Page 96
A week ago, I didn’t have the job I came to Chicago for. Now, I’m arguing about character motivation with an editor in a publishing house.
It’s not the fellowship I planned on. But for the first time since I arrived, that doesn’t feel quite so much like failure.
I delete my original note and start again. After a while, I get lost in the work and find my rhythm doing what I love, even if it means correcting fourteen things.
By the time I leave Wilder House, my brain feels like it’s been put through a blender—which means I need coffee.
Midnight Press is busy enough that the sound of the bell over the door nearly disappears beneath the low hum of conversation. Soft indie music plays through the speakers, and the air smells like espresso and cinnamon.
Avery spots me from behind the counter.
“Rough day?” Avery pats a spot at the counter.
I smile and make my way over there. Tossing my bag on the counter. “What gave me away?”
“The dead eyes.”
“What can I say, publishing is glamorous.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I move my bag onto an empty stool.
“My usual, please.”
“With the salted butterscotch?”
“Yep, I would let you surprise me again, but today I need my comfort blanket in the form of a latte.”
“Coming right up.” While Avery starts my drink, items near the book display catch my eye.
A stack of sweatshirts. I hop down off my stool to check them out, picking up the top one.
INTROVERT BUT WILL DISCUSS BOOKS
“Oh, come on.”
Avery glances over. “What?”
I hold it up. “You sell these too?”
“My sister makes them.”
“You have a sister?”
“Ivy.” She pours espresso over ice. “She has a dangerous combination of creativity and access to a screen printer.”
I rub my thumb over the soft fabric.
“I love it. How much?”
“Thirty-two.”
“I’m buying it.” I grab the shirt, walk back to my seat, and settle in.
“You haven’t even tried it on.”
“It understands me, Avery.”
