Page 43 of Thick

“I think it may be too late.”

With those words, Becker Wallace’s eyes fell closed.

I threw my Kindle across the bed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I shouted.

I couldn’t take it any longer. If Becker died, I’d hunt Tate down and choke him until he passed out.

A story of a prison guard and an inmate falling in love simply felt too real. Too close to home. Too relatable. I wondered if Becker was going to die, and if his death was a message for me to forget I ever met Tate. The prison guard and the inmate in the book parting to suggest the parting of the inmate and guard in real life.

If that’s what he wanted, he should have said something. He shouldn’t kill Becker to make a point.

I had fifteen chapters to go, and decided he wouldn’t spend fifteen chapters killing the hero. Becker had to live. He simply had to.

I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight. I needed three hours to finish the book. If I didn’t spend all my reading time in tears, that should be enough.

I flipped through the chapters, taking the book in one paragraph at a time. The three hours passed as quickly as the chapters, and before I knew what happened, I had finished it.

Amazon’s prompt to review the book came up.

In tears, and suffering from a book coma, I typed my first book review. Convinced the book was the best book I’d ever read, I gave praise where praise was due. The book was a masterpiece, and nothing less.

After posting my review, I read some of the others, making note that all 421 reviews were five-stars.

I scrolled to the bottom of the page.

The book’s ranking was number one. At first, I was elated that Tate had written a best seller in Romance, and then it dawned on me that the ranking wasn’t in a genre, it was out of all books – millions of books – that were available to purchase.

I refreshed my Kindle, and looked again.

Number one.

Holy crap.

Proud to have met the man who wrote the number one book out of all books in existence, I relished in the recollection of the discussions Tate and I had over the months that he was incarcerated.

While I wallowed in memories, I realized in my rush to read the book that I had failed to read the dedication. Tate’s dedications were almost as good as his books.

Using the index, I zoomed to the dedication.

Madden, I don’t know how I could have done it without you. With a swollen heart and tear-filled eyes, I hereby dedicate this book to you. Thank you for everything. Wish I could have seen you before I left. If you’d like to grab a cup of coffee or go for a ride, I’d be honored.

If so, multiply the number of my residence times 184,318,033. Then, round up. Call or text me at the number you obtain.

If not, I understand.

Holding my breath in anticipation,

TD Reynolds.

I coughed out a ball of emotion and then reread the dedication.

Number of my residence?

His cell number was twenty-four. I did the math on my Kindle, and the result was an Oceanside, CA telephone number.

I called it. Without ringing, it went to voicemail.