I bite back an argument. After four straight days of relying on me for even the simplest tasks, the last thing she wants is more coddling. It’s hard enough that she has to live with a caretaker (me). The least I can do is respect her independence when she’s capable of it.
“So who’s this interview with again?” Savannah asks.
“That romance podcastStop, Drop, and Swoon. Ever hear of it?”
Savannah’s eyes light up as we make our way to my office. “Oh, I love that show! You better be on your guard, though; Sylvie doesn’t pull punches.”
“Good thing my book’s a literary masterpiece devoid of all flaws,” I say airily. I don’t bring up the crying jag of self-doubt and despair that happens on the eve of all my book releases.
I grab a throw blanket off the couch as we pass through the living room. Two years after moving in, I can still barely believe that writing romance novels has funded this midcentury dream of a house in Silver Lake. I might not believe in Happily Ever Afters, but living here and being able to care for my sister full-time comes pretty damn close.
Savannah grins. “True.Warmest Regardsis an instant classic. I expect a representative from the Pulitzer committee will be calling any day now.”
I snort-laugh. “The only awardWarmest Regardswould win is a world record for most uses of the word ‘clench’ in a published work.”
“Better ‘clench’ than ‘moist,’?” Savannah points out graciously.
“There was definitely at least one ‘moist.’ Remember the hot-tub scene?”
“There was not!”
I shrug. “Better ‘moist’ than ‘member.’?”
“There’s nothing worse than ‘moist,’ Margot.”
“Except ‘moist member.’?”
Savannah makes a gagging face as we enter the dark office, and I veer left toward my desk. It’s strategically positioned in front of a wall of built-in bookshelves (the main reason I bought this house, if I’m honest), and as I turn on a lamp, all my color-coded books and framed photos are cast in a warm glow. Savannah beelines for the love seat across from my desk, and I toss her the blanket.
“Thanks,” she says, curling up like a cat. Within five seconds, an actual cat—or Savannah’s familiar, as I prefer to think of him—jumps onto her lap and makes himself at home with all the entitlement of his namesake, Mr. Darcy. “And for the record, I do think your writing deserves a Pulitzer. Your books bring joy and escape to all your readers, Margot.”
Her words echo my own daily justification for writing stories I suspect do more harm than good, but as I sit at my desk and open my laptop, my guilt is interrupted by a small burst of adrenaline when my Happily Never After document appears. I definitely didn’t open it today. Even more oddly, the page on the screen isn’t my latest alternate ending but one of my old venting journal entries I occasionally use the document for as well. Sad, bitter words leap out at me.
Signed over two hundred books at today’s event. Reader after reader told me how much my books mean to them while I did my best to pretend that they still mean something to me too. Honestly, it would be SO much easier to keep this deception up if my fans weren’t the sweetestpeople on earth. I know they want guaranteed happy endings—and I’ll give them anything because I owe them everything—but how can they be so fucking naive? Every time I hear another person tell me they’re waiting for their own Margot Bradley HEA, I die just a little more inside. I hate this mask I have to wear.
I glance at Savannah, terrified she’s found me out at last. It’s the only explanation for why my HNA doc is open. But she’s busy drawing little circles on Mr. Darcy’s fuzzy gray forehead with her fingertip. I forcibly lower my shoulders. If Savannah had seen the document, we wouldn’t be sitting here like nothing had happened. We’d be sitting here like we’d just felt the first ground-shaking tremors of the Big One. Except instead of an earthquake capable of swallowing Los Angeles whole, it would be this secret. The only one I keep from my sister.
“Hey.”
I look up from my screen, now devoid of any incriminating documents.
“There’s a reason you have the world’s nicest fan cult and a regular spot on the Times Square Jumbotron,” she says.
The permanent knot of guilt that resides in my stomach cinches a little tighter. “And that is?”
My sister gazes at me with hero worship I don’t deserve, and I flinch from the blow before it comes. “Because you write from the heart.”
It’s a gut punch, but to my chest. A tit punch. Somehow I force a smile as said heart seems to plummet through my body, the floor, and the ground itself until it reaches the earth’s core for incineration.
“Thanks for being here, Van,” I say. “I know you could be out with Cooper.”
Savannah smiles dreamily at the mention of her boyfriend,and I immediately regret bringing him up, even if it did distract her. My own feelings about love aside, I think my sister could do better. Not that Cooper isn’t nice (and an admittedly great Scrabble player), but he’s also a line cook/freelance photographer/surfer with two roommates in Los Feliz, without the time or resources to care for my sister in the way she deserves. I know it won’t last, and just like every time, I’ll be there for her during the fallout.
“You know I wouldn’t miss this,” Savannah says, reaching out and wiggling her fingers at me. “Not for all the moist members in the world.”
I laugh, wiggling my fingers back at her before taking a steadying breath. “Okay. Showtime.”
“So before we move on to reader questions, I have to ask—can you dropanyhints about your next book, Margot?”
