His features contorted in anger. “That day is today,” he gritted. “I understand why you’re a headcase, but for the love of Christ, get yourself some help.” And then he turned on his heel and walked through my door. I closed it softly behind him, and then I returned to my computer, and to the new world I was constructing, brick by brick by brick.
**********
The first draft of my manuscript was finished twenty-seven days later. In that time, I’d called my workplace and formally given my notice. My boss seemed perplexed and disappointed by my behavior, yet she wasn’t unkind. “I’ve . . . had my own battles, Karys. You’ve always been a diligent and conscientious employee. You get yourself well and if you’re interested in coming back, give me a call.” I thanked her profusely, but my priorities—at least for the time being—had shifted.
Next I’d called Carly and Ayana whose messages had filled my voicemail, ranging from teary words of support, to strict demands that I call them immediately. When I finally did, I reassured them I was okay and asked Ayana if I could come back to the café on a part-time basis, earning enough—in addition to my savings—to keep myself housed and fed as I dove into the second part in my series.
“Of course you can, dollface,” she’d said. “As long as you promise never to scare me like that again.”
I immersed myself back into my fictional world, writing at night and all day when I wasn’t scheduled at the café. I showered. I ate regular meals. I smiled and chatted with customers at my job.
Three months after the day I’d staggered home in the rain, devastated and broken—and likely half insane—I called my former boss at the publishing company, not because I wanted to return as an employee, but because I hoped to be taken on as an author. My boss seemed hesitant, but finally agreed—with absolutely no promises—that she’d take a look at my manuscript. I understood that I’d put her in an awkward position, and I was eternally grateful for her generosity. I was unsure of its merit, or if it was even good timing as far as the market went. But I was confident she’d be honest—for better or worse—and that’s all I could hope for.
I dug into the fourth and final book with the gusto of an artist, not creating art for any specific outcome, but because the project felt like my lifeblood.
I was no longer constantly teary. I was no longer emotionally sick.
What I was, I discovered, when I finally visited the doctor due to what I thought was the stomach flu, was pregnant.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Present day
The Golden Quill Book Awards, New York City
I turned my head, Zakai’s lips sliding away from mine as I stepped back. Away. “No,” I said. “We’ve been here before. It doesn’t work.” I drew my shoulders back, gathering my strength.
He let out a slow, controlled breath, glancing away momentarily. “No,” he said after a moment. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Karys. I didn’t come here to hurt you.” He chuckled softly but it ended in a grimace. “Truthfully, I didn’t come here to kiss you either. It seems we always end up . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence but I knew what he meant all the same. We always end up in each other’s arms.
Not this time. “It’s been three years, Zakai. Whatever you came for—”
“I meant what I said. I only came because I’m proud. I wanted to see you win tonight.”
“Oh.” My forehead furrowed in confusion and I reached behind me, laying my hands on the low wall. “Well I likely won’t win. The competition is very steep.”
“You’ll win,” he said with surety. He ran his thumb over his bottom lip, glancing away. “I’ve read all your books.”
I tilted my head. I hadn’t expected that and the knowledge set me on edge, or rather, closer to the edge I was already situated upon. Teetering uneasily. At risk of falling over. And I knew from experience how far the fall would be. At the knowledge that he’d read my words, something akin to insecurity made my skin feel hot. I brought my hand to my diaphragm, pressing, as though I could infuse myself with the air I suddenly seemed to be missing.
Zakai’s lips tipped in a soft smile. “Fantasy books set in a magical desert,” he mused. “Ahmad the giant, kind and wise. Dinati, the snow queen, with eyes that see past tomorrow’s sunrise. Bertha with the golden heart . . .”
I looked away. “I suppose you think it’s silly—”
“No. God, no. I think it’s amazing. You found a way to make it beautiful. Sundara. But then, you always could.” He watched me for a moment, and for some strange reason, I got the sense that he was seeing me with new and different eyes. Maybe he could tell I’d finally grown up. Without him. Despite him. “I couldn’t see it then,” he said. “I only cared that you did. But I saw the beauty when I read your books. You made me see it with your words.”