Page 63 of A Bookish Story

He still doesn’t respond.

“Well, what do you think?” I press when he hasn’t spoken for a few seconds.

“I think it could work beautifully as long as I don’t have to write it.”

But I have my own set of fears that I’ll be able to write something to follow up the success of the book.

“Do you think Kate will go for it?”

“I think anything that means she’ll get a sequel is going to be just fine with her.”

“Don’t mention it until we’ve fleshed out the plot and have a strong beginning.”

“All she expects from me next is my contracted book. The one that isn’t going well.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you get…unstuck?” I gaze at him from the condiment aisle. “Did my notes help at all?”

“They helped, and you’re right. The new book lacks the sentiment of my old book.”

I notice how he won’t even say the title anymore. The distance he’s created is getting wider.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it.”

He looks at me with those unbearably sad eyes, and grief and loss slam into me.

“You helped me a lot the other night when you reminded me we need to write without a safety net. Maybe that’s what’s happening to you now. You’re being too safe. Too cautious because you’ve had such massive success. It’s got to be intimidating.”

I can see he’s mulling over the idea in his mind and I count this as a small victory.

When there’s a knock on my shed door that evening, I’m surprised to find my mother. Since I got back from the store, I’ve been writing, alternatively thinking about Ryan, the Elizabeth Brogan family name, and losing track of time.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Mami scans me up and down.

I’m wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt. It’s my writing uniform and I can do without the judgment.

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s singles night at the parish! Did you forget?” She’s wearing her standard sleek pantsuit, black this time, accentuated with red lipstick, purse, and matching heels.

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to go.” I attempt to shut the door.

She pushes it open. “You said you would come with me. I need you for protection.”

“Protection?” I shove my hands on my hips. “It’s at a church.”

“Protection from myself. You know I make lousy decisions when it comes to men.”

I can’t deny this when my mind goes back to oily Seb. If I want her to pick a good man who could at least be half the man my father was, maybe I should go along and screen the prospects. Naturally, as a child, I would have loved to be given a choice. And I’m always better at doing this for others than I am for myself. Mami is obviously serious about this. It’s not like she can live her life without a man. If she’s going to stick around—and maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen—I have to save her from herself.

“Fine!” I throw my palms up. “I’ll be ready in a minute and no comments about what I’m wearing. You’re lucky I’m going to wear real pants. I’m not the one looking to find a man.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever you say.”

I hook a thumb to my chest. “And I get final say on these men or I won’t do it.”

“Yes, yes.”