Page 35 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“Is that tonight? Ah, you’re right. So it is. Oh.” He raises his finger, as though this is a novel idea. “Well, it might be nice to get together a group chat. Perhaps you two can even discuss the book you’re working on together—”

“Not together—”

“—right now. Maybe you could even brainstorm over that scene you’re stuck on.”

“What?” I screech, gritting my teeth together.

“What?” He shrugs. “You call me at all hours of the night to make me listen silently while you talk about whether the house needs to be ‘representative of Beau’s childhood’ or whether Pete’s actions were so villainous readers will find him unredeemable or whether the pomegranate juice should be on the table or beside it. Amelia has plenty of opinions—”

“Too many.”

I’m on the back end of a dozen ridiculous emails she sends per day. Ideas she just likes to throw out at random.

Just got back from Morocco. It’s stunning. We must make it there.

Look at this fantastic green juice mix I’ve been making. Put it in. In fact, she just has to be a fitness guru—it’s important to encourage my fans to live better. To be better.

All when I’m thirty thousand words into a piece of work that has nothing to do with green juice and is three thousand miles away from Morocco.

Does anybody even know how hard it is to randomly throw Morocco into a book about a low-wage baker’s attempt to scrape together finances and move beyond a rough past to get back his daughter lost to the foster care system, all enveloped in a hearty rom-com?

Very hard.

“Never. Ever. In my life would I ever ever ever seek to brainstorm with that woman. She already casually adds plagues into my life every time I have a conversation with her. Not to mention, the woman literally replied when asked if she uses a dog-ear or bookmark, ‘Oh, bookmark absolutely. I’m a vegetarian.’”

I give him a grim face.

Jack chuckles quietly at that one.

I will not be dissuaded.

I level my gaze. “If you recall, that was the same interview where she was asked, ‘You are so active in your tours! How on earth do you have time to handle both writing and all of these visits around the country?’ And she said a breezy, ‘Writing is just so natural, if you really think of it. I just jot down a little problem and follow the trail to its natural conclusion. Honestly, I think the real challenge is figuring out how to make it from Atlanta to Nashville in rush-hour traffic with your lipstick in place. I mean, believe me. To get to all these beautiful events with you wonderful people is the real challenge. But’—cue high-pitched giggle—‘that’s the business of entertainment!’”

Jack chews his lower lip as he desperately tries not to smile at the idiocy of Amelia’s words and prove my point. And, I imagine, he’s also trying pretty desperately to dig up some redeeming thing to say.

“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t even try to free her from that horrific interview. No. No no no no no. I don’t care how great the pie is, I don’t want to meet her.” I slice my arms in the air. “I can’t take it. No more meetings.”

And then something occurs to me. I give him a suspicious squint. “What happened? What dumb thing did she do?”

What exactly has caused this disruption in my life?

It’s maddening. Maddening to live a life joined at the hip with someone who can manage to screw up so much. We’re conjoined twins. Dependent on each other and yet I’m consistently feeling that I carry 90 percent of the weight.

Jack tilts his head, as though trying to pick his words carefully. At last he says, “Well. She didn’t have the best interview this week.”

“And?”

I essentially gave her CliffsNotes for the talk on the book. Note cards detailing what precisely she should say in little snippets about the book. This is not my problem. She should read the books she continuously claims are her own.

“And . . . the team has come up with an idea.”

My voice lowers further. “And?”

“And . . . the reality is, we need to have a group conference and make some decisions. For better or worse, you two are stuck together.”

“It’s worse. It’s definitely worse.”

“And it’s a good job—”