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It feels like razors are dancing under my skin as the vitriol I can barely even stomach pours out of me. I let out an involuntary scream as my pen finishes the last stroke, and I shove the sheets of paper into my bag in a rush.
I need it gone, covered… I’d even burn it if that wouldn’t completely defeat the purpose.
I take a huge breath and let it out, forcing my shoulders back down from around my ears as I close over the top flap of my leather bag.
It wasn’t easy, but at least it’s done.
As far as I’m concerned, that sheet of paper will die in that backpack, returning to the earth in a million years or so as both of them decay into nothingness.
But when Chase asks, I can say I’ve done it with truth in my heart, and now, all that’s left is trying to find a way to implement them into the story. No pressure, huh?
Triple sigh.
Now, I’ve only got about three weeks left to turn this book into something worthy of reading.
I guess I better get to work.
Wednesday, May 24th
Chase
Brooke shifts nervously and pulls at the collar of her bright-pink shirt as the producer for Wake Up, New Orleans counts her and the hosts down to the live shot right in the middle of the French Quarter.
Behind them, a live audience watches on with avid eyes, sidewalk cafés bustle with breakfast traffic, and a line of fancy, colorful buildings are highlighted with scrolling cast-iron balcony rails.
Ron Weakly, the lead TV personality here in NOLA, introduces Brooke to the viewers both in person and watching from their living rooms, and I look on as Brooke’s face lights up with one of her most captivating smiles. It’s subtle and a little nervous, but it illuminates the dewy grass color of her eyes in the prettiest of ways.
This week kicks off the annual Crawfish Festival, and the show notoriously spends the whole week right in the mix of the downtown action doing their broadcast. And with Brooke as the main guest this morning, they’ve invited her to sit in on pretty much everything. She’ll do an interview, cohost a few fun events, and even sample from the cook-off between half a dozen restaurants at the end.
I can still picture her improv routine in the car on the way here this morning. She impersonated Guy Fieri, Anthony Bourdain, and Gordon Ramsay one after another, the nerves about being a foodie on TV starting to get to her.
“Welcome to Flavortown, fish man!”
“I’m not afraid to look like an idiot, but this crawfish makes me smart.”
“You think this is a crawfish! My gran could do better! And she’s dead!”
Of course, that led to an explanation about the Food Network phase of her life, and how she unintentionally gained twenty pounds pretending to be a food critic. She said it without fear of judgment or self-critique, even joking about how Benji got jacked during that time to ensure he’d be able to spot her on a fall.
I smiled more in that twenty-minute car ride than in the entirety of my relationship with Caroline, and Brooke wasn’t even trying.
She doesn’t realize it, but she really is something special.
“She’s great, isn’t she?” the producer whispers to me as Brooke says the forty-fifth witty thing of the hour. I have to work to drag my eyes away from her huge smile and bright-green eyes, but I finally do to meet the producer’s gaze directly.
“Oh yeah. Brooke Baker is definitely the real deal.”
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, how long have the two of you been dating?”
“Dating?” I ask dumbly, not understanding the question. Though, if I’m completely honest, I’m a little distracted watching Brooke too. Just because this woman has decided to have a conversation with me doesn’t mean I’m ready and willing to miss anything Brooke might say in the interview.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologizes with a frown. “Are you married? None of her info said she was married, but that could be my mistake.”
I have to clear my throat as I laugh, glancing between Brooke and the female producer until my brain can process exactly what she’s saying. And after it manages that, it screams under the pressure of figuring out the right way to phrase my denial so it doesn’t sound offensive or defensive or any of the -fensives, really.
“Oh, okay. No. Sorry. I was a little slow to understand.” I chuckle with what I think sounds like ease. “I’m Brooke’s editor. I know it’s a little unorthodox for me to be tagging along, but we’re working on a pretty tight deadline with her next book to be published.”
Her eyes widen, and her glance mirrors the one I just performed moments ago. Back and forth, back and forth, from Brooke to me and back again until she looks like a bobblehead in an earthquake. “You…the two of you aren’t an item?” she asks again, her voice damn near disbelieving.
