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CHAPTERTWO
“Imean, it’s been a week. Like I said, it was probably a scam. Either that, or he emailed the wrong author. Or there was a typo in my email, and he realized I’m a terrible fraud who mixes up ‘their,’ ‘there,’ and ‘they’re,’ and he doesn’t want to work with someone so incompetent.”
The last one is impossible, I know. I’ve read that email twenty additional times since I sent it. There were no typos.
I pour wine into two glasses and hand one to Kassara.
“Or,” she offers in a sing-song voice, “he’s just been busy and hasn’t had a chance to get back with you.”
I give a look that says,get on board with my pessimism or get out.Luckily for me, Kassara is well-versed in, and completely immune, to my cynicism and terrible personality.
I’m not sure why she’s still here, honestly. She’s much too sunshiney to enjoy being around someone like me. But then again, what do I know?Show me back to my dark corner, sir.
I’ll stop mentally rambling now. That’s the burden of being a writer, truly. We spend so much time in our heads, we rarely experience the world outside of it. Not in the same way other people do.
“Maybe,” I say finally. “Anyway, how was your trip?”
“Fine.” She takes a sip of her wine as we make our way back to the living room. “When you’ve been to one conference, you’ve been to them all.” Her eyes narrow, and I sense an impending question. “Speaking of, when are you planning to start coming with me again? You keep putting it off.”
I flop down on the couch, careful not to spill a single drop of wine. It’s not even the good stuff, but still too precious to waste. “Um, I don’t know. Probably, like, never.”
“Why?” She studies me, sitting down carefully. Kassara works for one of the largest audiobook companies in the country. It’s how we met—at a writing conference I attended what feels like a lifetime ago. When we realized she’d just moved to Charleston from Chicago, our friendship felt like fate. She’s probably—definitely—been the only thing keeping me going over this past year. “You said you would try this year. I think it could be really good for you to get out and see people again. Everyone is always asking about you.”
“Like you said, if you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.”
She doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t push the issue any further. “Okay. Well, have you been working?”
“Yes,” I lie. “A lot, actually. Busy, busy.”
“Can I see what you have so far?”
She knows the answer to that, so I don’t entertain the question. “What are you reading lately? Anything good?”
“Murder as always,” she says, lifting the remote and browsing one of the many streaming services I’m subscribed to. “I’ve been listening to the new Lisa Regan book. What about you? Read anything good?”
Do the backs of wine bottles count?I don’t say that. Kassara knows about my drinking, but she doesn’t know the extent of it. Like any good alcohol enthusiast, I keep it hidden well, even from my best friend. “Not really. I’ve picked up a few things, but nothing’s really held my attention. So, I go back toGilmore Girlsfor the umpteenth time instead.” My phone chimes from beside me on the end table, and my heart skips a beat. It’s been doing that all week, but like all the other times, I’m positive this won’t be a reply from Owen. It’ll be a sale from a shoe store I used to love or a receipt from my recurring wine delivery subscription.
When I look at the screen, I have to do a double take. “Oh my god. It’s him.”
Kassara turns her head to face me, cautious optimism in her eyes. “Him who?”
“It’s Owen Doyle. The producer.”
She squeals, placing her glass down, and launches forward. “What’d he say? What’d he say?”
My phone takes forever to load the email, but when it finally does, I read his response aloud. “Mari, this is so exciting. We are looking forward to it. How does the thirtieth look for your schedule? We’ll both be in town that day, and we’d love to have you to our place for dinner and drinks instead if that works for you? If not, just let us know what would. We’re looking forward to it! Owen.”
I glance up at Kassara, whose grin is practically blinding. She grabs my arm and squeezes. “Oh my god, Mari! This is real! Oh my god! You’re going to go meet with a Hollywood producer! Holy cow!”
Her excitement is infectious, but I fight against it, a growing sense of worry looming in the pit of my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sensing my hesitation.
“I don’t know. What if I make myself look dumb? What if I’m not fancy enough? I don’t know anything about Hollywood. Besides that, I haven’t spoken to anyone aside from you in a year. I’m socially awkward. I’m going to ruin this somehow. I should just say I can’t make it and slowly blow him off, right?”
She shakes her head, taking my phone from my hand and placing both of her palms on my arms. “Oh, absolutely not. He’s the one who reached out to you. He said he’s a huge fan. What have you got to be nervous about? You don’t have to impress him by doing anything other than what you’ve already done. Writing killer books. He knows you aren’t in Hollywood. He isn’t expecting you to be an expert on his job. He just wants you to be you. Maybe he’ll be the one embarrassing himself when he fangirls over his favorite author.”
I roll my eyes, looking away doubtfully. “Yeah, okay. I’m sure he was just being polite. Besides, I hate to break it to you, but themewho wrote those books he loves so much is long gone and buried.”
