Page 112 of Bad Words

“Brought you a present,” he said, pushing the hardback of High and Dry across the table.

“I do already have an advance copy.”

“What, you’re not overjoyed to get a finished version of your favorite book of the year?”

I flipped the book open to the title page. “You didn’t sign it to me.”

“Yeah, I thought maybe you’d want to give it to someone as a gift. Or as punishment.”

I knew he was joking, but the words saddened me for some reason. “There are people who will love this book,” I said. “Lots of people.”

Puzzlement flickered in his eyes.

“I just want to be clear that I don’t think my opinion is the only one that matters.”

“I know you don’t,” he said.

My pulse quickened. I closed the book and slid it to my right.

“And I don’t need to see the questions,” he added. “I trust you.”

My gaze strayed up onto his. His eyelids contracted slightly, as though I’d shone a penlight into his face. The moonlike lamp hanging above my table made him glow, like his skin was burnished, and his hair shadowed his left eye, and I didn’t know when it had become this bad, I didn’t know when I’d started wanting him so much.

But he had somebody, a nice girl, a good person, and I reminded myself that I was lucky even to have him in this limited way, to have reached a point where we could eat dinner and trust each other.

After dinner, we moved to the window. I’d positioned a two-seat table there beneath the cool, leaky glass. When we sat, he angled his legs outward so they wouldn’t touch mine. I set my phone on the table between us. “Ready?” I asked.

“Ready.”

“The written introduction will have a description of High and Dry, so we can go right into discussion.”

“Great.”

“Before we start…” I looked out the window, down at the street, where the grocery store awning was retracting. “When we were at dinner with Juliette, you said you never expressed what you’d like to in interviews. So, I wanted to say, there’s no rush to answer these questions. You can take your time. I’m not”—I tugged at the sleeve of my dress—“I’m not going anywhere.”

Parker was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Thank you, Selina,” his voice a little rough, and I felt the words like the brush of his fingers against mine on New Year’s Eve, slow and deliberate, and I hoped the tension in my body wasn’t visible on my face.

I collected myself and pressed Record. “Thanks for agreeing to this interview, Parker.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“It’s always a pleasure to talk about a book I loved, but when a book and I disagree, I usually find myself with a longer list of questions.”

“Right,” he said. “And what are the chances that I give such insightful answers to your questions that your entire outlook on the book transforms?”

“Low.”

“So, you’re saying there’s a chance.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Nothing’s impossible. My first question is this: What transformations did High and Dry undergo during your editing process? I think it’s easy for a reader to look at a novel and say that it needed editing, because the reader can imagine the book transforming in whatever way is convenient for them. So, I’m curious what did change here, from first draft to final manuscript.”

“Well,” Parker began. Then he stopped. Swallowed. He took a sip of water and gave me a look that was half question, half apology.

“It’s fine,” I said quietly. “Take your time.”

He nodded, and his sight line moved up over my head, fixing to a spot on the ceiling as he thought.

“So, the project expanded by seventy, eighty pages,” he said eventually. “My first iteration of the book had a more grounded approach to the passengers on the bus. The riders were trying to find lost family members, or they were flood victims with all their worldly possessions on their backs, that sort of thing. Some of that is still in the book, but as I worked through my early draft, I realized I wanted to go weirder and wilder. The more absurd the passengers become, the more absurd it is that Dave continues to drive as if nothing’s changed, as if he’s not changing through exposure to his warping reality.”