Page 64 of The Write Place

“What?” I exclaim, looking toward the entrance of the auditorium, and that’s when I see the posters hanging everywhere out front. A Night with Daniel Evans. My eyes are wide when I look back at Jenny.

She starts talking faster than normal. “His reading started an hour and a half ago, but he’s doing a signing afterward, so he’s probably still here. I told myself I was going to let you work this out and come to the conclusion that you belong together on your own, but you’re taking too long. There’s no doubting it after reading this draft, Mac. The man is hopelessly in love with you, and I’m pretty sure I know you well enough to know that you feel the same about him.”

She gently presses the printed draft into my hands.

“You can tell me I’m wrong and we’ll turn around and leave right now, but I’m not wrong, and I really think you should go in there and get your man back.”

My heart is racing, but I don’t even have to think about it before I say, “Yes. Okay, let’s do this.”

Jenny squeals and jumps out of the car. I leave a little more slowly, not trusting my shaky legs to support me. Jenny practically pulls me up the entrance steps. On our way, I hear a voice call my name. I turn around to see Patricia coming toward me. She pulls me into a hug right there on the steps.

“I hoped I might see you here.” She squeezes me tight. I’m not sure how to explain my presence or my tardiness, and she must see that I’m struggling, because she says, “Daniel told me what happened. I’m glad you’re here. He was completely broken up about the whole thing.”

“I was a bit of a mess, myself,” I admit, but she waves this away like it’s nothing.

“He should have done a lot of things differently, and I was happy to tell him so when I helped him move into his new place last week.”

“His new place?” I ask. Jenny is bouncing between her two feet, urging me with her eyes to hurry up.

“He’s subletting a place in Chicago.” She raises her eyebrows. “He didn’t tell you?”

“We haven’t spoken since he left for New York.” It sounds so childish coming out of my mouth that I wince.

“Ah,” she says understandingly. “Well, I think maybe I should let him tell you the rest. If you’re going in to see him, you’d better hurry. I was near the end of the line.”

Jenny grabs my wrist and practically pulls me toward the door. I thank Patricia over my shoulder, and she smiles widely and waves me on.

When we enter the auditorium, we see a table set up toward the other end of the lobby. College students are milling around, and there are two more people in line in front of Daniel. My heart practically stops at the sight of him, and I linger by the doorway. His shoulders are slumped as if this has all been exhausting, and I can’t help but remember when I saw him signing books at Tony’s that first week, his head sagging a little between his shoulders. Jenny gives me a shove.

“Just give me a minute,” I whisper, and she backs away. I take a deep breath, clutch the draft to my chest, and walk slowly enough to the table that the last person has cleared away by the time I approach. His fingers are threaded into his hair, and he’s clutching at it as if it is a lifeline. His eyes are squeezed shut and his face is pale. I can tell he hasn’t been sleeping well.

I drop the stack of papers on the table in front of him, and he opens his eyes at the sound. When he sees the draft, his eyes go wide and his body goes completely still, but he doesn’t look up at me.

“Oh, I’m sorry, miss. Mr. Evans is not taking any submissions to his publisher,” a very young man to Daniel’s left says, but Daniel holds up a hand to quiet him, his eyes fixed on the draft in front of him.

It’s clear that he’s not going to say anything, so I start. “I was wrong.”

“About what, specifically?” His voice is hoarse, and he hasn’t removed his gaze from the papers.

“About a lot of things, incidentally.” I trail off, wondering where to begin and hoping he’ll jump in, or at least look at me. When he doesn’t do either, I decide to start small. “I believe I once said you couldn’t top Bones, and I was wrong. This… this is a masterpiece. This has more heart than anything you’ve ever written.”

At that, he slowly looks up at me, his gray-blue eyes full of emotion, his wavy hair tousled as if he has been running his hands through it all evening. “That’s because you’re on every page.” He says it softly, and my chest aches.

“I had ended things with her before I left New York,” he continues, diving into the middle of it.

“I know.”

“I didn’t go back.”

“I know.”

“I made them find me a new editor.”

“I… well, I didn’t know that, but I think that’s good.”

He pauses before taking a breath. “You didn’t call. You didn’t message. I thought…”

“I know. I was wrong about that, too. Deep down, I thought that you were right, that there’s no such thing as a truly happy ending. Everyone leaves or… dies.” I’m surprised I get the word out, even if my voice cracks on it. “So, what’s the point of any of it, anyway? But then I was reminded that happiness isn’t always about the ending.”