Page 39 of Quake

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Setting my bag beside the table, I took a seat as Caleb folded his tall body into a chair across from me.

“This is a great little place,” I said, glancing around the decor again. “It’s very homely.”

“It definitely is.”

Our food arrived, and Caleb dug in, shoving his toast into his mouth. I watched him in fascination, wondering if all fighters downed their food like a vacuum cleaner.

“What?” he asked.

“You eat like a caveman,” I replied, picking up a serviette and flinging it at him.

He caught the little white square and laughed. “I give no shits,” he declared. “You’ll soon find out that I have a ton of confidence.”

“Then what a pair we make,” I muttered.

“Don’t worry, Jules,” he said, finding my hand under the table. Wrapping his fingers around mine, he squeezed reassuringly. “We’re all different, and that’s what makes the world an exciting place if you ask me. We’ve all got shit we’re working on.”

“Yeah?” The idea sparked hope in me, all the angst I’d been feeling over our relationship up until last night becoming pointless now we were sitting here. None of it seemed to matter in hindsight.

“What’s that?” he asked, nudging my bag with his foot.

Thankful for the change in subject, I peered under the table and saw the top of the book I’d pilfered from the slush pile at work peeking out the top.

“A manuscript,” I replied.

“Yours?”

I snorted. “No, one I saved from the slush pile.”

“What’s a slush pile?” he asked, reaching for the salt.

“It’s a pile of rejected books,” I explained. “Most things are digital now, but the books the editors at work request for full reads are printed off. Apparently, the editors at Slattery like the traditional way of reading things.”

“So the ones they don’t like go to the pile of doom?” he asked with a wink.

“It’s not that they’re bad books,” I began. “Some are really good, it’s just they don’t know how to market them. Publishing is a numbers game at the end of the day. Books they believe will sell are the ones that get the deals.”

“Money,” Caleb quipped. “It’s always about money.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, picking up my fork. “It’s business. Though it can feel personal sometimes. Art is like that.”

“You want to work in publishing, right?” he went on, peppering me with questions. “Did you ever want to write a book?”

I shook my head. “It sounds romantic, writing a literary masterpiece, but I never had a flair for it. I guess I’m aiming for the next best thing.”

“Which is?”

“Editor.”

“You want to pick the books that get published?” he asked.

“Yeah. That’s the aim.”

He nodded toward my bag again. “What’s this one about?”

“It’s calledThe Fighter. I’ve hardly had time to read it what with everything that’s been going on…”

Caleb winked, his lips curving into a grin. “The Fighter, huh?”