A huge group of patrons started chanting Bregman’s name so loudly, you’d have thought he’d just been chosen as Pope.
“Can we go somewhere quieter?” Melanie Joan asked.
“Absolutely,” I said.
She waited for me to settle my tab, and we walked out ontoCauseway Street. It was well past six, but the air was as warm and thick and bright as it had been at noontime. These endless summer days were starting to feel oppressive. We moved to the side so a cluster of twentysomethings could get past us and into Banners. It was hard to believe they were going in there willingly, but obviously I was in the minority as far as mass baseball viewings were concerned.
“It’s good to be out of there,” I said.
Melanie Joan nodded. “Let’s walk,” she said.
We walked in silence for a little while. As always, I found myself racing to keep up with her. I wondered how many steps she got in on an average day. The number was probably staggering.
Once we’d cleared a few blocks, I touched her arm. “What is going on with you?” I asked.
She let out a breath. “Sunny, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she said. “And I’ve made a decision.”
“Yeah?”
“We should just let this whole Leila Donnelly thing go.”
I stopped walking and stared at her. “What? Why?”
“I’ve been replaying everything I’ve done over the past few days over and over in my mind. I pretended all of those things had been done by someone else—an acquaintance I was hearing about. And it hit me, Sunny.”
“What?”
She started walking again. “I don’t like the person I’ve become.”
I took off after her. “What are you talking about? You weretrolled by an arrogant bitch and her sock puppet,” I said. “She tanked your memoir before it could even be released. Who could blame you for acting out a little?”
“You’re being too charitable.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I want you to get your fans back. And I want to get even with Leila Donnelly. Don’t you?”
She shrugged.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Melanie Joan Hall?”
“I don’t know, Sunny. Maybe Leila Donnelly was right. Maybe I really am washed-up and out of touch. And old.”
“Stop it.”
“Maybe I’ve been privileged for so long that my memoir is unrelatable. Maybe Leila Donnelly’s books are better than I think they are, and this was the universe’s way of showing me that I should…I don’t know. Stop writing. Travel. Live a different kind of life. Maybe go back to Utica.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not.”
She stopped walking. I was grateful.
Melanie Joan turned and faced me. Her mascara was smudged. Her eyes glistened. “For the last thirty years, I’ve put every ounce of my energy into being a bestselling author. I’ve worked so damn hard on the books and even harder on this…this persona I’ve created. And look where it’s gotten me. The entire world hates me now.”
“We can change that.”
“I don’t think I want to,” she said. “I know that might sound weird.”
“Might?”
