The Fiction Writer by Jillian Cantor

Author:Jillian Cantor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Park Row Books
Published: 2023-09-14T18:15:41+00:00

TWENTY-SEVEN

I ended up drinking the whole glass of wine, and then I felt drowsy on the ride back to Malibu two hours later.

We’d spent the time at the winery talking, and I’d lost track of myself, sipping the delicious pinot as we chatted and waited for Nate, not really noticing its effect on me until we got into the back seat of yet another car—a black Escalade—and then I could barely keep my eyes open.

At the winery, Ash had insisted he’d wanted to know more about my life, and suddenly I heard myself telling him about my father, who I’d barely spoken to since he married Shawna. I turned down his yearly invitations to family Thanksgivings and Christmukkahs. Still, my dad very diligently sent a $100 check for my birthday each year in May, and I deposited it guiltily, then texted him thanks. Our one remaining interaction, I told Ash.

“Well, you’ve met Rose,” Ash said, empathizing. Then he’d added softly, “Ange was my only real family. Until she wasn’t.”

In the back of the Escalade, I ruminated over that in my head. At the winery, I’d thought Ash meant it was because she died. But Rose had said something about what Ash had done to her. Was there a betrayal? His or hers? And if there was, had it contributed to her death?

At that thought, I felt my head inexplicably drifting onto Ash’s shoulder, and I couldn’t stop it. The wine, the afternoon sun streaming in through the backseat car window, Nate’s steady driving—I closed my eyes and drifted off, dreaming of the water, of a woman trying to keep her head above the white crests of the waves, my mother, or maybe it was Angelica. Or maybe it wasn’t a woman at all, but the arched tails of the migrating gray whales.

“Olivia.” Ash’s voice came from somewhere in the distance, his hand gently nudging my thigh.

“Mmm,” I murmured. “Just a few more minutes.” My body was so heavy, and maybe I hadn’t fully recovered from whatever had made me sick last night.

The next thing I knew, Ash’s arms were under me. He was lifting me out of the back seat of the car and carrying me from his garage into his house. My body felt suspended in midair, and that completely woke me up. “What are you doing?” I protested, lightly swatting at his shoulder. “Put me down. I can walk.”

“Can you?” He chuckled a little.

“Ash,” I protested again. “Put me down.”

“You sure? You really conked out in the car. You were snoring.”

“I do not snore!” Oh my god, could I embarrass myself any more?

He laughed, and put me down gently, steadying me with a hand on the small of my back. But even once I was on my feet, he didn’t let go of me. He kept his hand lightly on my back as we walked inside, toward the guest suite. “You’re tired,” he said as we stopped at the door to my room. “Take a nap, and I’ll wake you up for dinner.

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