Page 9 of A Bookish Story

Why don’t you write a real book?

“This is a real book! And this makes me happy!” I shout to no one now. “Because it makes a lot of people very, very happy!”

Well, I obviously can’t work for the professor any longer. He should have been canceled for this but maybe he’s not famous enough in the first place. So, I’ll resign from my position, but not before giving him an earful.

I discovered that my employer feels romance writers have…what was the word he used? Oh yes, bastardized the publishing industry. That one still hurts, like someone hit me with a two by four, then left me in the desert to die of dehydration.

If Ryan thinks I can work for him after hearing the drivel that came out of his flapping jaw, he has another think coming.

Pushing the brain cobwebs away, I try to figure out how best to do this. My resignation has to make a bold statement. He has to know why I’m leaving a good paying job that, face it, I need. It’s a chance for him to learn something. My quitting will show him (and the world) that money is insignificant when it comes to values and beliefs and I can’t work with him. No matter how good he looks on the outside, his insides are rotting like a soft brown banana.

I think about texting him but I don’t do well when I rage text. I sometimes rage write but it’s too easy to say the wrong thing behind the safety of a screen. Monday, I’ll show up with the proper speech, which I’ll write today. I’ll give him a point-by-point analysis of how and why he’s so wrong about romance books. There are testimonials I can quote and speeches I’ve personally heard, like the one Julia Quinn gave at the Romance Writers of America in New York City in 2015. She told the story of how a mother and daughter were reading one of her regency romance books together, during the mother’s chemo treatments. The daughter buried her mother with the book. I was there among all the others who shed tears listening to that speech. Men just don’t understand what women mean to each other, how our books feed our souls and are connections. I can’t tell every man, but I can tell the professor and I will.

I go to work on my speech right after my brain wakes up, but I’m interrupted by the phone buzzing. Ryan. It’s Saturday, but we did say I’d be available and on call for emergencies. I consider texting him, asking him what he wants. The phone finally stops ringing. Let him leave a voicemail. Then it starts ringing again. Still Ryan. Super.

I answer the phone with my raspy “I’m sick” voice. “Hello.”

“It’s me, Ryan Brady, your employer. You sound terrible. Are you okay?”

I roll my eyes, as if he needs an introduction and I need the reminder I’m his subordinate.

“I’m fine. If you need something today, it will have to wait.”

“I’m not worried about work. Are you sick? Do you need anything?”

“I don’t need anything from you, Professor,” I say in my snarkiest tone.

“You should call me Ryan. I’ve been meaning to say that.” If he gets the message that I now hate his guts, he ignores it. “If you’re sick you need soup, decongestant, cough drops.”

“No, I’m not⁠—”

“I’m coming over to bring you some chicken soup.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“You should have chicken soup. It’s no problem, I’m in the area,” he says. And then after a beat asks, “Where do you live?”

“Honestly, you don’t need to come by. I’ve got soup.”

“I’m coming by.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not? Do you think I’m trying to put the moves on you? Luci, I’m not. I would never make you uncomfortable. I’m a professional.”

A professional what I want to ask. A professional asshat?

But not only do I hate every fiber of his being, I haven’t finished the speech. I don’t really want Mr. Bra—Ryan to know I live in what amounts to a hovel. He’ll think my giving up the generous salary he’s paying me foolish, given my situation. Maybe he’s right but that’s hardly the point.

Then again, if I ever want to be on even footing with him, I’ll be more at ease in my own place. Small and efficient, but my territory. I’ll give him the speech and then hustle him out the only door. No need to come in Monday, giving me more time to hit the ground running for a new job. Maybe Desdemona’s estate will give me a raise. I’ve never asked so it’s worth a try.

“I need to talk to you about something. It’s urgent and time sensitive,” Ryan says.

“Is this about work?”

“Well, yes. In a way. Let me bring you soup. Please.”

“Okay, fine, but just for a few minutes. Come in through the side gate of the backyard and don’t bother anyone in the main house. You may as well know, I live in a garden shed.”