Page 112 of Fate Fiction

“Hey,” he called up to the hands, “I’m on the phone with a soon-to-be famous author, want a signed copy of her book?”

“I don’t even have a copy of it,” I protested. “It isn’t even done⁠—”

“I’ll order you one,” he said to the hands.

“Why did you take my call if you’re about to be on a red carpet?” I asked.

“Camille is almost done, and then I have plenty of downtime to kill, so why not talk to my favorite author?”

“You haven’t even read anything I’ve written,” I replied.

Evan shrugged. “It’s funny, I don’t recall you ever describing yourself as a writer, just a person who writes sometimes. Usually only authors have agents and get book deals.”

“All set,” a rich feminine voice said off screen. “Don’t eat anything messy, again. I’m not coming back here to fix any marinara stains around your mouth.” A hand patted Evan’s shoulder and I heard footsteps cross the room and disappear.

It was the two of us alone now.

“I still feel like a person who writes sometimes, like none of this is a real thing that could actually happen.”

“And yet, it did. Funny how things somehow work out,” he said wistfully.

“Wait, I need to show you something,” I said. “It’s not official yet, but when they asked me about the dedication, I immediately knew what to put.” I sent him a screenshot of the document, still unedited and unpolished. He swiped away and I watched him tap on the message. My heart stirred as he read it over a few times. I had to fill the silence with something. “I-I didn’t know if you’d ever see this, but you were a much larger influence on me writing and publishing this than you realize.”

His eyes softened and a small smile spread across his lips. “Are you sure you want to waste your first book dedication on me?”

“No one else I could think of dedicating it to,” I replied. “It’s not too obvious, right? Like this isn’t breaching some imaginary NDA?”

“Not in the slightest,” I watched him reread it. “Though I expect to be gifted a signed copy.”

I read the dedication over again, remembering how I hastily added it to the beginning of the document right before I sent it over to my agent, a move I’d since learned was very atypical for un-agented, unpublished authors. It was a decision made in the spur of the moment. When I typed the words “the end” it felt natural to go back to the beginning, and back to the night this all started.

Somewhere, between the biting words and the deception, was the conception of something. Character descriptions jumbled together in crumpled paper, fragmented bits of the camp’s history scribbled down in bullet points, shards of Sue and Randy’s love story. There, splayed out on the wood floor, were the pieces of this story. While I put myself back together, the story fell into place.

I wrote the dedication never thinking I’d speak to Evan again. I envisioned a time in the near future where he was passing by an airport gift shop and he saw my name in bold font on a hardcover book. Maybe he’d pick it up and flip through the pages, or google my name plus author to prove that it wasn’t the same Dani Grant that had put a damper on his solo summer trip.

A sick part of me had hoped that he’d feel a pang of sadness reading those twenty words. Months later, nothing made my heart fill like a balloon quite like watching his lips curl up into a soft grin reading them.

To E.M. — without them this book may have never become anything beyond tattered notebooks scattered on a creaky wood floor.

“Are you watching this season?” he asked.

“Would you be shocked if I said no?”

“How much bribing would it take to convince you?”

“I already told you that you ruined the show for me, I don’t watch it and see Sir Erwyn anymore, all I see is my friend Evan playing pretend.”

“Friend,” he huffed out. A heavy beat of silence.

Friend still didn’t feel right. Friend was the word I used when I was smiling at my phone like a dork and someone asked who I was talking to. “Just a friend,” I’d say, then shamefully close my messages with Maybe: Evan.

Evan’s eyes flitted to the top of the screen and he grimaced.

“Someone is coming by to dress me before I head out. You should watch the red carpet live stream, I’ll send you a signal.”

“Like Carol Burnett tugging on her ear?” I questioned.

“Probably less overt,” he chuckled. He was distracted now, eyes darting towards the door and a light flickering out of his demeanor. When he turned his camera I caught a glimpse of an emerald green suit hanging in the corner.