Utterly Forgettable | MM Romance | Complete

Twelve: Well, We Can't Have Suicide

"No use, minion," Emma huffed, "Can't read anything else today."

"I sort of noticed that when your eyes started watering," was Josh's unhelpful remark.

"Brilliant observation. You're worth every penny."

Josh rolled his eyes at her. "You look beautiful in that shade of passive-aggressiveness. Complements your skin tone."

"Fuck off."

"Okay, you want me to help? How about you tell me what it is you're doing with those papers, all day, every day?" It was a gross exaggeration — she'd spend maybe an hour or two a day reading and making notes until her eyes gave up, and then one more hour before she was ready to admit defeat.

"Poetry anthology."

That brought him up short. "You write poetry?"

"Not mine," she said in a tone that implied it ought to have been obvious, "little-known poets'. Used to run a publishing house. Small one. Had to sell last year." He could always tell when she was tired by how short she kept her sentences.

"Want to go out with a bang. The anthology. Published a call online. Asking for good works. Emails won't stop coming in. Some are excellent. Have to wade through the mediocrity to reach them. One idiot keeps trying to pass Blake's work as his own. Blake. Because we're all dumb and blind."

For all her acerbic, sometimes unpleasant posturing, Emma's generosity was very much one of her defining traits. That she wanted to spend her last months hunting for undiscovered talent, that that was what she considered going out with a bang, spoke volumes.

"Okay, tell you what: we eat lunch now, you promise you'll rest at least an hour afterwards and then I'll read some aloud to you, so you don't have to waste your eyes with the ones that aren't worth it. Deal?"

Her shaky eyes lit up. "Deal, minion."

#

He read maybe half a poem aloud before she declared herself ready to commit suicide. Josh felt vaguely offended. "If you tell me what I'm doing wrong I'm sure I can do it better."

"Sure. Have a couple of years to spare? I don't."

"I can't be that bad," he protested.

"You're not. If you're into poetry read as an instruction manual. Thanks for the thought. No, thanks. You could make Sylvia Plath sound boring." She took the sheet of paper from his hand, disappointment evident in her aggressive stance. Josh had waved a sliver of hope at her then taken it away. "Besides. Don't know what I was thinking. You don't have the voice for it."

He was now mildly, rather than vaguely, offended. "What's wrong with my voice?"

"Too high." She must have seen his stricken look because, for once, she tried to appease his wounded ego. "For this. Don't mean in general."

Well, if she hadn't deemed him a worthy possibility then she would certainly not consider using the automated voice of a screen reader. And he knew everything she did was on a deadline — her own. There must be some other way — "What about your brother? He has a deep, pleasant voice."

For someone that frustrated, the speed of her smirk was disconcerting. "Noticed that, did you?"

"I have ears," he shrugged. "You wanted a lower voice, he has it."

"He does. And he knows how to read poetry. But can you convince him, minion?"

Josh didn't know why he was surprised, that he'd be the one selected to tell Emery he needed to make room for even more personal time.