Page 36 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“That I do away from her in the safety of my cat pajamas—”

“And you like your job—”

“I like that my book is getting closer to contract with you as my agent—”

“And you have a contract saying you will show up on occasion when requested to be there.”

That’s it. I pop open his glove box, take hold of his obsessively organized pairs of sunglasses, and start dispensing them in various spots around the car. “You should’ve told me.”

He commences picking up the sunglasses from the dash and gearshift. “And you would have found some excuse to hide in your apartment and renege your contractual duties if I’d have told you about this meeting ahead of time. And then that would lead to a broken contractual relationship. And that would lead you to lose your job. And your primary source of income—because we both know you teach for next to nothing. And your precious opportunity to squirrel away money for the job from which you get paid next to nothing. The place where you actually pay them to teach. As in, indentured servitude. So,” Jack says, turning up the air coolers on my seat. “Amazing tomato pie.”

I give him the death stare. Partly because it’s very cruel what he’s doing, and partly because I know he’s right. I would have found an excuse, any excuse, not to be within yelling distance of Amelia. Not because I yell, exactly, but because she does.

“And don’t worry. I’m going to do my best to make this a pleasant conversation for everyone. I am on your side.” He gives me what is supposed to be a meaningful look.

I frown. “Don’t give me that look. You also give her that look.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.” I throw my hands over my eyes. “Don’t give me any look right now that you give all your other clients to woo them into trusting you with all their heart and soul.”

“Believe me, Bryony. You’re the only one getting this look.”

I wait for several seconds, my feet on the dash, eyes squeezed shut. Then I venture a peek at him.

He’s there, looking at me with that same expression. The kind of look in his eyes that says, “Let’s just jump off this cliff together. It’ll be okay.”

And then you do. Jump off an entire stupid cliff like an idiot and smack flat onto the ground three hundred feet down.

We stare off, minus the flicks back to watch the interstate, for some time.

He with his “Trust me, I’m harmless” gaze, me with my “I hate everything about this moment and possibly you too” glare.

At last, he caves.

“You know what I think?” He shifts gears rapidly. “I think we need to get you that standing desk you were moaning about the other day for your neck pain. Let’s throw in the ergonomic keyboard too. A business expense covered by the agency. We need to keep your health a top priority.”

“Jack.”

But he’s already calling up Siri to call up his PA on the phone. She’s answered and he’s telling her to run down the internet and find the best standing desk company cards can buy. She says they have one in black and one in mahogany.

I jump in asking CJ about a whitewash option, and ta-da.

He manages to successfully distract me until we are, in fact, in Philly. Once inside the small restaurant, we are directed to a giant booth in the corner. The one tiny sliver of light in this is that Jack was honest about one thing, and we actually ended up at Gaeta’s after all.

Just to throw more stale basil onto the evening, four pinched smiles greet us as I sit down and slide the Gaeta’s menu out of the way. Bright side: The tomato pie is truly the best and only thing worth getting here—as Jack and I discovered last year around the Fourth of July. The rest of the menu is just made up of filler words. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t even know how to make—my eyes flicker down to the menu and read a random line—sautéed shrimp.

Jack motions for me to scooch over, closer to the four figures, as he scoots in beside me.

I’m stranded here now.

Locked in.

Mona from publicity sits directly opposite me. Midthirties. Diehard publishing type. Always up with the latest trends. Always trying to get her authors to partake in unorthodox methods to keep them on the leading edge, like setting that one eighty-year-old up in a desk and chair on a floating sheet of ice to do a “fascinating” news video interview detailing his new fiction book—written in tandem with a real, live PhD—of which the main character is a scientist studying the effects of climate change on the Antarctic glaciers. And oh, by the way, please be careful not to slip, Richard. That kind of thing. She’s got a new hairstyle today. Actually, she always has new hair. This time it’s razor cut at the jaw, no doubt symbolizing her cutting-edge approach to life.

Susanna, Amelia’s/my editor, gives me a sheepish, apologetic smile. Early forties. Two young kids who scribble adorably on her papers sometimes and leave her perennially, nervously on edge. Her hair is done up in what looks like yesterday’s bun. Her big round glasses are adorable on her rounded chipmunk cheeks per usual. She looks at me wearily, but friendly lines bracket her smile as though she, too, was dragged here somewhat against her will.

Amelia’s young lapdog, Penny, sits beside her in head-to-toe yellow, poised already with pen in hand. Amelia takes Penny everywhere, because apparently Amelia doesn’t understand how to use her phone for note-taking and consequently treats Penny like a living Siri. She seems nice enough, not that I know her very well, considering Amelia trades out the Pennys like she trades out her cars—which, for the record, is roughly every three months.