Page 33 of Smoke and Fire
While I waited for his response, I logged into Jess’s social media accounts. The pages populated with an endless number of comments and DM’s with no responses.
“Just heart the posts, or whatever,” he’d said with a dismissive wave.“That’s fine. Then it’ll look like I’ve seen all of them.”
“You’re kidding,” I muttered. “There’s. No. End.”
As I scrolled, the comments populated from a seemingly endless pit. Whohad this kind of popularity anyway?
Jess’s profile picture was a vague silhouette of a woman with luscious hair halfway down her back. There weren’t many images she’d posted, and the ones he had were pictures of the books that looked like they’d been supplied from a PR team, maybe with his publisher.
A few half-hearted attempts at a “real” photo were awkwardly executed. At the beginning of the summer, a picture of a coffee mug with smudges on the edges and a short update about the next book appeared. It populated over 1,000 comments alone.
It would take me ages to catch up on these posts, not to mention his messages. Besides, what was the point in “heart-ing” as he said, each comment? Some of these were months old. The commenters had moved on with their lives and probably forgotten.
Or had they?
Panic crept back in, but I pushed it away. If he wanted to pay me $30 an hour to sit around “heart-ing” comments on his social media accounts, I’d do that. Easiest money ever.
But a squeamish part of me felt like I was taking advantage of him. Clearly, Bastian knew next to nothing about this kind of reader interaction. He thought this wasn’t as important as email, but that was wrong.
Everything about this was important.
He clearly cared about his readers and his books, or else he wouldn’t be trying so hard. He wouldn’t have paid me to keep the inbox moving or some appearance of life behind the launch. What other male would do the same for females that thought he was also female?
Not many, I’d wager.
Bottom line: Bastian needed some help and I was still willing to give it.
While I fumbled to find my place in his strange, online world, I couldn’t deny that I harbored a secret thrill that a guy like Bastian gave me access to a world like this. I had a feeling his trust wasn’t given all that lightly, despite the hasty situation.
My gaze drifted outside, where the smoke column stacked high in the sky. It had vaguely thickened. Wind pushed it farther out, like trailing ribbons in the higher atmosphere. It spread a brown haze in the air. The air didn’t smell like burnt wood yet, which I took as a good sign.
“Stay safe out there, hot stuff,” I murmured to the billowing smoke, “because I can’t finish this series, and womankind won’t be able to handle you dropping it without resolution.”
With another deep breath for courage, I began again.
FOUR HOURS LATER,I had over a hundred emails sorted and the fourth book started.
I stood, stretched, and stepped to the door of the trailer. Wind shifted gently outside, then twirled through a rip down the middle of the screen door that I’d repaired with a strip of transparent tape.
The reservoir lay far away, behind the edge of the RV park and down the hill. This RV park was set up on the mountain, north of Pineville, and a fifteen minute drive from the coffee shop.
Sione had helped me find this spot amongst all the others, in the farthest corner away. The reservoir and mountains splayed out in front of me, uninterrupted by other trailers. The quiet bustle of other tenants continued not too far away, but I could ignore them. They helped me still feel connected to the world, but not so suffocated by it.
If the fire were to turn south, it would blaze through here before getting to Pineville. I’d purchased a slot to stay for the summer and possibly the fall. Eventually, they would winterize the RV park, so I’d have to move on.
Forced decisions, if you will.
Sapphire blue water sparkled with tips of sunshine in the distance, and my soul thrilled to the view. A nice swim would feel good today. Heat bore down on the cracked dirt, intense, dry, and hotter than Hades. Hardly an ounce of rain had fallen since I’d arrived two months ago, and the dry air seemed to rattle in my bones.
The silence out here was soul-filling, but sometimes maddening. During the quiet days, I just wanted someone to talk to. Someone to share the day with, or hear what happened to them. Someone to ask questions of.
What was your day like?
What was the best thing?
Worst thing?
What was important to you today?
