so much more—at least the kinds that come true.

I left Eric Steinmann’s T-shirt shop that day and retrieved the coffee-soiled manuscript from the trash next door. The first chapter was a lost cause—nothing but smeared red ink. The rest of the book was salvageable.

God … he spared nothing. I forced myself to read every note. My temper flared and many bottles of wine were consumed as I stumbled through each page, one gut punch after another. Then I moved out of the loft and took a marketing job at another climbing gym in Chicago.

It took me a year to feel ready.

Ready to start writing a new book.

Ready to face my fears of failure.

After I wrote one book, I sent it to a freelance editor and asked her to be hard on me.

She was.

I waited a few months and started another book.

New editor. New round of harsh feedback.

Counting The Last Person, I wrote four books and basically trashed them after editing before I wrote the story that has brought me here today. It took a little over a year with a publisher—a Big Six publisher—to find its way to bookstore displays at major brick and mortar retailers, to find its way onto the New York Times bestseller list.

“I can’t believe it.” My hands shake as I line up a few pens and markers for my first signing of my two-week book tour.

Mira, my agent who showed up to surprise me, rests her hand on my shoulder. “You’ve earned this. Take a few deep breaths and just accept the fact that the first dozen or so books that you sign will look like a toddler’s autograph because you’re so nervous.”

“I can’t help it.” I pump my hands a few times and shake them out. “What if nobody comes?”

She laughs. “Come here.”

I stand, feeling just as shaky in my knees. “What?”

She leads me to the front door of the bookstore that’s just minutes from opening. “See that?”