Page 78 of Without a Clue

Nash shook his head. “Writing as a career is inherently competitive. I don’t blame them for pushing for the top to keep themselves from sinking to the bottom. I just can’t live that way. I figured, if it wasn’t meant to be for me, and sales dropped and I got cut loose, I’d go another way. There’s more than one way to make a living.”

My brows rise. “Whereas to everyone else, it’s write or die.” I swallow, then take a sip of water. “Writing is their everything. Not yours, though?”

“It’s work, like any other work. There are benefits to it, and things you wish you could avoid.”

“And the benefits?”

“I make my hours. I work for myself. I can write anywhere.”

“And the cons?”

“Being noticed.”

I laugh. “Being noticed, if you’ll recall, is what got us at this table right now.”

Nash grins. “Anonymity, I’ve found, is worth a fifteen-minute wait.”

“Fine. If it wasn’t for the money and it wasn’t for the fame, why did you join the group? What was so tempting about the group that you just couldn’t resist?”

For a long moment, there’s silence between us.

Just Nash looking at me.

And me back.

“You.”

The thought is so outrageous, so absurd and impossible to take to heart, that I lean back in my chair and laugh. “Me.”

But Nash leans forward, the flannel of his shirt rubbing against the table between us, a little dimple peeking out from the corner of his lips. “Yes,” he says with all the sincerity in the world. “You.”

“Stop teasing.”

“I would never.”

“C’mon.”

“I am.”

Oh my gosh—he is serious.

Nash is serious.

I feel a little bump as somebody grazes the back of my chair in passing and hops onstage.

I look around. More people are gathering in by the moment.

The man onstage is wearing sneakers but also coattails, jeans but also that telltale peacock bow tie. He’s younger—mid-twenties or so—but as he slides onto the piano bench, I notice the classic swirl to his hair and swagger to his style that speak of a golden era long ago.

People begin to clap, the noise like thunder in my ears.

My chest tightens another notch.

Focus, Pip. This is not the time.

I force myself to stay calm. Tuck my hands under my legs on my seat.

The feeling of being even more constricted makes me panic a little more and I quickly untuck them.