Page 3 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Two more walk behind her, already pulling out their phones to break down everything that happened in the past fifteen minutes. The fifteen minutes that feel like both a lifetime and a blink.

Fifteen minutes.

That’s all the time I have, ever again most likely, to sit before a real professional and give my novel a real shot.

“—because I am Bryony Sophia Page, summa cum laude in literature studies at NYU, beautiful woman with the voice of an angel—”

I flush slightly. I do like my voice.

“—and the best English teacher hundreds of your students have ever sat under. A world changer. And a heck of a writer with a story to tell. My sister.”

“You changed your POV,” I murmur.

And sure enough she’s done it. She’s managed to put a hint of a smile on my face.

“I’m going back into court, but I’m calling for an update the second I get out.”

I nod and drop my phone tab down to silence it. Pause just before hitting the airplane button. Check one last time for a text message from Parker. Nothing.

Still nothing.

Of course, he has his own life and his life is on the other side of the world currently, but still, I had hoped he would’ve remembered to message me sometime today. Anytime, really. Given this moment has been all I’ve been able to think about the past six months.

I shake my head, forcing myself to remember. It’s hard being in a long-distance relationship. And it’s particularly hard when it’s the middle of the night his time.

Every victory I’m awake for, eager to share about, he’s sleeping through. And vice versa. It’s hard to be present for somebody else when you can’t even see the sun and moon at the same time.

I push aside my pride, ignore the little internal wound of neglect, remind myself about that one conversation when he said, “Bryony, it’s impossible to bother me when I’m asleep. I’m just over here dreaming of you. How much better is a conversation with the real thing?” and quickly type the words: I’m about to go in. Final pitch appointment! Wish me luck.

It sounds a bit forced. And I’m rethinking the command to wish me luck, wondering if I should add something else, something lighthearted and totally off topic, when the typing bubble on his end forms.

I stare as people start walking past me for the doors, my feet planted to the ground.

And then the text comes, and I exhale.

Good luck, B. They’d be crazy not to pick you.

A smile is plastered on my face as I turn off my phone. My lucky charm text came through.

I slip my phone into my bag.

Inhale deeply.

You know what? The failed pitch appointments simply don’t exist. They didn’t happen. They are all behind me and might as well have been bad dreams. This is the only moment that counts.

I check the arrangement of the folder tucked under my arm one last time. Raise my chin. Focus on a confident stride. And walk through the doors.

The pitch room is bright and emotionless and expansive. Twenty-five or so tables litter the room with two folding chairs on either side. Agents sit on the side facing the doors, nameplates on the tables, faces alert to the new charges coming through the doors. Scanning us with a flick of the eye first to our name badge and any accompanying glossy ribbons on our lanyard (i.e., multipublished author, TIFA award winner, contest finalist) and then continuing the scan for any other clues that they can scrape from our bodies. We’re the new recruits to the publishing army. One of us just may be, despite our pale faces and shaky gaits, the needle in the haystack they are hoping to find.

I already know what they see in me:

Bryony Page. Five foot five.

No lanyard of rainbow-colored ribbons falling down to my knees showing I’m important in any way.

Brown, uninteresting shoulder-length hair that matches the brown, uninteresting eyes and ensemble.

Department store clothing that shows, if you look closely, the hole where I pulled off the tag with my teeth. (So. At least I’m classy.)