Halfway to You(75)

“I’m sorry, I hate telling you this.”

“But why?”

“You want me to tell you what’s wrong with the book?”

“Yes, I want to know.”

His chair creaked as he presumably leaned back from his desk. “How about I send you notes?”

“It’s really that bad?” I asked, stubbing out my cigarette. An all-body shiver shook my shoulders, and I closed the window. “So bad you won’t tell me your thoughts over the phone?”

“It lacks structure, Ann. And tension. And a story. It’s cloying and slow.” A pause. “It doesn’t have the energy that Chasing Shadows did. I can tell your heart isn’t in it.”

He had a point.

My heart wasn’t in it—not like the first book, which was practically an emotional tidal wave of urgency. I had to write Chasing Shadows; it was a survival tactic. The new book had been the opposite of urgent: forced, stagnant. The truth was, I wasn’t sure I could re-create the magic of Chasing Shadows. Worse: I wasn’t sure I wanted to—that period of my life had been heartrending, and I didn’t want to go there again, not even to write another bestseller.

What if my talent was rooted in strife? Writing had been a coping mechanism for so long—I was horrified to think that my art could be beautiful only when life was ugly.

(Maggie, don’t ever buy into the myth that art must come from pain—the sad-artist trope is a dangerous one, and simply untrue. Unfortunately, at the time, I believed it.) “Do you have other ideas?” Keith asked.

I knew what he wanted. I’d never confronted Todd about Penny, and he wanted me to dig into my current confusion and frustration. A novel could again be my way of processing pent-up emotions.

But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. “I’ll send more ideas,” I told Keith, “but I can’t write my woes like I did before.”

“It could be therapeutic—”

“No.” I’d seen Todd’s horror when the tabloid included him in my aura of gossip. I couldn’t use our relationship as inspiration for another book—one emotionally autobiographical rumor mill was enough. “Anything I write, from now on, has to be a separate thing. I can’t stand the spotlight. I won’t do that to myself, and I won’t do that to Todd.”

“I’m just trying to be helpful and jump-start your creativity a bit. But of course, you’re right.” He sounded tired, stressed.

My throat constricted, and my ears grew hot. “I’m sorry I’m failing you.”

“Oh, Ann—sweetheart, no. You could never fail me. It’s hard to be both your agent and your friend. I’m being a bad friend by suggesting these things.”

“No, I understand.” I rose out of my chair. “I’ll send you a whole host of ideas, and we can talk more, okay?”

“Yes, perfect.”

“Great.”

A week later, I was in the midst of a fitful, late-night bout of writing when my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“God, I missed your voice,” Todd said.

The bookstore’s winter programming had been hectic since the new year, and we hadn’t talked much, having been unable to align given the time difference. The ache of missing him—bone deep, like growing pains—had returned. I found the ache comforting somehow, like we were back to normal.

I pushed away from my desk and lay on the bed. “I missed yours,” I replied. “It’s nice to hear from you.”

“Keith told me about the pages.”

“Of course he did.”

“He also told me that you refused to write about . . . personal stuff.” A pause. “I wanted to thank you,” he said. “I know it’s bad for your career, but . . .”

“It’s nothing,” I said. “How are you?”

“Actually, I’ve been wondering . . .” He trailed off and started again. “The thing is . . .”

While he struggled with his words, I tried to measure the hesitation in his voice. Our romantic relationship had been built by phone calls, and I had grown accustomed to deciphering his lilts and pauses. That evening, I heard the pliable, weighted tone he used when he disagreed with me or was about to say something he knew would sting.

I sat up and held my breath.

“Flights are getting expensive,” Todd finally said. “I don’t think I can come to Italy anytime soon.”

Disappointment was an anchor; I sank. “Oh. I could visit you?”

He blew out a breath. “Sure, yeah, but . . . do the visits feel like enough?”

“What are you saying, Todd?” It was late, I was tired, and I’d been struggling with words for hours—I wanted him to simply say it, whatever it was. I knew from his tone I wouldn’t like it, but the waiting was unbearable.

“Is long distance as hard for you as it is for me?”

Was this that old familiar argument, or was this the end of us?

Short on air, I repeated myself in a whisper: “What are you saying?”

“Do you love me?” he asked.

“Of course I love you.” My voice became reedy. “Todd, honey, please just say whatever it is you need to say.”

“It’s just . . . I’m wondering if you’re set on Rome.”