Professor Feelgood (Page 46)

“Sidney’s sent out the press release about the book,” I say. Suddenly, my lunch sits in my stomach like a block of wood. “In a few hours, the news will be everywhere.”

If possible, Jake looks even queasier about it than I do. “Great. Just in time for this event we’re going to tonight. You cool if I drink myself into a stupor?”

Almost immediately, his phone starts buzzing with dozens of notifications arriving in quick succession.

“Looks like the Feelgood Fans are celebrating,” I say. “That bodes well for sales.”

“Uh huh.” He turns off the phone and places it facedown before taking a sip of water. He looks a little green.

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

He wipes his hands on a napkin and stares at the table. The carcass of what’s left of my sandwich lies forgotten on the plate.

“Jake?”

He wipes his hands again, before gripping his water glass so tightly, I fear for its structural integrity. “I know this is probably just your average Thursday, but don’t you find it goddamn terrifying that they’re announcing a book that hasn’t even been written yet?”

“It’s not something that happens a lot in publishing, no.” I sound more confident than I feel. “But for books by celebrities? Yeah … it’s a thing. It’s a way to get fans fired up and excited to fork over their cash.”

“Celebrities. Right.” He runs his fingers through his hair, and somewhere in all his hand wiping, he missed a piece of bagel crust that’s now clinging to a few strands. “And what happens if we figure out I can’t write a book? That all I’m capable of is a bunch of poems?”

I can’t drag my eyes away from the hair-crumb. It’s big. How does he not feel it? “That’s not going to happen. Don’t get discouraged about this morning. It’s day one. Nobody expects you to hit the ground running.”

Not entirely true. Serena, Mr. Whip, and I are expecting big things from him, and the prospect of him not delivering is making me sweat in inelegant places. Of course, if I were more experienced, I’d be more successful drawing words out of him.

He shakes his head then drains his water glass before refilling it. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking when I agreed to this.”

“Maybe you were thinking that your words touch people. Over three million people, to be precise.”

Unable to ignore it any longer, I reach over to brush the crumb out of his hair. Super quick, he grabs my wrist and frowns at me.

“The fuck? Personal boundaries, please.”

I twist my arm free. “Says the man who was all over my injured head yesterday without permission. Chill.” I pluck the crumb and show him. “See?”

“How is your head by the way?” he asks, raking his fingers through his hair, I’m guessing to dislodge any other rebellious crumbs.

“Never had any complaints.” It’s out of my mouth before my brain can stop it.

Oh, sweet Jesus. I just made a blowjob joke in front of Jacob Stone. Just kill me.

Jake’s eyebrows raise. “Wow. Happy for you, but no need to brag.”

I cringe. “Eden and I always use that old joke whenever someone mentions head. It’s force of habit. But to answer your question, my cranium is okay.”

He gives me a dubious look. “Uh huh.”

We lapse into silence, and I use the opportunity to gesture to our waitress to bring us the check. When I look back at Jake, he’s staring out the window with a troubled expression I’ve seen many times before. In this situation, any normal person would have some self-doubt, but Jake has a habit of strapping his ever-present self-saboteur to a mental gurney and blasting it full of gamma rays.

“Listen, Jake …” I take a breath before my next sentence, because I haven’t given him a compliment in a long time, so the words feel foreign in my mouth. “I know this process is going to be demanding, but second-guessing yourself is pointless. No matter how I feel about you as a person, I love your writing, and I know that if we get this book right, it’s going to be huge. And I’m not alone in thinking that. It’s the reason there was a bidding war. You write from your heart, and people respect that. Hell, even I respect that.”

He turns to me. “You love my writing, huh? That sounded almost sincere.”

“It was. You may be a jackass, but you’re a talented jackass. Now please, stop doubting yourself, because it feels strange and uncomfortable giving you this much positive reinforcement.”

“But that’s your job now, right?” he says, unwinding a little. “You have to pump me up, like a coach before a big game.”

“Yes,” I say, with a half-hearted fist pump. “So, you go hit that home run thingy through the goal posts, and make a hole-in-one for the home team … bucko.”

He blinks a few times. “You never did understand a single thing about sports, did you?”

“Nope. Not at all.” Our waitress places the check on the table, and I grab it. “Now, let’s get out of here. We need to unlock your creativity, so we can score a touchdown with some words.”

“Awful.” He stands and waits as I leave some cash on the table. “Like, hilariously wrong and bad.”

“Title of your second sex tape,” I say as we exit the restaurant.

We head down toward the water and end up in Bridge Park. Without discussing it, we both choose a bench near the river.

“So,” Jake says, turning his face up to catch the sunshine. “What’s your grand plan for unlocking me?”

I put my bag beside us. “I guess the first thing we should do is talk about your lady love.”

He glances at me warily. “You sure you’re up to it? Listening to my issues was never your strong point.”

“That’s filthy slander, but I’ll let it slide. Start at the beginning of your romantic journey, please. Leave nothing out.”

He stares at me for a few more seconds before releasing a noisy breath and looking out at the water. “I met Ingrid in Bali. We were both working at The Zen Farm, because they paid cash to foreigners. After that, we traveled together to Thailand, and then––”

“Wait a second, go back.” He glances at me, confused. “You can’t just say you met her. I need details. When did you first see her? What did you think in those moments? Was there an initial attraction? When did you act on it? You need to make us fall in love with her as much as you did.”

He leans his elbows on his knees and rubs his eyes. “Talking about this stuff isn’t fun, especially not with you.”

“Well, this is our new normal, so you’d better get used to it. If it helps you feel more comfortable, close your eyes. Pretend I’m not here.”

He gives me another doubtful look before crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.

“Take your mind back. Try to relive those past moments and describe them as honestly as you can.”

The muscles in his jaw tighten as he takes a few breaths, and then he begins.

“After high school, I needed to get out of New York. Everything aggravated me, so I took all the money I’d saved in four years working at the bodega and bought the first international ticket I could afford. I tooled around Asia for a while, taking odd jobs that paid me cash under the table, until I got enough money to move onto the next destination. When I got to Bali, I found this place called the Zen Farm. They loved employing foreigners, and when we weren’t working in the garden, the owners ran mindfulness and meditation classes.”