What You Wish For Pt. 03

"What? Arranged for the hotel room and the meals?"

She only glared in response.

"I didn't do it just for you," I said. "I did it so we could get this done faster, too."

"Yeah," she said, still tense and pissed. "Whatever."

"I just don't see why it's such a– "

"Because," she fumed. "Because they don't want hired gun editors making too many demands, Mr. Collins. Because if we do, they just go to someone else. Okay, Mr. Collins? So you got your way, but I may get fewer jobs because of it. So there. You fucking happy now?"

I could only stare back, embarrassed I'd tried to do something nice for her and maybe only screwed up her livelihood.

Then I reached for my phone and dialed.

"Still going well?" Natalie rasped.

"Great," I said. "She's incredible."

Natalie gave a wheezing cackle at that. "Yeah. Right."

"No, really," I said. "We're really moving along."

"That's great, kiddo."

"That call yesterday," I said. "Is she gonna get in trouble over it or anything?"

"Publishers may bitch," she said. "Depends on who gets the book, really."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't really think you cared," she said, surprised at the sudden anger in my voice.

"Then don't do it," I said. "I'll take care of it myself, okay?"

"Tyler," Natalie said, "I'll square it. Okay? Really."

"We're not taking that chance," I said, looking at Marisa as I spoke. Her features were still impassive bordering on pissed with a new touch of too little, too late.

"You really like her, don't you?" Natalie said, amazed.

"She's fucking brilliant," I said. "And I want to make damned sure she'll work with me when the next one's ready."

"Okay," Natalie said. "Consider it done. Hell, we'll split it if that's okay."

"No," I said. "I'll take care of it all myself."

"If that's what you want," she said, her voice getting soft like she was amazed.

"And this whole mess," I said. "It stays between us, okay? And you don't hold it against her in the future, right?"

"I wouldn't have done that," she protested. But her protests may have been a bit too energetic.

"I mean it," I said. "If she's not getting work because I was a dumbass, I'll hear about it. And if she won't do my next book when it's ready, I'll know why. Okay?"

"Settle down, Tyler," Natalie said. "I said it's forgotten, so it's forgotten."

"Okay," I softened. "Thanks. And sorry for sticking my nose in."

"Don't worry about it, kiddo," she wheezed before hanging up.

I turned and looked at Marisa. "Okay?"

It was little more than a twitch, but her nod was perceptible.

"And I'm sorry," I said. "I won't stick my nose in anymore."

She scrunched her lips together and to one side, then nodded again.

"So now that I'm the one paying," I said, "can I buy you dinner before you go back to your room for the night?"

"Just a burger, though," she said. "Not as expensive as last night."

"I've got the money to buy you better dinner than a– "

"Just a burger," she repeated.

I stared at her for a moment, watching her eyes flare up again.

"The Hitching Rail it is," I said, pushing back from the table.

CHAPTER NINE

We took separate cars to the restaurant, and I arrived there first. I was no sooner in the door than I was accosted in a tight hug and a deep kiss.

"Hey you," Allie said, coming up for air.

"Hey, babe," I said, kissing her cheek before hugging her to me again.

She was good to hug, and I seemed to need the hug for some reason. Probably because I'd just spent ten hours with Marisa glaring, snorting, and all around treating me like shit.

"You eat yet?" she whispered into my ear.

I shook my head and broke the hug.

"Actually, I'm meeting someone here," I said. "Kind of a working dinner."

"Oh," she said, almost pouting.

"But you can join us," I offered.

"Is he here already?"

I saw Marisa getting out of her car and walking across the parking lot to the entrance.

"She," I said, nodding my head out the window.

"You're kidding, right?" Allie said, trying to hide the look of horror as she watched the tall, skinny Goth chick stride through the door.

"Be nice," I whispered, then turned to Marisa as she entered. "Marisa, meet Allisyn. My . . . uh . . . well, my girlfriend."

Marisa nodded, looked at Allisyn, then stuck her hand out. "Allisyn."

Allisyn tried to smile as she returned the handshake, but her eyes were locked on Marisa's black make-up and spiked hair.

"It is okay if she joins us for dinner?" I said to Marisa.

"Your ticket," Marisa shrugged. "Invite whoever you want."

Within minutes, we were seated and our orders placed.

"So you wanna work on this or what?" Marisa said to my right.

"Work on what?" Allie said to my left.

"His book," Marisa answered, shooting a quick glance at me.

"Book?"

"I've written a book," I explained.

"Really," Allie said, like she didn't believe us. "A book. And you're . . . what . . . his agent?"

"Editor," Marisa mumbled, staring down at her Diet Coke.

"A book?" Allie said again, her face a mixture of disbelief and excitement. "You're not shitting me? You've written something, and she's editing it for you?"

"Go ahead and show her," I said to Marisa.

Marisa pulled the tattered manuscript from her bag and laid it with a thump in front of Allie.

"Holy shit," Allie said, running her fingers over the title before flipping through the manuscript. "It's huge."

She looked at me.

"I was gonna tell you once we got a publisher for it," I said. "Not like it's a secret or anything."

I looked directly at Marisa as I spoke the last.

"So how do you get a publisher?" Allie said, her eyes glued to the manuscript as she flipped through it.

So the next hour was spent discussing when and why I started writing a book, what the book was about, and all the shit involved in getting it published. I tried to get Marisa more involved with the conversation, but she seemed content to eat her burger and fries, along with a basket of cookies for dessert only one of which she shared with me and Allie. Occasionally, she offered a point of clarification on the publishing process, but that was about it.

Then Allie just confronted her point blank, and Marisa had no alternative but to answer.

"How many books have you edited so far?" she asked Marisa.

"Nineteen."

"Any I've heard of?"

Marisa named three or four that had snuck into the bestseller lists.

"And this one? How does it rate against those," Allie said.

Marisa only shrugged.

"Come on," Allie prodded. "You've seen the ones that are good, the ones that aren't so good, right?"

"They were all pretty good," Marisa said, avoiding my bemused stare as she spoke.

"So how's this one?"

She only chewed her lip in response, her shoulders and arms tense as she gripped the Diet Coke in front of her.

"You won't hurt his feelings," Allie said. "Right Tyler?"

"Not a bit," I agreed.

"So how is it? How does it compare?"

Marisa wouldn't budge, though.

Allie shot me a look. What's going on here? the look said. I shrugged.

Allie turned back to Marisa, leaning over the table and lowering her voice.

"Is it that bad?"

Marisa's head shot up like she'd been slapped.

"You're kidding me, right? That bad?"

"So it's good?" Allie prompted.

"It's the best thing I've ever worked on," Marisa said, then shot me an embarrassed look.

"So you think it's– "

"I can't tell you if it's going to sell," she said, looking back at the table. "But I can tell you that if the goddamned public knows shit from shinola, it's going to be huge."

Allie's mouth was open. "That good?"

"Better," Marisa said.

"So it's better than just capable?" I said, smiling at her initial description of Long Gone.

She looked at me, then looked back at the table.

"Jesus, Tyler," Allie said, watching Marisa's reaction.

"Sorry," I said. "Why don't we all go get a beer?"

"Sure," Allie said, standing.

Marisa looked from me to Allie, then back again.

"I'm just gonna get back and turn in for the night if that's okay."

Allie tried to talk her into staying, but it was a no go. So Marisa left, while Allie and I moseyed to the bar for a drink.

Halfway through our first beer, Allie started grinning.

"What?" I said.

"This beer," she said, making a face.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Doesn't taste right."

"Let me get you a different one," I said, motioning to the bartender.

"It's not that," she said, leaning in close. "I'm just trying to think of something that would taste maybe a little bit better."

I got the picture.

We rushed back to her house, and I soon discovered that she was right.

She tasted way better than Amstel Light.

* * * * *

"She's . . . strange," Allisyn said while we snuggled in post coital bliss.

"How so?"

Allie snorted. "Like you didn't notice."

"You mean the make-up?" I offered. "The black clothes and all that?"

"For starters," she said, rolling over and facing me. "But she's . . . well . . . she seems angry."

"At me?"

"More like at the whole world."

I only stared in response, my mind wandering over the few days I'd known Marisa and the hours we'd spent going over the book.

"Not like psycho killer pissed at the world," Allie explained. "More like 'life sucks and everyone's an asshole' pissed. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I said, starting to nod. "I suppose you could see it that way. Still. . . ."

"What?" Allie prompted when I didn't finish my last sentence.

I shrugged. "Just don't really know her, I guess. Could be anger. Could be just shy, too, or having a bad day. I mean, c'mon, you only met her for an hour over dinner."

Allie peered into my eyes, contemplating my words. Then she smiled, which turned into a grin.

"That's why I love you," she said. "You're so sweet. You just can't really say a bad thing about anyone, can you?"

"Love me?" I said, tensing at the mere mention of the word.

Her smile only got broader.

"You know what I mean," she said, slithering her head under the covers and showing me exactly what she meant.

* * * * *

The next five days were spent with Marisa. Ten to twelve hours a day of editing, tightening, changing a word here and cutting some there.

On the fourth morning, I noticed something I hadn't noticed the previous two days. Marisa was showing up with additional notes and changes for the things we'd already gone over.

"When are you doing this?" I asked.

"What?" she snapped, agitated for the millionth time at my time wasting questions.

"Going back over the stuff we already covered? The changes we've already made?"

"At night. After dinner. What's the difference? It needs to be done."

Jesus, I thought. She's going back and putting in another four or five hours while I'm out in the shop working on dwindling Dad's backlog and doing his bookkeeping.

"Just didn't really notice before," I said. "That you were doing it."

She rolled her eyes, then stared at me impatiently.

"Okay. Good. Now you know. Can we get back to work here?"

And that's when I realized she wasn't really all that pissed off with the world. Allie had it wrong. Marisa was angry a lot. Definitely. But it was an anger born of suffering fools. She was focused, and she got impatient when her focus was derailed.

I smiled at the realization and decided then and there to test my hypothesis.

"So you date anyone?"

"None of your business," she said, not bothering to look up from the laptop as she typed some changes.

"Ever been married?"

"Not answering," she said, turning to the manuscript and pointing at a passage we'd just gone over. "You sure on this one?"

"Yeah," I said. "What about kids? You have any kids?"

There it was, the straw that broke the camel's back.

"What the hell," she said. "I mean, who cares, Tyler. My personal life is none of your concern. This books is your concern, got it? And the sooner you quit worrying about my social life and start worrying about turning this piece of shit into a readable story, the better we'll both be."

"You said it was already really good," I shot back, enjoying the argument I'd started.

"For an unpolished piece of crap," she said, standing. "But it needs work. And we don't have much time to get it done."

"Then where you goin'?" I said, standing with her.

"Outside for a cigarette," she said, stalking toward the kitchen door. "Alone."

I smiled as I watched her flick open her Zippo and light up the smoke, puffing furiously to rid herself of the tension I'd created.

As she was finishing, Dad pulled into the driveway.

I watched him get out of the truck and look at the stranger smoking on his back porch. The look of horror on his face was priceless. I'd told him about the editor, but I hadn't described her to him. And he'd been gone to the rehab clinic for fifteen hours a day for most of the previous two weeks, so he'd never seen her.

The look on his face as he walked toward her, then past her with mumbled greetings met by a curt nod of Marisa's head, had me chuckling as he opened the door and entered the kitchen.

"Is that . . .?" he sputtered.

"Yep," I beamed. "What d'ya think of her?"

He turned his head and looked, then turned back to me.

"You're kidding me, right? She's gonna help you get this book thing taken care of?"

"She's the one."

"She any good?"

The look on his face told me he wouldn't believe any affirmations of her competence, but I was feeling particularly puckish that morning.

"Actually, Dad, she's an absolute genius."

"She's from Chicago, ain't she?"

That seemed obvious. Goth chicks were unheard of in Grant City, even amongst the student body of our local liberal arts and sciences college.

I only smiled and nodded.

"Jesus," he said, shaking his head as he walked past me and toward the stairs to change into work clothes. I could hear his muttering as he climbed the stairs.

Marisa returned from her smoke break a few minutes later, and we got back at it without more questions.

When Dad went to the shop, he went out the front door, avoiding us entirely.

CHAPTER TEN

It was day eleven, and Marisa and I were twenty-three pages from done when my cell phone rang in the late morning.

"Natalie?" I said.

"We've finally got a winning bid," she said, her enthusiasm nearly jumping through the phone at me.

I froze, afraid to ask.

"Well?" she prodded. "Aren't you gonna ask who? How much?"

"How many books is the deal?" I said, starting slowly.

"Three," she said, "with an option for two more."

"So I have to write five Lieutenant Randolph books?"

"Nah. Just three. If you can still come up with it, then two more and they get first dibs on 'em."

"Terms?"

"Your royalty is fifteen percent, which is pretty good. Not the best, but definitely above average for a first timer. Long Gone will have a first printing of two hundred fifty thousand. Your advance is a third of the royalties from the first run, the balance of your royalties payable quarterly."

"And what're they charging up front?"

"Seventeen bucks a book."

I tried to do the math in my head, but failed.

"A little over two hundred grand when you sign the contract," she said. "The balance paid as the sales surpass the first one third of the initial run. Got it so far?"

I nodded. Two hundred grand. Up front, for the love of God!

"Okay," she continued. "Then here's the best part. Your rate goes all the way up to eighteen for any copies–hardcover or paperback–over a half million. That's really good, by the way. Won't be as much money on the trade paperbacks, of course. They don't sell 'em for as much. But still, it's good money."

The few percentage points didn't seem like much to me, but they really had her excited.

"Now," she crowed, the wheeze gone from her voice, "here's the best part. The movie rights."

"You've already got someone for them?"

"Uh huh. We sold the option for a half mil, percentage of gross receipts if it's made into a movie."

"So I get five hundred grand even if they don't make a movie out of it?"

"Bingo."

"When?"

"As soon as you sign."

"And when can I sign all of this?"

"Soon as you can get your ass to Miami, sweetie."

I sat back, staring at Marisa, but not seeing her.

"So please tell me it's almost done, Tyler," Natalie said.

"No later than noon tomorrow," I said.

I heard her sigh of relief.

"That's great time, kiddo. Then you can come down here the day after?"

"Sure."

"See ya then."

I flipped the cell phone shut and stared at the ceiling.

"Good news?" Marisa asked.

I looked at her and nodded. "It's sold."

She gave a tight smile.

"Good," she said. "Then let's get moving. You promised this by noon tomorrow."

I don't know what came over me. Probably the giddiness of the whole thing. Whatever it was, I just leaned over and swept Marisa into my arms and gave her a big, tight hug, nearly dragging her out of her chair and sending us both to the floor.

With the hug, I felt the tension ease from my body. I also felt her body get more tense as the hug went along.

"Sorry," I mumbled into her ear, breaking the hug and looking at her in embarrassment.

"Whatever," she said, easing before looking at the manuscript. "Where were we?"

* * * * *

We finished at three the following afternoon. Marisa e-mailed the completed manuscript to Natalie, then started sweeping the manuscript into order before wrapping it in rubber bands and tossing it–for the final time–into her purse.

"Let's celebrate," I said.

She looked at me, then shook her head.

"Come on," I prodded. "Just one final meal at the Bar and Grill. They've got a new dessert."

She held back, but I pressed.

"Listen," I said. "I'm sure you're sick of me by now. Probably just want to get the hell out of here and get a real meal at some hidden little gem in the city. But we need to start a tradition here."

"Tradition," she said.

"Tradition," I repeated. "You're gonna be the editor on all my books. If you'll have me, that is. And we'll always end the editing process with dinner at the Bar and Grill. Then you'll forget about me for six months or so until you have to come back, and I'll spend all that time trying to get another book written. Then, we'll start all over again. And end it–again–at the Bar and Grill."

"Tradition," she said again, a smile curling the corner of her lips for only the second time since we'd met.

"Like Thanksgiving turkey," I beamed.

"Santa Claus," she said.

"Exactly."

"Can't buck tradition, I suppose," she said. "Even if it's only the start of one."

"Gotta start somewhere," I said.

She smiled fully now, teeth and all. And it was a pretty smile, assuming you could get around the whole black lipstick thing.

"Should we call your girlfriend?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

She tilted her head. "Why not?"

"Because we're starting a tradition," I reasoned. "I don't know if we'll still be together next year when we do this again, but then we'd have to invite her anyway."

"Because of the whole tradition thing," Marisa said, nodding in mock serious understanding.

"Exactly."

"Okay," she said, standing and scooping the rest of her belongings from the table and into her massive black bag. "Pick me up at five-thirty."

"Done."

* * * * *

By quarter to six, we were seated at the Bar and Grill. Marisa was demolishing a Thai-glazed chicken wings appetizer and I was sipping my beer and watching her in amazement.

"What?" she said, seeing me staring as she sucked the sauce off of her long, delicate fingers.

"I just don't know how you eat so much," I said. "And you're so . . . uh . . . . You really keep your shape well."

"Skinny," she said, pushing the empty plate to the side. "You can say it. Skinny, scrawny, bean pole. I know what I look like."