Halfway to You(63)

“Is Todd’s privacy at risk?” I asked, knowing he’d feel violated just by the speculation.

“Probably not.” Keith sipped his coffee. “But we need to sell another project.”

“What does a new novel have to do with tabloids?”

“If people don’t get another Ann Fawkes story, they’ll write their own.”

“That seems a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out another rag, dated back to January 1991. He flipped to a dog-eared page and swiveled the headline in my direction.

It was about my mother.

It said that she died of cancer. That I had refused to pay her medical bills, and I hadn’t even gone to her funeral. All true, but without context, cruel. Each word sizzled on my heart like a brand.

“I didn’t show you this one because I knew you were grieving.”

“It’s not true,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“My aunt. Or one of my mother’s broke friends . . .” They had probably sold the story after I wrote my mother’s obit. It’d garnered national attention because of my name, her name. Fawkes.

The waitress interrupted to take our orders. Neither of us had looked at the menu, so we both ordered cheese omelets.

Keith laid a hand on my arm. “There are more of these. I know they seem objectively harmless, but do you really want this”—Keith tapped the tabloid again—“to be your legacy?”

I released a long, slow breath. “What do other authors do?”

“Other authors haven’t written a bestselling NYT Notable Book with a cult following.”

“I can write more articles, short fiction.”

“That’s not going to cut it anymore.”

“I can’t write another novel—I can’t do it.” A sob escaped my lips, and I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle any more noise. I didn’t want to make a scene. “Chasing Shadows is all I had in me.”

“Ann, you’re a brilliant writer—”

“Do you know how vulnerable, how violated I felt on my book tour? Chasing Shadows might’ve been fiction, but it was personal, and my readers could tell. That’s what made the book good. But I can’t do that to myself again. It’ll destroy me.” It was the truth I’d been avoiding with Keith for months.

Todd came through the door, then, his hair pleasantly tousled and his face textured with dark stubble. “I got hungry, so I decided to crash your meeting—” Todd cut himself off when he saw my panic. “Is everything okay?”

I could barely look at him; instead, I fixated on the act of unfolding and refolding a paper napkin and wiping my face. Keith handed him the tabloid, and Todd sank into the seat beside me, reading. I dared a glance. His full mouth had pressed until his lips went thin and pale; his brows pinched low over the bridge of his nose. His eyes darted quickly over the words. I saw how violated Todd felt—it was plain as a headline on his face.

And it was my fault.

“Why do they give a damn who I am?” Todd asked, looking between us.

My fingers shook as I crumpled my napkin.

Keith frowned. “It’ll probably blow over.”

Though the article hadn’t mentioned his name, this was the second time Todd’s identity and relationship to me had garnered speculation. After learning of his public pain after the tragedy . . . I could see how this attention would feel too close for comfort.

I raised my eyes to Keith’s. “I’ll get you ten thousand words and a synopsis as soon as I can.”

“By December.”

“December it is.” I grasped Todd’s hand under the table. If a new book would shelter us a little—divert focus from my personal life before my movie thrust me back into an unwanted spotlight—then it was worth the effort.

“You’re a pro,” Keith said. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”





ANN


Rome, Italy

April 1993

At the airport, Keith and Todd wished me a safe flight and told me they loved me. But when Keith stepped back to give me and Todd a moment of privacy, Todd’s kiss wasn’t the firm, indulgent press it usually was. His movements were quick, barely a peck.

He was still annoyed by the tabloid, but I think the goodbye itself was what bothered him. He wanted to be getting on a plane together. He wanted to be heading home together.

And I wanted that too. Just not to Colorado—not the one place where I’d see my mother around every corner.

“Think about Christmas, all right?” I asked, curling my fingers through his hair one last time.

He glanced back at Keith, who was standing by the doors with his hands in his pockets. “Listen, Ann, there’s something I didn’t mention before, about my family—”

“Shh.” I didn’t want to open another difficult conversation; I just wanted to savor him before I got on the plane. “I love you.”

He studied me, blinked, then said, “I love you too.”

Mine was a long journey home, filled with delays and layovers. By the end of it, my skin and hair were oily, throat dry and scratchy. I dumped my bags on the floor of my unlit apartment, then slipped off my shoes and filled a glass of water in the kitchen, downing it in three big gulps that did little to soothe. I kept the lights off, afraid that if I illuminated the dark space, I’d see its emptiness more plainly.