The Things We Leave Unfinished Yarros, Rebecca (reading like a writer .TXT) 📖

us were still awkward—but I figured they always would be, and I had to admit, it was more than nice having her here. Knowing she planned to stay through Christmas had eased the tension and even given me a little hope that we might find some real footing. After all, we only really had each other now that Gran was gone.

I rubbed the skin between my eyes. “He’s still fighting me on the ending.”

“Is that what’s holding everything up?”

Opening my eyes, I found her staring at a framed picture of Gran and Grandpa William when he was in his twenties. I’d never known him—he’d died when Mom was sixteen.

I’d been born less than a year later.

“Well, it’s certainly holding him up, since he refuses to actually start it until we agree what should happen in the end.” I’d never been so grateful for a contract clause in my life. “If he had his way, it would be all hearts and rainbows.”

Mom’s forehead puckered as she looked back to me. “Like the rest of her books.”

“Pretty much.” A quick glance at my watch told me I had twenty minutes before my scheduled call with the lawyers.

“And you think that’s a bad thing?”

I swiveled in the wheeled armchair and grabbed the two-inch-thick binder my legal team had overnighted last week. “I think it’s wrong for this story.”

“But isn’t he…” Mom pressed her lips in a tight line.

“Say it.” I flipped the binder open.

“Well, he’s the expert, Gigi. You’re…not.”

I paused mid-page-flip at the use of that name. “He very well might be the expert at crafting his own story, but if it’s between Noah Harrison and myself, when it comes to Gran, then I’d say I’m the expert.” Page flipped.

“I just think it’s a little ridiculous to hold up the entire contract because you’re having creative differences. Don’t you?” She crossed her legs as her forehead puckered in concern. “Isn’t it best to just get this all over with so you can really dig in to your life here?”

“Mom, the contract is done. It has been for about a month now.” It was all over the news, too—so much for keeping it quiet. Helen was fielding dozens of calls about sub rights. I’d never been so glad to be out of New York City in my life. At least here, I could forward emails or refuse calls from people I knew only wanted access to the manuscript.

In New York, it had been impossible to go to the bathroom at a cocktail party without someone in the industry approaching me about Gran. Then again, I’d always been with Damian, so maybe I’d simply been attending the wrong parties.

“So this little…quarrel you’re having with Noah Harrison isn’t holding it up?” She leaned forward.

“Nope. It’s a done deal.”

“Then why hasn’t the advance been delivered?”

My gaze snapped to hers. “What?”

She fidgeted, her face lining with worry. “I thought the publisher was supposed to pay the advance once you signed.”

“Right, but it’s not all deliverable at once. It takes time on their end.” My stomach churned, but I ignored it. Mom was doing her best, and I had to give her a chance. Jumping to the wrong conclusion would only serve to set our relationship back.

“What do you mean it’s not deliverable all at once?”

Alarm bells chimed in my head, but there was nothing in her gaze except pure curiosity. Maybe she was finally taking an interest? “It’s split in thirds. Signing, delivering, publishing.”

“Thirds.” Mom’s eyebrows shot up. “Interesting. Is it always like that?”

“Just depends on the contract.” I shrugged. “The first part should be in your account any day now, so be sure to watch for it. If it doesn’t show up, let me know and I’ll ask Helen to check up on it.”

“I’ll watch for it,” she promised, rising to her feet. “You look like you’re about ready to work, so I’ll get out of your hair and see what Lydia left us for dinner.”

I shifted in my chair uneasily. “Mom?”

“Hmm?” She turned at the doorway.

“I’m glad you’re here.” I swallowed, hoping to dislodge the lump in my throat.

“Of course, Gi—” She winced. “Georgia. You know, it helped to be around family after my first divorce.” Her smile faltered. “That one took something precious from me, and it was your gran who put me back on my emotional feet and reminded me who I am. A Stanton. That was the last time I didn’t hyphenate, I’ll tell you.” Her knuckles whitened on the door handle. “Don’t ever give away your name again, Georgia. There’s power in being a Stanton.”

My phone lit up with an incoming call. The legal team.

“Your name?” I guessed. “That’s what the first one took?” Say me. Say it cost you me.

“No. I was the naive one who gave that away, but I was twenty. He took my hope.” She motioned to my phone. “You’d better get that.” A little wave of her fingers, and she was gone.

Right.

I swiped to answer the call and lifted it to my ear. “Georgia Stanton.”

…

Two days later, Hazel and I walked out of the Poplar Pub after grabbing some lunch that I’d mostly picked at. Nothing tasted good anymore. It was all just sustenance, anyway.

“So how many times does that make it?” Hazel asked as we headed down the sidewalk along Main Street. With the tourist season in its fall lull and the kids back to school, there was peaceful quietness that wouldn’t be found again until the ski season melted away for those few weeks before summer vacation.

“I’m not exactly keeping count.” Noah called. Noah argued. I hung up. It was just that simple.

“You barely touched your lunch,” she noted, looking over her sunglasses at me and tucking a curl behind her ear.

“I wasn’t very hungry.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed. “So I was thinking of heading to Margot’s for a pedicure, since you helped me get all the new workbooks organized at the center in record time and Owen’s mom has the kids for the afternoon. What