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If you are reading this . . .
Help.
Rule 1: Stay on point.
Chapter 9
I pace slowly across the rug as I stare at the manuscript in my hands.
The first forty-two pages are marked up all along the sides—my mystery editor having gone back and doubled, even, the comments on those first sixteen pages where he had critiqued before. In some places text has been sliced through for so long whole paragraphs are missing. At two points in particular he wrote a word and underlined it along with not one, not two, but three exclamation points.
I say “he” because of three clues that, when put together, have confirmed my suspicions.
The pen. The pen used carries a thick black ink to it, almost expensive looking in the way the ink lands on the page. It’s not a thin-tipped pink Sharpie, like Lyla likes to use. It’s not a good enough clue on its own, given I myself like to use a black pen on occasion, but it’s something, at least.
The concise choice of words. Now, I’m no expert, but according to one book I edited a while ago, Communication Between the Sexes, I distinctly recall the statistic that, on average, women use twenty thousand words a day—roughly three times more than men. And while the margins of each page are covered in comments, they tend to be short and to the point—to a fault. Never, ever, have I seen one compliment. It’s like the job is to point out errors, and so he is pointing out errors. Any fluffy compliment is only wasted time.
He told me about his girlfriend. Well, ex.
No man in his right mind would say this. If I had said this to my ex-girlfriend when we first met, she would’ve run.
My index finger stops on the comment, and I pause and look at the passage in question. It’s my leading man’s first words as he stands in the pickup line at the coffee shop and realizes he’s accidentally picked up Cecilia’s cup. I reread the passage:
Renaldo lifted the coffee cup to his lips and enjoyed the smooth, bitter taste of caffeine soothing his weary throat. Ah. Double Americano with just a touch of pumpkin spice. Exactly how he liked it. But as he lowered the cup and moved for the door, something caught his eye. The writing on the cup.
Cecilia.
The word was written in large, flowing script across the coffee cup, and yet . . . He took another sip. This was his drink. His particular drink. He’d recognize it anywhere.
“Mmm.”
He heard the woman murmuring contentedly as she took her own first sip. A young, beautiful woman with untamed curly hair and sparkling hazel eyes to match. And then he saw his own name, Renaldo, printed on her cup.
His eyes lit up. “Well, well, well,” he said, closing the remaining inches between them until their shoulders touched. He smiled down at her, the young, beautiful fawn. “Looks like my lucky day.”
He sounds like a serial killer.
Furthermore, what two people stand there murmuring delightedly about their drinks in the pickup line at a coffee shop? Illogical.
And for the love of all, pick different names. This is not an opera. You can have Renaldo. You can have Cecilia. You cannot have both.
And while my first reaction, which I seem incapable of helping in the face of any and all criticism, is indignation, the second—a bit surprisingly—is a little smile. I reread the passage, seeing it from his fresh angle, and all I can think is, Oh my gosh, he’s right.
Renaldo does sound like a serial killer.
I read halfway down the page and can’t help tittering as Renaldo continues, “I’ve been looking for someone . . . someone exactly like you. Come to my car. I want to show you something.”
And all I can think is, Cecilia, get outta there!
I pause momentarily with the manuscript in my hand as the snow drifts quietly past the stained-glass window, seeing for the first time what my chapter is. Laughing as I feel the anxiety from the past three days ebbing away. Laughing as I feel, for the first time, a sense of hope.
He’s going to help me.
I’m not going to have to do this alone.
When the chuckles stop, I grab my phone from a stack of books serving as a sort of nightstand to the beanbag and snap pictures of the comments in the margins for working through tonight. I don’t dare risk taking the manuscript home in case he decides to pop up here later and find more things to comment about. More issues to address. More problems to note.
It’s almost lunchtime, nearly time to leave, but I can’t help grabbing a pen from the top of the stack I carried to the meeting this morning. Quickly I write below his memo: And what fantastic pickup line did you use on your ex-girlfriend to win her heart, then? Because I’ve got nothing.
