Counterfactual

01 | ghostwriter

CHAPTER ONE

GHOSTWRITER

( — a person who writes one or numerous speeches, books, articles, etc., for another person who is named as or presumed to be the author. )

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          "I THINK THIS IS A GREAT OPPORTUNITY FOR YOU."

          Rowan, making sure to get out of the pool as slowly as possible—mostly because the gusts of wind return exactly when he steps out of the water and it makes his hair look good—narrows his eyes, despite knowing his father can't see them behind his sunglasses. They call it a nervous habit. Rowan calls it being in control of his own damn life, thank you very much.

          No, seriously, just look at this damn house: he bought it for his parents with his own money He is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, no matter how poor they might turn out to be at times, and he doesn't need other people to try to live his life for him.

          "Writers don't usually earn that much just by writing," they say.

          "That's because they're not writing the right thing," Rowan points out, winning the debate, and allows himself to dive back into the pool because it's ninety-five degrees outside—in New Hampshire.

          "Rowan," Timothy Underwood insists, for what feels like the millionth time, and Rowan falls to a recliner, not being a particular fan of hearing despair cloud his own father's voice. It's not what he was raised to be, just like Justine Underwood makes sure to constantly remind him, and it's unnerving to see and hear their frequent hypocrisy. "Come on. It's not like we're suggesting you do something you've never done before."

          "Has anyone ever told you you're sort of pretentious, Rowan?" Justine questions, stepping into the back garden and carrying a tray with three tall glasses of pink lemonade. Her sunglasses hang on the crown of her head and her hair, having been bleached more times than Rowan can count on two hands, glows platinum under the sunrays. "Frankly, honey, I don't know who you get that from."

          "Oh?" Rowan blabbers, slumped on the recliner as if it was a divan, a la Oscar Wilde, and props himself up on an elbow, ignoring the sudden jolts of pain shooting up his arm. "I wouldn't call myself pretentious. I'm a man of expensive tastes."

          Timothy rolls his eyes, with a thin layer of sweat covering the dark skin of his chest. "No, you are pretentious. Ever since you started writing for other people"—Rowan's lips involuntarily twist into a smug smile as he takes one of the glasses of lemonade and stirs the beverage with a straw—"you've become . . . I don't know. It feels like you think you're entitled to every good thing that can possibly happen without ever making an effort."

          Rowan places a hand on his chest, right above his heart (or whatever's inside your ribcage, Jasper used to say, back in the day, because I'm beginning to think all there is in there is a black hole). "You say that like it's a bad thing. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it has had mostly good consequences for the three of us so far, has it not? Look at this house. Look at our bank accounts."

          Timothy raises a finger. "You're twenty-five and you only put effort—real effort—into something when it only brings good consequences for you." Another finger. "You don't take risks ever"—he raises a third finger—"and, when you do, we find you giving up on what you had started hours later."