When she uncovers his plan to lead an entirely uneventful life, Mia Evian is determined to teach Preston Maddox how to stop living like a ghost, but Mia and Preston have history, tension, and a lot of complicated feelings.
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Typewriter Magazine's weekly meetings occur at six o'clock every Thursday evening. I discover this at approximately five forty-five on the day of the first meeting, courtesy of Preston, who reminds me I signed up for it in the first place. He insists there's no pressure for me to actually join the magazine, but the way he laughs at me over the phone convinces me to attend the meeting as a big fuck you for laughing.
I'm already on campus after my final lecture of the day, so meet up with him minutes after our phone call. I follow him like a lost puppy to find the seminar room the society has captured as their meeting space for this academic year, all the while insisting I have nothing valuable to contribute to the magazine.
Preston's response of, 'me neither and I'm its editor,' is oddly reassuring.
We're the first to arrive, so we grab one of the room's larger tables near the whiteboard. The silence feels loud as he retrieves his laptop from his backpack, and I'm chewing my lip as I watch him log into it.
I've not brought up the letter from his dad situation since I found it in his bedroom, and I'm toying with whether now is a good time to do so when the room's door swishes open. Two girls I don't recognise wander in, and as they introduce themselves to me, I realise I've missed my chance.
The room fills up quickly, and it's Dana who officially kicks the meeting off. I watch and listen so intently that I forget to blink several times, but I'm confused by the end of it. It's obvious why Preston's the magazine's editor; he already had a detailed plan for the year's first issue that everyone ate up, had suggestions for who should do what within that plan, and had the perfect answer to every question thrown at him. Only, as conversation became casual and everyone started chatting about their summers, current events, plans for the weekend–anything that wasn't magazine-related–he shut off.
He pulled a bloody book from his bag, popped his glasses on, then started reading in silence. I don't think he uttered a single word. Once everyone has left, I'm watching him with narrowed eyes as he packs his things away.
'Is there some rule about the editor being neutral?' I ask.
'About what?' he questions, then turns to me as he throws his bag over one shoulder.
I wave my hand in the air. 'The world? It's like you hit your off button once the magazine shit was done.'
He doesn't respond, at least not beyond a short, airy laugh. With little warning, he turns and moves towards the door, and I have to scramble to grab my bag and follow after him.
'No rule,' he says once I've caught up with him. 'I prefer not to engage.'
'What?' I ask, but get no response as we leave the university building.
As we're walking through the streets of Bloomsbury, dodging students and tourists while we make our way towards Goodge Street station, I try again.
