Page 26 of Hate You to Love You

When I look back at Elliot, I notice that he’s smiling at me. For once, it’s not that smug grin of his. Neither of us says anything. He stares at me and I stare right back, feeling a pressure building up in my chest. Elliot’s lips part as if he is about to say something, but then a bell rings sharply from behind the bar. One of the bartenders announces that our session of Serendipity is about to begin.

Elliot slides out of his seat and begins to make his way towards the theatre. He pauses, turns and gives me another smile. ‘Shall we?’ he asks.

He’s still practically a stranger, but there’s a warmth in Elliot’s voice that feels familiar. Even so, it’s hard to stay calm sitting next to him in the dark. I may have watched this movie countless times, but I find myself being drawn to the way Elliot appears transfixed by the film. My right arm occasionally brushes up against his on the armrest and even when I pull away to give him space, my heart races. I try to focus on the movie. But something about Elliot keeps him in the front of my mind. By the time the movie ends and we spill back out into the quiet streets of Surry Hills, I’m feeling nervous again. The tranquil guitar strums of ‘When You Know’ is still fresh in my mind, but it does nothing to slow my racing heart.

‘It’s still early,’ Elliot says, glancing down at his watch and then up at the sky. ‘Would you like to grab a drink?’

‘I’d like that.’

We wander the streets until we stumble into the Rover, a cosy cocktail and oyster bar. Over a negroni, Elliot admits that he underestimated Serendipity, that he found the dialogue surprisingly well written.

‘I told you it was a good movie,’ I tease.

He sips on his cocktail. ‘So, you review books. But do you work in film or something too?’

‘Not exactly. I have a part-time position at this photography studio. We mainly do ads for marketing agencies. Writing is what I really want to do.’

‘As a novelist?’

‘Actually, I’ve always wanted to have some sort of column, writing about topics I’m interested in. I was kind of inspired by Carrie Bradshaw. I know it sounds silly, but that’s always been my dream.’

‘It’s not silly if it matters to you.’

‘What about you? What’s life like as a publicist?’

Elliot swirls his negroni around in its glass as he speaks. ‘Your mind has to always stay three steps ahead. You have to think about what could possibly go wrong and work backwards from that. It’s not all book launches and signings, either. There’s a lot of grunt work.’

‘So publishing is not like the movies?’

‘Ha!’ he chuckles. ‘There aren’t as many spreadsheets in the movies. The movies make publishing seem so glamorous. As if it’s this purely creative place to work. Which, sure, it can be at times, but I spend a lot more time worrying about potential PR disasters and problem-solving for authors and campaigns than attending glitzy book events.’

‘Isn’t that stressful?’

He sips his negroni. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s hard work. But there’s no other job like it. Every day I get to heal the child within me that used to get made fun of for reading during recess instead of joining everyone else on the playground. And working with authors? They have to get so vulnerable, sharing their work and speaking about it publicly. If I can make their day just a little bit easier as they chase their dreams, then I know I’ve done my job well.’ There’s a note of wistfulness in Elliot’s voice, as if he’s recalling a fond memory.

‘That’s really cool. I mean, it’s not every day people get to do that,’ I say.

‘Work with books and authors?’

‘Yes, but also go after their dreams. I think it takes guts to really lean into the things you want to do in your life.’

Elliot smiles, but this time he glances down, like he’s nervous.

‘What is it?’ I ask, puzzled by his smile.

‘Nothing,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m just glad.’

Nerves make my stomach lurch. ‘Glad about what?’

He lifts his head up and our eyes meet again. ‘Glad that I reached for that book that day,’ he says.

chapter eleven

now

I’m crying in the supply closet at work. The dread of seeing Elliot and the anxiety of the tour is suddenly soul crushing.

Which is why I need to remind myself of why I love writing. As I scroll through old articles of mine on the Sparked website on my phone, I wonder what happened to the writer who could put words on the page so effortlessly. Now I’m doomed with a blinking cursor and a blank page.