“The library? Ethan’s. And it’s only a part of it; he has books everywhere. I love books too and reading, but I don’t always have the time. Been listening to a lot of audiobooks lately.”

On the wall by the window, six shelves of books all have Ethan Delphy’s name on them.

I thought he only had three novels out. There must be a hundred here.

“Wow,” I say, not even trying to hide my surprise. “Your brother wrote all these?”

She chuckles. “Yes and no. He wrote five books. A semi-biography and three novels. Wait, four. There’s a new one, which I don’t think is here.” She stops and looks. “Nope. Not yet. It’s going to be published—” She goes to the desk. On it, there’s a large monthly planner. “June 17. Correct. Hmm, I wonder if he’s coming the day of. That’s what he usually does.”

Thirty-Four

June 17? That’s eleven more agonizing days of not knowing. And she doesn’t have a copy of the book. Great. Just great. I should’ve just stayed in New York. Then I realize it’s pointless to think that way. I wouldn’t have stayed in New York anyway. Right now, I’d be in my mother’s kitchen, alone, while she’s in the next room sleeping. So, what am I complaining about? It is what it is. I just hope I didn’t make the trip for nothing, and when Ethan Delphy comes, he’ll tell me where Max is and who he is.

“They’re all the translations,” she says, pointing at the books. “Like thirty or so for every book. What kind of books do you write?”

“Love stories.”

“You too? That’s awesome. You and Ethan will have a lot to talk about then.”

I doubt it. Well, except for him telling me who Max is.

“And they’re not books. Just manuscripts nobody wants,” I say, realizing I sound bitter.

“How come?”

“They got rejected by agents. I have a new one I never submitted, but—”

“Do you know how many times Ethan was rejected before he found his agent?”

I stare.

“I’d say over a hundred times.”

Because he’s a sucky writer who steals other people’s stories. Does his agent know?

“You should try again,” she says. “Why don’t you?”

I don’t have an answer to that question. At least not an answer I can give now.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“Fear of failure, maybe?” she asks. “I know about that all too well.”

Maybe we’re more alike than I thought. Although Celine seems to have it all together, there’s regret in her voice. I recognize regret. It’s my thing.

“Talking about my famously annoying brother, I should give him a call,” she says.

“Now? Isn’t it late in Florida?”

“Ethan is a night owl. He writes at night and edits during the day. Don’t ask me why.”

I wasn’t planning to. I couldn’t care less how he lives his life. Who was it that said they write drunk and edit sober? Maybe this is his own interpretation.