Page 93 of Here for a Good Time
“The only thing holding him back was a lack of income,” Leila explains.
“Now he’s designing tours that will introduce guests to the sea life around here without disrupting the local ecosystem. It’samazing,” Tyler says, eyes widening with delight. Beside him, Leila beams with pride. “I can sign you up for one of the tours while you’re here, if you want.”
“That would be incredible,” I say. Remembering something, “And the helipad?” I ask.
“Dead, deceased, good riddance,” Leila confirms. “But they’d already done a bit of damage with the trees there so we’re not quite sure what to do with it. Tyler’s been having meetings with a group of local and external conservationists to figure out what the best plan is moving forward.”
“You seem really happy,” I say.
She nods. “I am. It’s almost like…” She stops with a twinkle in her voice.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like someone went and wrote us a perfect happy ending,” she says on a wink.
“Got our key cards,” Zwe’s voice says, and I feel the weight of his palm on the small of my back. “What?” he asks when I turn to him with a massive smile that Iknowis bordering on cheesy.
“Nothing,” I say.I fell in love with you here,I’m about to say, but that’s not true.
Here is where I realized howmuchI loved him, and what I would be willing to sacrifice to keep him safe, to which the answer waseverything. But I didn’t fall in love with him here. I fell in love with him on the creaky paint-chipped swings in our school’s playground, during late-night university application essay-writing sessions in our parents’ living rooms, over chicken dan pauk that he prepared while I was working on my novels.
“What?” he repeats. He twists his lips, like he knows there’s something teetering on mine.
“I love you,” I say simply.
He cocks a suspicious brow. “Is that it?”
“What do you mean ‘is that it’? That used to mean something,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“That’s where you’re wrong, darling. It didn’t mean something—” His face softens, and he plants a kiss on my forehead. “—it meanteverything. Still does.”
“Aaawww,” Leila squeals, and stops herself by slapping her mouth with a hand. She shoots Tyler an apologetic look. “Sorry, boss. I’ll be professional, I promise.”
Tyler rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. Remember, I’m a cool boss,” he says, and Leila snorts. A staff member calls out Tyler’s name from near the entrance, and he raises a finger at them. “Sorry, gotta run,” he says, walking backward so he can still address us. “I’ll see you all at dinner tonight!”
Once he’s gone, Leila turns around, her mouth opening with a smallOhas she remembers something. “Poe, how’s the new book going? Are we getting something soon?”
Zwe’s touch, still around my waist, gives me the smallest squeeze. AYou okay?squeeze.
And I am.
“Actually, this second one might take a while,” I answer honestly. “Maybe the end of next year at the earliest. I’m trying not to rush it, though.”
“Well, yeah, you’ve already got so much other stuff going on. I mean, movingcontinentsalongside working on a whole-ass movie of your first book?” Leila purses her lips like there’s nothing more she needs to add.
And she’s right. Iamdoing so much.
When we had gotten settled back home, the next book I finished was, as I wanted it to be, a romance novel. It was a love story that was clearly written by an author who had recently and unashamedly fallen heels over head in love, one that screamed about the transcendent joy of meeting someone who sees and understands you in a way that makes you go,Oh, so that was why it never worked out with anyone else; it wasnot,as I wanted it to be, a hit with my agent or my editor. We went through two rounds of substantial edits before I made the call that we’d all been dancing around for months and shelved it. As predicted, there was alotof crying and self-doubt and bouts of “What if I never publish another book? Who am I if I’m not a writer?” crises. For months, I couldn’t stomach the thought of even opening a new Word document because every time, I’d think,What is the point?
Maybe I’m not cut out to be a romance writer,I told Zwe over dinner one day.
Maybe,he mused.
So you think I’m not a good romance writer? How dare you,I replied, both surprised and offended at his response, although when he smirked, I knew I’d walked right into a trap.
My instinct, as always, was to dive headfirst into yet another new draft—except this time, I didn’t. Instead, I told both my agent and editor that I was going to be taking a few months off (a decision that, despite my unfounded fears, they totally rallied behind), and I let myself enjoy the wonderful, privileged post-bestseller life that I’d worked so hard to achieve but had barely appreciated.
“Does it bother you that you’re not a literary darling anymore?” Zwe asked one night as we were settling into the couch to watch the latest episode ofThe Bear.
