Page 23 of Kill Your Darlings

The smell of salt and kelp hit me as I reached the bottom—other smells as well: wet sand, something metallic and raw carried in off the bay.The air was cooler down here, the breeze sharper.My feet slipped and sank in the course, damp sand, as I picked my way through the scatter of broken shells and tangled strands of kelp.

It was much cooler and breezier down by the water.Sea lions barked from the far rocks, and gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and fleeting.

Finn’s back was to me, and as I grew nearer, I saw that he was on his phone.Or had been.The call seemed to have ended.

The waves didn’t completely drown out my approach—or, more likely, Finn possessed more situational awareness than most people—and he glanced around.

His wary expression changed infinitesimally, but then he held up his phone and smiled ruefully.“The kiddo,” he said, as if our a.m.encounter at the pool had never happened.

The kiddowas Finn’s son, Byron, who was in his freshman year at UCLA.

I asked automatically, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.He’s a little homesick, I think.”

My understanding was UCLA was less than an hour from home, but being homesick is not something I know anything about.I left Steeple Hill the day after I turned eighteen, and I never looked back.

I nodded and said, “Finn, I owe you an apology.You have every right to work with whomever you choose.Lila’s an excellent editor.It probablyistime to work with someone who can look at the series with fresh eyes.”

His eyebrows rose.He remarked, “That was interesting, this morning.Outside of discussing books and having sex, I think that was the first completely unguarded reaction I’ve ever had from you.”

He spoke calmly, but the effect of that almost clinical tone was as cold and hard as if I’d been knocked down by one of those waves pounding the shore.

I was still trying to absorb it, when he added, “But, no.I’m the one who needs to apologize.I blindsided you.I’m sorry, Keir.You didn’t deserve that.I should have expressed my concerns two weeks ago.”

Expressed my concerns.Jesus.That was formal.Maybe he should have filled them out in triplicate while he was at it.

I didn’t say that, of course.I took another couple of steps forward, close enough to catch the scent of that herbal aromatic aftershave, close enough to reach out and touch him, though I was pretty sure I’d never touch him again.“Yeah.That might have helped.Whatareyour concerns?Because the last time we were together—”

“Why didn’t you tell me your father had died?”he interrupted.

It was so far out of left field, my jaw dropped.

“I didn’t know you knew him,” I shot back.

“Another gut reaction,” he observed.“You’re offended.And angry.”

What the hell?Iwasstarting to get angry.“I wasn’t close to my father.And that, youdoknow.”

“I do know that.Yes.That’s the extent of what I know about your family.”

I spread my hands in genuine bafflement.What the hell did my family have to do withanything?

Finn said, “I’m not sure how to put this without hurting you.More than I already have.And that’s the last thing I want to do.I really…reallycare for you.It’s not about writing or my career, though yes, I’m grateful.I do feel—will always feel—that I owe you.A lot.”

“I don’t want gratitude.”

“I know.”He drew a hard breath.“And that’s not what this is.This is about…us.”

He stopped again.This time I couldn’t think of anything to say.

At least I hadn’t imagined that there had been, briefly,us.

Finally, Finn said, “You’re a good friend.You’re intelligent and charming and…insightful.You’re generous.I think you’re genuinely kind.”

Insightful.

I said through stiff lips, “That’s funny.I thought you were kind, too.”

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