The Last Person

Mom’s body bounces as she chuckles. “Oh dear. Did this guy you like call you stupid for liking the book you chose?”

“Well, no. But by degrading the book and the writing, it was clearly implied.”

“Or just a difference of opinion,” Dad shrugs, closing the lid to the grill. “I love mushrooms and your mom hates them.”

“Not the same thing.” I frown. “When you love a story, it’s because it resonates in some way with your heart or maybe even your soul.”

“Wow! What’s the title of this book? Maybe I need to read it?”

I smile at my mom. “I have my copy in my bag. You really should read it.”

“But for the love of god … if you don’t like it, keep that shit to yourself.” Dad thinks he’s funny.

He’s not.

Chapter Twelve

Eric

Anna left.

I didn’t chase her.

If we can’t be ninety-nine percent amazing together and let that other one percent (the book) fade into the background, then I’m fighting a losing battle. After all, I can’t turn back time and pretend I loved something I didn’t.

“Hey! What’s up?” I answer my phone, seeing my dad’s picture pop onto the screen.

“Can you thin my slush pile?”

I laugh. “Do I have to?”

“Yes. I already sent five. They’ll arrive later today. I sent them to your store so you can sign for them.”

“And how long do I have?”

“A week.”

I shake my head, standing from my desk as the front door to the store rings with someone opening it. “Just fantastic. About a book a day.”

“You didn’t have other plans anyway. Right?”

“No, Dad. No plans. Gotta go.”

Two hours later the package arrives and I grab dinner on the way home.

As soon as I open the door to the lofts, Anna glances up from the bike rack. There are two other residents in the entry, so I don’t feel any obligation to acknowledge her. She didn’t want to sleep with anyone in the building because things can be awkward.

Well, here I am … smiling at everyone, including her. Same smile. Nothing special. Not making anything awkward as I carry my package and my dinner past her. She tips her chin down and slips off her helmet.

That’s right … you shouldn’t hide your face in shame. You crazy book lady.

Four days ago she kicked and shoved me like a toddler having a tantrum. I didn’t appreciate her making me feel like I was forcing myself on her. I wasn’t.

After I get my dinner set out on my table, I open the package of manuscripts. The slush pile of unsolicited crap—at least ninety-nine out of a hundred are complete garbage. Occasionally, there’s a hidden gem. Dad’s looking for that. He must be feeling indifferent about his current client’s work. My parents have owned a publishing company for twenty years. I’m expected to take over when they retire. In the meantime, they use me for fun stuff like the slush pile. My head already aches and I haven’t even started.

All five manuscripts have tags on them. They’re the ones my mom peeked at—maybe the first three chapters—and didn’t hate it.

I thumb through them, deciding which one will ruin my night the least.

Elenor’s Boyfriend

Hard pass.

Waking Up In His Arms

Hell no.

Journey to The Missing Planet

It’s a possibility. I’d rather go to the missing planet than meet Elenor’s boyfriend or wake up in some guy’s arms.

Sex on Medicare

What the fuck? I remind myself that my mom read at least a few chapters and saw something. She might need to get new glasses.

The Last Person

I chuckle. Great. Another book with that title. Sadly, it’s probably better than Anna’s obsession. My gaze slides an inch lower to the author—B. Ashton.

Fuck. My. Life.

Really. How did Anna pick an indie book that ends up being submitted to my parents’ publishing house? I envision myself recommending this be the one they publish. B. Ashton gets her book in major bookstores and airport gift shops. I take Anna to the locally owned bookstore on the corner and show her the huge display of The Last Person in the window. Then I tell her it was because of me. I made it happen. She takes me back to her place. We fuck like rabbits. The End.

I laugh out loud. Yeah … there’s no way that’s happening. If I run out of toilet paper, I might use pages of the manuscript to wipe my ass, but that’s the most appreciation this book will get from me.

Truth? I didn’t originally hate it. I just didn’t see a wow factor. The writing is good. There’s potential. But after weeks and weeks of it cock blocking me, I detest it.

“Looks like I’m taking a journey to the missing planet,” I push the manuscripts aside and slide my plate in front of me. As I try to enjoy my dinner, the stupid manuscript haunts me.

How does this happen? Millions of books. Millions of manuscripts. And this one lands in my lap.