Meet Me in the Margins

Dedication
Toallthewonderfulpeopleatmyownpublishinghouse,withaspecialtipofthehattoKimCarltonandMikeBzozowskifor
livingouttheirowninspiringlovestory.
Contents
Cover
TitlePage
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Epilogue
DiscussionQuestions
Acknowledgments
AbouttheAuthor
AcclaimforMelissaFerguson
AlsobyMelissaFerguson
Copyright
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Guide
Cover
Contents
ProloguePrologue
From:ClaireDonovan
Received:9:17AM
To:SavannahCade
Subject:Manuscript?
Savannah,
Haveyoumadeanymoreprogressonthatbookideayoubroughtuptomeatconferencelastyear?Iwasjustsittinginaneditorial
meeting,andyourstorycametomind.Wouldlovetotakealook.

Bestwishes,
ClaireDonovan
ChiefEditor,Romance
BairdBooksPublishing
Draft
From:SavannahCade
Saved:9:21AM
To:ClaireDonovan
Subject:Re:Manuscript?
DearMrs.Donovan
Draft
From:SavannahCade
Saved:9:22AM
To:ClaireDonovan
Subject:Re:Manuscript?
DearClaireDonovan
Draft
From:SavannahCade
Saved:9:24AM
To:ClaireDonovan
Subject:Re:Manuscript?
DearClaire,
Thankyousomuchforyouremail!I’mso,sosorryIdidn’tgettoitrightafterconferenceasIsaid.IpromiseI’mnotoneofthoseaspiringwriterswhounloadsathousanddetailsofthestoryintheirheadsoneverystrangertheylanduponatconferencesbutthencan’tfollowthroughwhenaneditoractuallyrequeststoseethemanuscript.Truly.

ItwasjustthatIrealizedaftertalkingwithyouthatthefinalscenewasmissingthebigbangattheend,andCecilia’s
characterreallywasn’tallthatlikableafterall,andthenwhenIfinallymanagedtoamendthoseissuesmymanuscriptwas
twelvethousandwordsover.SothenIspentthenextmonthagonizingoverwheretocut(youknow,King’swhole“killyour
darlings”thingisreallytruefromthewriter’sside—hereI’dbeencasuallytellingmyownauthorstoslashtheirmanuscripts
fortwoyearsandneverreallyunderstoodhowtrulyGUTWRENCHINGitis.Ikilledoffawholecharacterandamstillweepy
forhim).

ButIamineditsnowandjustneedtogooveritacouplemoretimes.Sosorryagaintohavehadyouwaitingonit.I’ll
besuretohaveittoyouintwoweeksthreeweeksonemonth,tops

Delivered
From:SavannahCade
Sent:9:26AM
To:ClaireDonovan
Subject:Re:Manuscript?
DearClaire,
Howthoughtfulofyoutoreachout.Iplantohavethemanuscripttoyoubytheendoftheday.
Warmestregards,
SavannahCade
AssistantAcquisitionsEditor,PenningtonPenChapter1
Pacingthebackcornerofthepackedmeetingroominoutstandinglyuncomfortableheels,Imoveassilentlyaspossiblealongthethreefeetofavailableaislespacebetweenmybegrudgingly
accommodatingcoworker,Clyve,andthehordeofbeady-eyedospreystaringdownatmefromthevintagewallpaper.Ifrownat
theeerilystenciledbirds,likeIalwaysdowheneverI’mcalledtotheMagnoliaRoom.ThereisapausebetweenMs.Pennington’s
words,andIsensetheneedtonodwiththeothersasIcheckmywatch.Only3600stepsfortheday,andit’salreadynearing
noon.

Ipivotdangerouslyononethinheelandtakeasmaller,quickersteponthethickredcarpet,allwhileslashingthreewords
attheendofaparagraph.Thisisoneofthebenefitsofbeinganassistantacquisitionseditoratapublishingcompanymore
vintagethantheeighties-styledjumpsuitscirclingbackintofashionamongteens.Editorshereareconstantlyluggingaround
thickstacksofpaperwithpensbehindtheirears,jottinglast-minutenotesonauthors’manuscripts,lookingharried.

Infact,atPenningtonPublishing,you’dlooknoticeablyoffifyouweren’tdraggingaroundatleastonemanuscripttooneofthehalfdozenmeetingsmakingupyourday.Hencewhynoneoftheeyes
intherowsaheadoraroundmesomuchasflickerasIflipfromonepagetoanotherduringthismeeting.

Plusthere’sthefactthatI’mnotaninchoverfivefeettall.Andoneofthebenefitsofnotbeinganinchoverfivefeet
tallinapublishinghousewhose“conferenceroom”isaconvertedlivingroomofanoldVictorianmansionisthathalfthe
staffhastostand,andIcanmultitaskmyheartoutbehindthemwithoutbeingseen.

AndIdotrytomultitask.AtleastongooddayswhenIfeeloneofthoserareburstsofgenuinemotivation—oratleastwhen
mysisterprodsmeuntilIgivein.BecauseIamaCade.Specifically,SavannahCade.AndtheCadesareapurebreeddistinguished
byindefatigableenergy,markedenthusiasm,andadashofinsanity.Seamlesslyexceedingexpectationsiswhatwedo.

It’sjust…alittlemorechallengingforme.
“PenningtonPublishinghasbeenacornerstoneofthenonfictionandliteraryfictionmarketsforoverfiftyyears,”Ms.Pennington,
CEOofPenningtonPublishing,says,grippingthepodium.Hereyesglintlikethesixcandle-likelightsontheantiquebrass
chandelierhanginginthecenteroftheroom.“Why?BecausePenningtondoesn’tbowdowntopressure.BecausePenningtonwon’t
conformbythrowingawayourhigh-standingprinciplesforameredollarinourpockets.HereatPennington,weactuallybelieve
inthecontentweproduceasameansofevolvingandfine-tuningthemindsofourreadersandthecultureatlarge.Unlikeotherhousesliningthegrocery-storeshelveswith”—hernosewrinkles,asthoughshecanbarelyhandlespittingoutthewords—“commercialfictionasquicklyastheycan,Penningtonworkstirelesslytoproduceonlythemostcurated,thoroughlyvettedmanuscriptsworth
printingonthepage.Onlythemostcurated,vettedmanuscriptswebelievetheworldneedstoread”

IraiseabrowasIslashanotherword.
It’sanicesentiment,butIdon’tknowifthewholeworldneededtohaveintheirpossessionmylatestedit:TheIncredibleWorldofWords:AnEpistemophiliac’sGuide.
“Andthat’swhy,despitetheonslaughtofcrisesthrownourwaylastyear,PenningtonPublishingwillcontinuetobethefoundationalplacereadersandbooksellerslooktoforthecomingyear.Andit’sforthatreasonIwantyoualltogivea
warmwelcometothenewestemployeeofourteam.”

Mypenslipsontheunderliningofaword.Iliftmyhead.Anewemployee?
ThroughthesliverofspacebetweentwoelbowsIseeMs.Penningtonholdingontothepodiumwithtwostronghandsasshe
looksdownatheremployees,hersharpblueeyesnarrowedasifreadingallourminds:Someonespeakup.Idareyou.
Slowly,aroundofapplausepicksuparoundtheroom.
Thethingis,thepastfewyearshavebeenhardonPenningtonPublishing.Notjustus,really.It’sbeenthiswayformostsmallerpublishersnotyetswallowedupbyoneoftheBigFive.DespitePennington’syearsofglory(ofwhichMs.Penningtonisonlytooquicktoremindeveryoneateveryturn),ithasn’tbeenabletokeepupwiththesolidchuggingofthebigger,well-oiledmachines.Penningtonisasailboat.AbeautifulPenDuickregattacutterwhoseownerslideshishandovertherosewood,mahogany,teak,andotherexotictropicalwoodsofthehullwithpridewhilewatchingthevastwhitesailoverheadbillowinthesea-saltbreeze.Intricatelydetailed.Unlikeanyother.
Butstilljustabobbingspeckcomparedtotheoceanlinerchargingthrough.
Whichiswhyeveryoneinsidethesepopsicle-green,osprey-riddenwallsclapsnowlikeobedientpenguinsoncueatawaterparkshow.It
iswhyTerryinAccountssmoothsdownhisMobyDickTharSheBlows!whale-spottingnecktieeveryfivesecondswheneverMs.Penningtonisintheroom.ItiswhyLylachucksherAirPodsbeneathherdeskwheneverwehearMs.Pennington’snailstapimpatientlyonthecasingofaneighboring
officedoorduringoneofherspontaneous“visits.”ItiswhyIhavetokeepBand-Aidsinmypursethesedaystohandlethetormentcausedbythesediabolical,aka“professional,”heels.

Becausewearetheonesleft.ThesurvivorsofthegreatPenningtonbloodshed.

“I’mawarethatwehavelostquiteafewdedicatedemployeesinthepastcalendaryear.The29percentreductioninstaff
hasbeen…”Ms.Pennington’slong,slimnostrilsflareslightlyasshebreaksdownthewordintoeachclearsyllable.
“…chall-en-ging.Eachoneofushasbeenrequiredtotakeonadditionaltasks.”

Herpitchheightensassheliftsafingerintheair.“ButthatispreciselywhywewillriseagainbeneathMr.Pennington’sexpertise.”

Wait.
Mr.Pennington?Asin…

“Amanwhoseexperienceoftenyearsinoneofthemostsuccessfulpublishinghousesintheworld,”shecontinues,“willprovidefreshinsightandnewangles.”Hereyesgrowsteely.“Helpingustoprunewhenandwherenecessaryinordertoblossomforyearstocome.Mr.Pennington,wearethrilledtohaveyoujoinusasVPandpublisherofourmostreveredline,Pennington
Pen.”

Forasecond,thereisnothingbutstunnedsilenceasthoseseatedinthefrontturntheirheadsandthosesardinedinthe
backcranetheirneckstoseetheman,meltedintotheaudiencejustamomentprior,stand.Mypen,forgotteninmyhand,
slidesacrossthepage,leavingalongstreakofblack.

“Ssssssuper.”
Lyla,sittingcasuallyonthedeepwindowsilloftheexpansivewindowinfrontofme,rollshereyes,revealingtheglimmer
oflastnight’smetalliceyeshadow.

LylaisoneofthemanyinNashvillewhoselongblondhairaccountsforhalfofherbodyweight,whosecircleoffriendswho
knowherrealnamegrowssmallerbytheyear,andwho,liketheNutcracker,onlyreallycomestolifewhentheclockticks
someinsanelylatehour.Onlyinsteadofwakinguptobattleratsandtourchildrenaroundsomebizarredreamland,shecan
typicallybefounddownatthestrip,perchedonabeer-stainedbarstool,singingherheartout.LylaistoNashvillewhat
skinnywaitressesintheirtwentiesaretoNewYorkCity.Adimeadozen,starryeyedtothebitterend,andpositivelycertain
theircurrentdayjobtofundthingslikefoodandclothingisonlyamomentarypitstopontheroadtofreedom.Andwhile
youcanseeMs.Pennington’seyestwitchingwithdesiretochuckLylaandherlaptoponthestreetjustabouteverymeeting,
hercoverdesignsanddigitalmarketingaresecondtonone.AndImeanthat.Secondtonone.Shehasliterallyrolledtwofull-timejobsintoone.

“Well,atleastsomeonecangotellHarryitwasn’tabouthislittlerun-inwithMs.Penningtonoverthosegalleys,”Lylamutters—loudenoughthatseveralintherowbesideherturntheirheads.“Justsomegoodold-fashionednepotism.”
“Shh,”JeannaBanks(PenningtonTrophydivision,sixyears)hissesbeforeturningbackaround.

Harry—dearoldHarry,whobroughtthesameegg-saladsandwichtoworkeverydayforthepasttwenty-twoyears—gotTheEmail
fourweeksprior.NobodywantstogetTheEmail.ThelastthinganyemployeeofPenningtonPublishingwantstoreceiveis
theemailaddressedtothemwiththesubjectline:MEETINGREQUESTED.

Iturnfromthewallandpaceback,andLyla,withherapathetic,I-hate-these-meetingsgaze,sweepshereyesovermymanuscript.
Asshedoesso,herfaceclears.Sheraisesoneperfectlyarchedbrow.“Isthat…?”

“IpromisedI’dturnitintoday,”Ireply.
“Yeah,but…here?”

Sothisiswhatitfeelslike,beingtheoneonthereceivingendofaraisedeyebrow.
Allourlivesithasbeentheotherwayaround.Me,therulekeeper,theonestayingtightlywithinthelines.Lyla,thefree
spirit.Smugglinginherdiary—vibrantlypinkandcoveredinheartsontheoutside,secretswithin—intomiddleschoolinseventh
gradeandholdingitbrazenlyopenduringlunchperiodwhileIsilentlyhaveapanicattackonherbehalf.Lyla,gailypitching
inwiththeotherseniorstofillupPrincipalPeterson’sofficewithorangeconesduringspiritweek,allwhileIstandguard,
listeningtomykneesquake.

“Ihavetosenditintoday,”Irepeatswiftly.“Ijustneedafewminutestosqueezealasteditin.”
Outofthecornerofmyeye,amanstepsuptothepodiumbesideMs.Pennington,andsheshakeshishand.
Likethey’venevermetbefore.
Likethisisn’ttheonlyhumanbeingstandingbeforeherwithhalfherchromosomes.
Istifleagrinandkeepon.
Thethingis,everyoneknowsMs.Pennington’ssongotsackedfromSterlingHousethreemonthsago.Everyonewasonhighalert
thedaywegotthemassPubNewsemail.ItinformednotonlytheemployeesatPenningtonbuteveryreputablepublisher,literaryagent,filmagent,andeveryone
elserelatedtotheindustrydowntotheaspiringauthortappingawayinsomebasementthatSterlingHouse’snewesteditorial
directorwasJimArrowood.Ms.Pennington’sbelovedsonhadnotsimplybeenonfurloughduringthepandemicof2020.Hehad
beenreplaced
ThesonoftheQueenofHeartshadbeentossedoutofNewYorkCityandlandedhere,backinNashville.
AndnowMs.Penningtonispatchingupherson’ssituation.
“Thankyoufortheintroduction.”WilliamPenningtonclaspsbothsidesofthepodium,justashismotherdid.Hisposture
isasperfectashismother’s,asthoughtheybothhaverodsattachedtotheirspine.Theylooklikeacoupleofpenguins
standingsidebysideinimpeccablegraysuits—thekindthataresleekandmind-numbinglydullandthatfewinthisroomcould
afford.Hisstrikingicicle-blueeyes—alsothesameashismother’s—piercetheroom.Andlikeher,hefrowns.

Gazesatusasifwe’rejuveniledelinquentstryingtobreakoutofthebus
“I’mWilliamPennington.Someofyoumayremembermeasachild.”
“LittleWilly!”Inthefront,oldBerniePeterson(PenningtonTrophy,thirty-fouryears)waves,andWilliam,withoutsmiling,nodscurtly.
“Iwon’tkeepyouunnecessarily.Authorsarenowmakingtheirwaytousfortheconference,andweallknowhowimperative
itistoprepareasmuchaspossible.FromwhatI’vegathered,nobodywantsarepeatoftwoyearsago.”

Ihalt.
Great.Justgrrrreeeat
Mystomachlurches,justasitalwaysdoesatthementionofmyfirstLibrariansofAmericaConferenceandExhibition—or,
forshort,LOA.Iraisemymanuscripthighertoavoidanyone’seyes.

So,Ihaddonethistiny,innocuousthingoflosingfourhundredbooksandtheentiresetofpromotionalmaterialsformy
author,whohadflownacrossthecountryforhissigning.He’dendedupsigningbitsofscrappaperandbookmarksthatwereactuallypromotionsforotherauthorsand—inoneincrediblyuncomfortablemoment—oneman’sbulgingbicep.

There’salottorememberforthesebigevents.Noteasywhenyou’veonlyworkedforthecompanyatotaloftwoweeks,okay?

4200steps.
MaybeMs.Penningtonhadn’tspecificallysaidwho’ddoneit,Itellmyself,movingmyeyesfrommywatchandflippingapage.
MaybeWilliamhadjustbeentoldthestoryinanoff-handedway,like,“Yes,oneofouremployees—whoturnedoutbequite
bright,really,aninvaluableemployeeduringtheseharshandtryingtimes—hadtheunfortunateexperienceofbeingundertrained
asanewhire,and,poorthing,sheendeduphavingto…”

IhalflistenasImarchon,myeyesscanningforanymisspellingsorglaringerrors.Therearen’tmany,onlyoneortwonoteseverydozenpages,whichonlyfuelstheinnerfirehungrytorunuptomyofficeandemailthemanuscriptrightnow.
Ms.Penningtonwouldn’tfiremeforabathroombreak,wouldshe?Imean,yes,technicallyDonnagotTheEmailtwodaysafter
dashingtothebathroomwiththestomachbug.Butthatwascoincidental.Right?Thathadtohavebeencoincidental.

AndhowmanytimeshaveIeditedthismanuscriptatthispoint?Twodozentimes?Fiftytimes?Ahundred?Whateveritis,itcertainlyfeelslikeathousand.

Andthatfeeling,asI’vetoldmyownauthorssomanytimes,meansit’sdone.It’sfinallyready.That’sthetellingmoment.
Orwhenthedeadlinehits.Whichevercomesfirst.
“Solet’sstaysharp,people,”WilliamPenningtonsaysasIpivotonmyheel.Lessthantwentyminutesonthejobandhe’s
alreadytheperfectreplicaofhismother,droningonaboutrazor-thinbudgetsandhowhewon’thesitateto“pruneusback”
attheslightesterror.

Ilickthetipofmyindexfingerandflickthecurrentpageovermypaperclip.It’snotjustanypaperclip,mindyou.Fourteen
karatsofantiquerosegoldintricatelytwistedintotheshapeofasparrow,thisoversizeclipistheoneMomgavemeon
myfirstdayina“realjob.”It’stheclipsheherselfusedforovertwentyyearsonhermostpromisingpapersandprojects
aschairofherdepartmentatBelmontUniversity.Onepasseddownfromherownmother,whousedittokeepherpapersinplace
whilefightingagainsthealthinequitiesamongthepovertystrickenasthefirstfemalesurgeoninherstate.Andhermotherwho—I’mstillabithazyonthedetails—apparentlymoreorlessendedthewar.

Youknow,typicalCade-levelstuff.
WhileImaynotbeshatteringglassceilingsleftandrightlikemyancestors,Ihavereservedthepaperclipforonlythe
mostpromisingofstoriesoutofrespectforitsheritage.

Andnow,withitsgoldenwingsclingingtightlytothepapers,itisreservedforthestorythatismyown.
“Tonightisabignight,”Penningtoncontinues.
Iflipanotherpage.I’msoclosetotheendmyheartstartsracinginstepwithmypace.
“Theeightauthorsattendingthisweekend’sconferencerepresent46percentofoursales.Tolosetheirtrustinusthrough
ourownperformanceistopotentiallycostusoneofourfourimprints.Weneedthem.Butrightnow,Penningtonauthorsare
afraid.Mostauthorsacrosstheboard,forthatmatter,areafraid.Tensions
“That’shittingabittooclosetohomeforhim,isn’tit?”murmursLyla
“Peoplewanttoknowtheyarestandingonsolidground.Sowhentheygethere,they’regoingtobelookingaroundforclues
aboutthestatusofPenningtonPublishing.Andit’sabsolutelyimperativewegivethemnothingtoworryabout.”WilliamPennington
levelshisgaze.“ImperativeSo,Marketing,getthosedisplayslookingperfect.Assistants,makesuretheywantfornothing.Andeditors,dowhateverittakesthisweekendtokeepyourauthorshappy.Whatever.It.Takes.IftheseauthorswanttospendtwohundreddollarsondinneratFleming’sSteakhouse,whipoutthecompanycardlikewe’remadeofmoney.IftheywanttomeetyouatfiveinthemorningthisSaturdaytospendthenexttwelvehoursdissectingtheirnextwork-in-progress,you’dbetterbesittingintheirhotellobbyatfourthirty,perkyandwithasecondcupofcoffeeinhand.Idon’tcarewhatyoudosolongasattheendoftheweekendtheygetontheirplanesrememberingPenningtonPublishingasthemostdedicated,engaging,stablepublishingcompanygiving110percenttoensuretheirbooksoutsellanyothersinthemarket.Iwantthemtocomeawayfrom
thisvisitincapableofthinkinganythingotherthanoneword:perfectio—”

Ireachthewallandpivotbutthen,inablink,heararatherpeculiarsoundfrombelow.
Itsoundslikecellophanepapercrinkling.
Butthatcan’tberight,IfindmyselfthinkingasIturnmyeyestowardthefloor.Afterall,wherewouldthecellophanepaperbecomingfrom?Who
wouldbringcellophanepaperintoameetingroom?Andwhyonearthwoulditbedirectlyundermyfeet?

Andthen,inthatnanosecondinwhicheverythingmakesterriblesense,Ifeelit.
Thelightningstrikeuponmyankle.Mybonescracklingastheygrindagainsteachotherinwaysthebonesofnoankleanatomically
should.

Ilookdownandseemyfootoverturning,asifinslowmotion,asthedaggerofmythinblackheelflipssidewaysontheplush
redcarpet.Ithrowmyleftfootforward,tryingtostabilizemyself,butinlungingonlymanagetolandonYossi’sheelin
frontofmebeforethatanklegivesaswell.

WithbothanklescollapsedIfallforward,headsandsuitsrisingoneithersideofmyperiphery,thecarpetrushingtoward
me—onegiganticpoolofred.Ithrowmyhandsoutjustbeforemybodyhitsthefloorinatangledmess.

Thecarpetburnsagainstthesideofmyface,myarms,myshins.Dimly,Ihearthesoundofmypenlandingandclickingoffonthecarpetacoupleofinchesfrommyface.Feel,tomyfreshhorror,thebreezeonmybacksidewheremyskirthasflippedupandisnowrevealingthepoorlychosenunderwearIputonthismorning.Ofcoursethismomentcouldn’thavecomeduringmycheekybikinistreakof2019.OfcoursethishadtohappenwhenI’dprettymuchgivenuptheparanoiathatthisexactsituationcouldonedaypossiblycometofruition.
WhenI’ddecidedthatnobodywouldeverneedtocutthroughmyclothesinacarcrash.Thattherewasneverreallygoingto
beamomentinthedeadofnightwhenthefirealarmwentoffthroughtheentirebuildingandIwasleftstrandedinthemiddle
ofthestreetinmygrannypantiesmakingsmalltalkwiththeneighbors.

AndtherewascertainlynoreasontofearIwouldtriponmyownfeetduringanall-employeestaffmeetingandfaceplanton
thegroundwithmyskirtflippedup.

Anyway,hereIam.
Maybethebestthingtodonowwouldbetoplaydead.
Yes,thatseemslikeagoodidea.Afterall,possumsdoit,anditseemstoworkforthem.It’sevenabiologicalmethodof
survival.It’sinnate.Thatreallyshouldcountforsomething.Besides,nobodymakesfunofpeoplewhopassout.It’slikea“Getoutofjailfree”
card.Youcanteasebehindcloseddoorsallyouwantwhensomebodyfallsflatontheirfaces,buttrythatwhenthesituation
seemsremotelyserious,andyouareahorrible,insensitiveperson.

That’sit,then.I’mgoingtohavetoplaypossum.
I’mjustresolvingtogetcomfortableonthecarpetwhenadifferentsoundfiltersthroughmybrain.Amuch,muchmoredevastatingsound.Thesoundofflapping,likeahundreddovesoverhead.
Ohno.
No,no,no,no,no.
Myeyesflitopen,andtheretheyare.Eachleafofmy234-pagemanuscriptsoaringthroughtheair,freedfromthegolden
paperclipthathadhithertoclippedtheirwings.

Anythoughtofpreviousembarrassmentdissolves,andspringingtomyknees,Isnatchatthesheetsofpaperwaftingdownaround
me.Vaguely,IhearWilliamPenningtoninthedistancecontinuinghisspeechasIreachbetweenoneman’sshoesforafew
pagesandclutchthemtightly.OutofthecornerofmyeyeIseeLylamakingagrabfortheonesscatteredatherownfeet.

Ofallthemoments…
MyforeheadstartstoburnasIseestaffaroundmeleaningdown,pickingupsheetsofpaperattheirfeet.
“Thankyou,”Isay,risingandseizingpagesfromeachoftheirhands.“Perfect.Thanks.Sosorry.Blessyou,Marta.Thanks.”
I’mahoardingdragon,smugglingpaperasfastasIcan,grabbingpagesinalldirectionsand,wheneversomeonebendstopick
oneup,breakingstridetograbitfromtheirhands.

Iscantheperimeter.
Halfthepagessecureandprotected.
Thirtysecondsgoby.
Morethanhalf.
Anothertwentyseconds.
Eightypercent.
AtthispointIvolleyeverynewsheettoLyla,whocramsthemintohergiantleathertote.Itkillsmetoseethepageswedgedinsideherbag,butIdon’thavetime.It’llbeabearsortingthemlater,butIhavetokeepmyprioritiesinline.
Ispotfivepagesoutinthewildandlungeforthem.
Thelightattheendofthetunnelisstartingtoshinethrough.Myribcageisstartingtoloosen.
Threepages.
Two.
One.
IthrowthelastsheetatLyla.
None.AllofthemanuscriptsafelycrammedintoLyla’sbag.Done.
Isitbackonmyheelsatlast,kneelingonthecarpet,exhalingforthefirsttimeinwhatfeelslikeyears.
Ididit.Icameclose—tooclose—tothebiggestmistakeofmyprofessionalcareer,butIescaped.There’satemptationto
letoutahystericalgiggleofrelief.

Only…
VaguelyInotethesilencearoundtheroom,likealittletapontheshouldersaying,“Hey,nowthatyou’vegottenthatfixed
up,youmaywanttohavealookaround.”

SoIdo.Ilookup.Andcatcheveryone’sstares.Recallthelittlemishapovermyskirt.Feelthegeneralneedtopretend
thelastsixtysecondsdidn’tjusthappen.

“Thanks,everyone.”Ipressbothpalmsonthecarpet,myfingersgoingdeepintotheplush,andstarttopushmyselfup.
CreepyRem’s(PenningtonScribe,fouryears)eyesaregluedtomyskirt,andIfrownandtugitdownanotherinch.
“Sav!”Lylahisses.
Shepointsovermyshoulder.Hereyesarewide,blue,andunnervinglycrystalizedonasinglepointinthedistance.Ijerkmyheadaroundandfollowthedirectionofherfinger.
Tenfeetover,asinglesheetofpaperliesinthecenteroftheaisle—andadozeneyesrestonitlikevulturesaboutto
dive.

Iscrambletomyfeet.
“Excuseme,”Isay,touchingshouldersasIrushpastbodies.Mylegsfeellikesoftmacaroniwitheachstep.Therowispacked.
Peopleareeverywhere.Peopleandlaptopbagsandpursesandstraybooksand—

Finally,Ihopoverthelasttravelmug,untanglemyselffromafinalcomputerbagtryingtolatchontomyheels,andemerge
intotheaisle.

Atlast,I’mfree.
Istop.
Freeze.
BecausetheWilliamPenningtonisstandingsquarelyinfrontofme.

He’seventallerupclose,hischinasolidfoot,ifnotmore,aboveme.I’dwagerhehasjustahandfulofyearsonme,given
thesingleslight—thoughnot,Ihavetoadmit,whollyunattractive—creaseacrosshisotherwisesmoothforehead.Ababycrease.
Thekindofcreasethatsays,“I’vereachedapointinmylifewhereIwon’ttrytotakeyoutoSonicforafirstdate,but
notthepointwhereIgotobedbeforeten.”Matureinawaythat,ifhewasplacedsidebysidewithsomefratboy,he’d
comeoutahead,lookingwhollymoredependablebutnotsomucholderhewaslessattractive.

Hiseyesareevenbluerthisclose,asshockingandpristineasblueiceonthefrozenlakesofMichigan.Evenhisirisesseemtobecoveredincrystals,aswhensnowdescendsonaglacierandairbubblesaresqueezedout.(This,bytheway,iswhatIgetwithmyjob:loadsofrandomtriviastuckinmyheadtouseonawhim.)
Butatthisprecisemoment,IhaveahardtimethinkingabouticebergsortheJ?kulsárlónglaciallagooninIceland.Because
rightnow,WilliamPenningtonisstaringatthesheetinhishands.Andrightnow,Ihaveonlytheabilitytofocusonthe
overwhelmingfeelingreverberatingupmyspine:terror.

Hair-raising,mind-numbingterror.
I’mparalyzed.
Iamgoingtogetfired.Thisisit.I,SavannahCade,amgoingtolosemyjoboverastupid,stupidpieceofpaper.

WhydidIdoubtmyselfatthelastminuteandsmugglemymanuscriptintowork?
Whydidn’tIjustpressSendonthatemailthismorningandletthingslie?
ButwhileIwaitinagony,hisarctic-blueeyesscanthepageasthoughhehastakennonoticeofmeorthefactthatthe
wholeroomissilentlywatching.Noemotionplaysonhisface.Nothing,exceptforthesmallfrownnestledbetweenhisbrows.
Hiseyesdancefromlinetoline,wordtoword.

Witheverymuscleinme,Imanagetoputmyhandout,myfingertipssilentlybeggingforitsreturn.
Heignoresme.Readson.
Theroomisdeathlyquiet.
Everyoneislookingatus—himandme
Although,whereelsewouldtheybe?Thisisthemomentofthebeheading.
I’mgoingtobethenextoneaxed.
OutofthecornerofmyeyeIseeMaggie(PenningtonArch,eightyears)lookingatmewithhuge,dolefuleyesthatsay,“I’llalwaysrememberyouandthattimewesharedthatyogurtinthekitchen.”
It’stoomuchtobear.
“What’sgoingon?”Ms.Pennington’svoicecracklesfromthefrontoftheroom.
Hervoiceseemstobreakthespell,andWilliamPenningtonblinks.
Helooksupandforthefirsttimetakesmeinproperly.Myface,likeallgood-southern-girlfaces,doesn’tseemtoknow
howtorespondtodirecteyecontactwithanythingbesidesasmile,andtomyhorror,Ifeelmylipsbegintocreepupon
thesides.

Stopit,Itellmylipssternly,towhichtheysortofhalthalfwayandslowly,withincredibleeffort,tugbackdown.

Perfect.Throwinsaneintohisgrowingimpression.

Heblinksagain,hisexpressionunchanged.
It’sthepinnaclemoment.Themomentthat,withnoexaggeration,willdecidemyfutureatthecompany.BecauseMs.Pennington
doesn’tjustnotlikecommercialfiction.SheloathesitAndromance,accordingtoher,isthelowestform.Itis,accordingtoMs.Penningtonherself,thestuffreadaloudinDante’s
lowestlevelofhell.OnparwithpinkMoscato,girlsinwraparoundscarvesholdingpumpkin-spicelattes,andcountrymusic.

AndyethereIstand,inpossessionof“literature’skudzu.”
Standingbeforeherowntotalitarianson,acompletestrangerbroughtinfromthebigcitytoswingtheax,andI’mwearing
aweak,semi-unstablesmile.

Imayaswellstartthinkingabouthowtopackupmyoffice.
Heholdsoutthesheet,stillexpressionless.
Dumbly,Itakeit.“Oh.Thankyou.”
Foramomentthereissilence.
“Nothing,”hecallsoverhisshoulderatlastandturnsonhisheel.“Justsomepaperonthefloor.Now,”hesays,raising
hisvoiceonceagaintoexecutivestatusashepacesuptheaisle,“asIwassaying…”

IwatchWilliamPenningtonstridebacktothefrontoftheroom,hisvoicedistantandcommandingashecontinuestoforecast
direnumbersandthetragediesthatwillensueifwedon’tupourgame.IcreepbacktomypositionbesideLylaand,after
severalseconds,glancedowntothesheethehasread.

ThesecondIseeit,anylingeringhopethathedidn’trecognizeitforwhatitwasburstsintoflames.
MyeyesgrazealongtheheadersplashedacrossthetopcenterofthepageinneatTimesRomantype:WORKINGTITLE:PINING
FORYOU.Thenameinitalicsalongthetoprightcorner:HollyRay.
MyjawtightensintuitivelyasIreadtheparagraphbeneathit:“Timeslowedasheslippedonehandtohershoulder,then
cradledherneckastheystoodtherebeneaththemapletree,thewhisperofpassingcarsallaround…”

Thereisnodoubtaboutit.
WilliamPenningtonknows.Chapter2
“There’snowayheknows.”
ForthefirsttimeinourlivesIamoutstridingLylaasmyheelsmaketheirwobblywaydownthehall.Upanotherlayerof
stairs,andweenterthesecondfloorwithitsownsetofplushcarpeting—royalbluethistime—andwallpaperalternatingbetween
menincapspushingladiesonswingsandmaidensdancingroundandroundtowhatmust’vebeenquitethelivelyjig.

Iroundthecorner.
“Itwasjustonepage—”
“Onepageisenough,”Iinterject.
“Hebarelylookedatit.Nottomentionweworkinapublishinghouse,andeveryothersheetofpaperinthisbuildingisamanuscript.”Lylalevelshergaze.“C’mon,Sav.Youdon’teven
useyourrealname.You’vejustexercisedthewholepointofapenname—”

“That’snottheissue,”Isaywithoutslowing.“Theissueishereadenoughtoknowitwasn’tPenningtonPublishingmaterial.Heknowsit’sromance.”Ilowermyvoicetoameaningfulhiss.“Romance.”

Thismustbewhatitfeelsliketobeacriminal.I’maboutasstraitlacedastheKedstuckedinsidemylowerdeskdrawer
waitingforthesecondtheclockticksto5:00p.m.Neverskippedaclass.Nevercheatedonatest.Butnow,harboring…fiction?
Andnotjustfiction,butromance?Andnotjustromance,butmyromance—myromancethatIwasnotonlyreading,notonlywriting,butworkingonduringworkhours?

IfMs.Penningtonhadpickedupthatsheet,thatwould’vebeenit.
I’dhavebeenchasedoutthedoor,dodgingcopiesofMedievalLimericksforLoversandThePracticalHouseplantchuckedatmyhead.

Ineedtogetthissomewheresafe—now.
Wepassdoorframeafterdoorframeofentrancestovariousoffices.There’sahuminthedistanceofpeopledownstairs,the
shufflingofbodiesslowlymovingoutside,everyonewithajob—pickingauthorsupfromairportsandhotels,headingtothe
conferencecentertosetup.

Thehallwayuphereisunusuallyquiet.
I’mgoingaboutfifteenmilesanhour,easilytoe-to-toewithanyOlympicwalker,whenLylagrabsthetotestrapacrossmy
shoulderandyanks.Myheelstangleinthecarpet.

Istop.Turnaround,carefultokeepaprotectivehandoverthebag.
“Ooooookay,dearie,”Lylasays.“Ihearyou.Youdon’twanttoloseyourjobtodomineeringoverlords.Igetit.Butifyou
wanttokeepit,thatmeansyouactuallyneedtofollowdirections.Which,atthismoment,isgoingoutside.”

“Ihavetofindaplacetodumpthis,”Isay,hearingacreakanddartingmyeyesoverhershoulder,thenbehind.“IfIgetridofalltheevidenceandactnonchalant,maybehe’llforgetwhathesaw.OrIcaninsisthedidn’tseewhathesaw.”
Lylaraisesabrow.“So…youwantto…gaslight…yournewboss.Youdohearyourself?”
Icantellbyhereyes.Iknowit.IknowIlooklikeI’velostit.Butanyonewouldifthey’dspenteveryspareminuteof
thepastthreeyearstalkingtoimaginarycharactersintheirheads,dreamingaboutthestorythey’dcreated,stayinguplate
onmorenightsthantheycouldcountputtingthatstoryontopaper.

BeinganeditoratPenningtonPubismyjob.Andbeingawriterismydream—myverypersonaldream.
AndIcan’triskbothbylettingmymanuscriptfallbackintohishands.
Lylablinks,charcoal-blackeyelashesdriftingdownandthenbackuptomeethereyebrows.Itlookslikeit’stakingabsolutely
everythinginhertoavoidrollinghereyes.“Fine.Juststashthegoodsinyourdeskandlet’sgo.Okay?”

ShewavesanarmdownthehallwaylikeVannaWhiteshowingoffayachtbehindashimmeringcurtain.“Beforewereallydogetfired.Youheardthenewboss.Headtothelobbysowecanstandaroundlikesororitygirlswelcomingthenewestpledges
onthelawn.”

“Right.But…”Ipullawayfromherarm,backtrackingoutofherreach.“I…IforgotabookOswaldhasbeenasking
about.HewantedtoseeifhecouldgetanadvancecopyofJenny’sFebruaryrelease—”

“ThrivinginPremenopause?”Lylaasks.“WhywouldoldOssiewantacopyofThrivinginPremenopause?”

Butbeforeshecansayanythingmore,Iturnandbookitdowntherestofthehall.
“Areyouatleastgoingtobringbackmybag?”shecallsout.
“Threeminutes!”Irepeatovermyshoulderandturnthecorner.
AsmyfootstepswidenthespacebetweenLylaandme,IfeelasifI’veenteredthelastmomentsoftheTitanicbeforeitcompletelysubmerged.Inaworldtypicallyhummingwithconversationsandpeoplepassingtoandfro,allthehallways
aredead.Thewallpaper—probablydatingbacktoTitanicdaysitself—doesn’thelpthemood.EverythingaroundmescreamsthesamevibeIwould’vefelthadIbeenapassengerback
then,recklesslyrunningback,deepintothelowerlevelsoftheship,tograbonelastpricelessthing.

Iwindaroundthecornerandtakemyfirststepontothesmallspiralstaircaseinfrontofme.Thetiny,ornatestepsbarely
containtheballsofmyfeet.HalfwayupandmybreathcomesinshortspurtsasIgripandregripthecurvingrailing.Had
thisnotbeenmyhome,myrefuge,hadInotventuredupthisverystaircasesomanyofthelast687days,Iwould’vewithout
questionlostmyfooting.

Astretchoffadedyellowwallpapergreetsmeatthetopofthestairs.Thereisnocarpetingonthisfloor,onlycreakyhardwood
screechinglikeanoff-keyviolinwitheverystep.Icanonlyassumetheunusuallackofmaintenanceonthisfloorisbecause
nobodyventuresuptotheatticlevel.Whocaresaboutimprovingafloornobodyexcepttherarevisitingauthortreadson?

Imovetothedoorattheendofthehallandcheckmywatch.
Twominutesandtwentyseconds.Perfect.Ifanyoneasks,Ijusthadtostepawayforatwenty-secondbathroombreak
Thedoorisclosed.Thereisasimpleblackplaquebesideit,justasalltheroomsatPenningtonPublishingaremarked.InsmallgoldscriptitreadsStorage.It’snotwhatweactuallycallit—weallcallittheARCroom—butatanyrate,that’sitsgivenname.

Nothingwild.Nothingoutoftheordinaryfromanypublishinghouse.Just…anARCroom.
ButevenasIgrabholdoftheoldglassknob,Ifeelatingle.
Magic
ThedoorcreaksinakindofscreechingharmonywiththefloorboardsasIpushitopen.Inside,theceilingslantsprecariously
lowthiswayandthat,matchingtheexterioroftheoldVictorianhouseanditsmultigabledroof.Theroomisdarkinthe
windowlessspace,butwithouthesitatingItakethreestepsforward,tworight,sidestepacardboardbox,andreachblindly
upforthechain.Thelightbulbflarestolife,illuminatingeverythinginavintageyellowhue.

Books.
Rowsandrowsofbooks.
Aislesofbooks.Shelfaftershelf,crateaftercrateofbooksasfarastheeyecansee.
Iinhalethesmellofoldpine,bakedinsulation,andfreshlyprintedpaperandmovetothenextaisle,whereIpullonanother
string.Thelightroarstolife,thenanother.FloorboardscreakasIpassaisleafteraisle,tryingmybesttoignorethe
glintinghardcoversandsheeningpaperbacksofnewreleases.

Ican’thelpit.There’ssomethingaboutbeinginaroomfilledwithfreebooksthatalwaysmakesmefeellikeakidinacandyshop.

EverypublishinghousehasanARCroom—aplacededicatedforadvancereviewcopiesofbooksabouttobereleased.Influencersandbookstagrammersneedtoseeadvancecopiessotheycanpolishandposttheirreviewsontime.AuthorsneedARCsforendorsementblurbs.Magazinesandpublicationsneedalengthyleadtimeinordertogettheirarticleslinedupforrelease.Andyes,ontherareoccasionsPenningtonauthorsvisittheoffice,theirbook-lovingsoulsalwaysspringtolifeatthementionofatriptotheARCroom.Infact,onmorethanoneoccasionI’vehadtodraganauthoroutoftheroomwhenheorshetookmywords“Takewhateveryouwant”toheart.
(Andno,asI’vehadtoexplainmultipletimes,takingsixcopiesofthesamebookfor“Christmaspresents”isn’twhatwe
haveinmindwhenweoffer.)

ButIcanneverbetoohardonthem.Iunderstandthem.
Freebooks.
Freeprereleasebooks.
Onlyatruereaderwouldunderstand.Sayingthemusic-to-earswords,“Browsearound.Anythinginthisroomisyours”?Well,
thecobwebsborderingthebookshelvesandhoveringaroundcornercrevicesalwaysstarttoglintlikegold.Theroomsuddenly
smellslikeafieldoftulips.Everycreakinthefloorboardisachoirsinging,“Hallelujah.”

Evenifbookswerealltheroomcontained,it’dbemagicalenough.
But…it’snotjustbooks.
It’smore.
Istopbeforethreeidenticalfilingcabinetsagainsttheslantingwallofthefarthestcorner.Thecabinetsthemselveslookasoldasthehouse.Themetaliscrackedandrustedoneverycorner.Cobwebsclingtoeachhandle.Thewholethinglookslikenobodyhastoucheditinahundredyears.JusthowIlikeit.Justhow,Iknowinstinctively,theonebeforemelikeditaswell.
WithoneswiftglancebehindmeandthesamegrowinganticipationIalwayshave,Igrabthecenterhandleandgiveitatug.
Feelthedrawergive.

IstillremembertheshockthefirsttimeIopenedthisdrawer.IwasjustalittlefledglingatPenningtonatthetime,and
ithadbeenaparticularlyhardday.Ms.Penningtonhadjustgivenmeapublictongue-lashingovermy“overuseofuseless
anddistractingflowerpictures”onaPowerPointduringaneditorialmeeting.
IrememberhowIcreptintotheroom,barelymakingasound,feelingthatwithonesmallcreaksomethingsinisterwouldsurely
jumpoutfrombehindtheshadowybookcases.IrememberseeingthemetalcabinetsinthecornerandhowIthoughtitlooked
likeagoodspotforstorage.HowItentativelygavethatlittlehandleatug.Andhow,insteadofwhatI’dpreparedfor—the
singledrawerscratchilyslidingout,revealingabunchofforgottenfiles—theentirefaceofthefilecabinetswungopen.IttookeverythingwithinmenottocryoutasIstumbledback,trippingonaboxof
oldbooksintheoppositecorneralongtheway.Myheadhadgrazedamassivecobwebonthewall,andI’dspenttherestof
thedaybreakingoutintofitsimaginingspiderscrawlingthroughmyhair.

ButthediscoveryImadeinthatmomentwaswellworthit.
PullingLyla’stoteclose,Ihunchtohalfmyheightandcarefullystepthroughtheopendoor.
Onepushagainstthebackofthemetalcabinet,anditswingsopenaswell.
Mypersonalwardrobetoanotherworld
AndsuddenlyI’mhere.
Theroomisdark,illuminatedonlybythewindowanditsstreaminglightjustbelowthecone-toproof.Iglanceatthestained-glass
sparrow,thepurpleofitswingsshadingthebeanbaginthecenterofthesmallturretinviolethues,asmyfingersfind
thechainandtug.Thelightbulbswingsasitcomeson,revealingthebeaten,wine-redPersianruginthecenterofthefloor
andthecurvedbookcasesrimmingtheshoebox-sizeroom.

Books.Dozensofthem,broughthere—liketherug,likethebeanbag—notbymebutbysomeonebefore.
Coversofbooksframedincheapwoodhangingalongthewall,allsignedbytheirauthors.Stacksofbooksformingasortof
sidetableoneithersideofthebeanbag.Onehalf-readoverturnedbookwithcrackingspinewaitingimpatientlyontopof
abookstackformetoreturnandfinish.

Slowly,overthepasttwoyears,I’vebeenaddingtothebooks,insertingmyownfavoritesintothetreasuresharboredhere.
OnesIlove.Onesthatmeansomethingtomeaswell.

I’vealwaysfeltitwasourlittlesecret—mineandthemysteriouspersonwhomadethistheirsecretrefugebeforeme.
Ourlittlesparrowroom.
Ourlittlehideaway.
Icheckmywatch.Threeminutesandtwentyseconds.(And4678steps!Imayjusthit5Kbylunch!)Noteventimetoorganize
themess.Onlytimetodropandgo.

Ifeelexposedflippingthetoteoverandspillingthecrumpled,beatensheetsallovertherug.I’veneverleftmymanuscriptherebefore.Forthatmatter,I’veneverbroughtittoworkatall,untiltoday.
Andyet,wherebettertohideyoursecretsthaninyoursecrethideaway?
Withonemorelonglookatthepapersatmyfeetandwiththesilentpromiseofreturnassoonaspossibleinmyheart,I
pullonthestringtoturnoffthelightandleaveitallbehind.
Chapter3
It’stheGriswoldFamilyChristmasreunion.
Boisterousgreetingsechoaroundthevastfoyeroftheoldmansion,bouncingfromthepolishedmarblefloorstotheframes
ofbestsellingPenningtonreleasesliningthewalls.Severalsilhouettesareinviewthroughthewindows,framingacrowd
chattingonthecreakingplanksofthewide,wraparoundporchoutside.Oldbrasssconces,faithfullykeepingtheirposts,
glimmersoftly.Thechandelier,withits352crystals,highabovequiverswithaboominglaugh.

ArmsarethrustoutandhugsindrippingovercoatspassedaroundasPennington’sauthorsescapethefreezingrainandstep
inside.Conversationslike“Howwasyourtrip?”and“Isawyourpostaboutyourmissedflight,poorthing”andeven“I’msorry,
Tabby,butIreallydon’tthinktryingtoconceiveisapermissibleexcuseformissingyourdeadline”floatallaroundme.
Cheeksareflushed,partlyfromtheexcitement,partlybecausethefoyerissohotandcrowded.

Andme?
I’mjustaboutquiveringwithexcitement.Oratleastmystomachis.
Becausetodayisafreeday.Andnotjustanyoldfreeday,butafreedaywithacompanycard.AfreedaywhereIliterallygetpaidtotakeauthorsoutundertheillusionofcompanygrandeurtoeatatthatnewrestaurantI’vebeeneyeingformonthsandcan’t
afford.AfreedaytoprancearoundthecitywithwhicheverauthorI’mhosting—makingsuretheyhaveagoodtime,sure,chatting
overtheirnewestideas,yes,butalsoeating.Andsightseeing,sure.Buttheneatingsomemore.

Icanalmostfeelthesilvercompanycardinthelargepocketofmypeacoatthrobbinglikeaheartbeat.Readyforaction.
Chanting,Free.Free.Free.
Ihaven’teatenalldayinanticipation.
IfeellikeakidatChristmas.
“Delilah!Overhere!”Oneshrillvoiceovershadowstheothers,andIfeelanelbowjuttingintomyside.Istumbleforward
asGiselle,completelyignoringme,wigglesheroutstretchedfingerstowardDelilahRayuntilshe’shuggingherlikeabeloved
sailorreturnedafteradecade.

It’sbeentwodays.
DelilahRay,poshInstagraminfluencerwithaboutamillionfollowerswatchinghereverymove(and,inturn,buyingherbook
describinghereverymove),livesinNashville.

Giselleismyboss.Actually,oneofmymany,manybosses,butspecificallytheonedirectlyaboveme.Sheisfiveten.Her
hairisasheetofplatinumblond.Andafteronesemesterabroadadecadeago,shestilllikestotelleveryonetobequiet
whenshe’sonher“mobile”andhow“knackered”sheisafteranightonthetown.Oh.Andsheloathesme.

Buthonestly,howwasIsupposedtoknow,myfirstweekin,thatSaminContractswasinanon-again,off-againrelationshipwithGisellewhenheaskedme—alsoreelingfrommyownon-again,off-againrelationship—out?ToborrowGiselle’swords,itbloodywellwasn’tapicnicformeeither.Nobodylikestobeusedasbaittolureinajealousex-girlfriendwhojustsohappenstobeyournewandextraordinarilyspitefulboss.Anyway,twoyearslater,despitethefactthatwearealladults,shestillhasn’tforgivenme.
GiselleandDelilahRayarelockedinoneofthoseexhausting,ignore-everyone-else-in-the-place-while-talking-at-top-volume
sortofgreetings,takingupsomuchspacethatit’shardtoseethenewfigurewhohasjuststeppedinsidebehindthem.I
perkup,however,atthehintofaredknittedsweaterinthedistanceandstepontiptoeforvisualconfirmation.

Sureenough,Oswaldpopsoutfrombehindthem,lookingaroundinbewilderment.Infact…helooksabitlikeaflight
risk.Ohdear.

Atonce,Ihurryovertogreethim.
“Oswald,sogladyoucouldcome,”Isay,closingthegapbetweenus.Igrabhishandandgiveitaheartyshake,partlyin
greeting,partlytokeephimfromretreat.“Andlookatyou.”Itakeinthethickredturtleneckcurlingaroundhisneck.
“Isthatanewsweaterfromthemissus?”

Hishugeeyesblinkbehindhisroundglassesashestrugglestofocusonme.PoorOswald.Brilliantwithwords.Incredibly
knowledgeableofhiscraft.Terrificinsales.Terriblewithpeople.

“Myturtleneck?”hesaysatlast,lookingdubiouslydownathissweater.“Well…yes.”
Ismilepatiently.“Anddidyougetallsettledinatthehotel?”
Anotherlengthypause.Atlast,anod
“Wonderful.”Ismilewider.“Wonderful.”Thenexttwenty-fourhoursaregoingtobeabreeze,clearly.Istrikeforanothertopic.“I’msorryyourwifewasn’tabletomakethetrip.What’sshegoingtobeuptothisweekend?
Somethingfun,Ihope?”

Thepauseisexcruciating,nearlyaslongashispage-longdescriptionsofdeciduoustrees.“Reading.”
“And?”Inodencouragingly,waitingformore.
Oswaldblinks,andIrealizethat’stheendofhisstory.
Well,enoughchitchat.It’stimetogetdowntothefunpartanyway.
Andbesides,there’sarealplushere,Iremindmyself.ThebrightsideofhavinganOswald—andnot,say,aDelilahRay—is
thatOswaldis,aboveallthings,compliant.Passivetothepointofmebeggingforhisopinionsonmarketingstrategyand
coverdesigns.I’vealwayshadtobecarefulwheneditinghislatestbooks(coveringtopicslike“Isthevariegatedliriope
reallythebestwaytocolortheborderofyourwoodlandgarden?”)becausehe,masterofhorticulture,withasurprisingly
largesocialmediafollowingthattrackshiseverygarden-lovingmove,wouldtakeeventheslightestquestioninmyeditto
heartandcompletelyfliphisworldupsidedowntoagreewithme(who,fortherecord,can’tkeepasucculentalive).

Beinganeditorisadangerouspositionofpower,really.Onesnapofmyfingersandhe’dbemaking“Concretegardens:the
wayofthefuture”thesubjectofhisnextrelease.

Buttoday?
TodayI’mgoingtousemypowertoitsfulladvantage.
“Now,forourafternoon,”Isay,scrabblinginmybagformykeys,“Ifoundthislovelylittlebistrodowntownandtookthelibertyofsnaggingussomereservations.Ithoughtwecouldstartthingsoffwithanicecupofcoffeeandbrunchandgofromthere.Areyouafanoffish?Iheartheflounderwithshrimpstuffingissomethingelse—”
“I’mallergic,”putsinOswald,andhelookssostartledathisowninterruptionthathismouthclapsshut.
“Allergic,”Isay,fumblingmomentarily,thenseehe’sstartingtoturnred.Nottoworry.Ipivotwithease.“That’sfine.
Completelyfine.Thereareplentyofotherspecialtiesthereaswell.I’msure—”

“Ican’teatthere,”interruptsOswaldagain,andjustasbeforehepopshismouthshut.
“Oh.”Giventhemanissopassiveheoncetriedtotellme“nottoworryaboutthatnextbookadvance”(towhichhisagent
swiftlysteppedin,negatingeverythingOswaldsaidonhisbehalf),Ihavetoadmithisresponseisabitsurprising.Ionce
sawOswaldinterviewedonamorningcoffeeshowwherethehostmistakenlypickedupthescriptmeantforthefollowingweek
and,forthirtyminutesstraight,askedhimaboutsomebookcalledTheMurderer’sDilemma.DidOswaldcorrecthim?No.Hejustsatthere,earsflamingred,answeringtothenameSkippyGandgivingmumbledresponses
aboutwhathewasgoingtodonowthathewasreleasedfromprisonafterthirtyyearsbehindbars.

Oh,forgoodness’sake.Sweat’sstartingtobeaduponOswald’srecedinghairline.

“Thisisnotaproblem,Oswald,”IsayassoothinglyasIcanmanagewhileputtingahandonhisshoulder.“Wecangoabsolutely
anywhereyoulike.Anywhereatall.Thedayisyours.”

Mystomachrumbles.
Anyplace,Ossie.Beforemystomachgrowlssolouditmakesascene.
Butamazinglyenough,heshakeshishead.
“C’mon,now.”Inodencouragingly.“Youjustnametheplace.We’llgoanywhere.”
Atlast,hespeaks.Granted,it’ssoquietthatIhavetoleanin,buthespeaks.IfrownasIhearafewunclearwords.
“Whatwasthat?”
Withmyearpracticallypressedtohismouth,andhishotbreathticklingmyear,hewhispers,“I’mfasting.”
Istepbackandlookhimintheeye.“You’reona…fast.Well…”Mythoughtsbegintochurnmadly.“That’sokay.
Infact,that’sgreat,Oswald.Reallygreat.Goodforyou.”AndI’mabouttosaysomethinglike,“Wecanjustpopinandyoucantalkaboutyournewreleaseoveraglass
ofwater(whileItryoutthechampagne,chickengumbo,mahi,andtiramisu),”whenIfeelapresenceovermyshoulder.

Iturnmyhead.
WilliamPenningtonisstandingbehindme,hishandsstifflyathissides,clearlywaitingtostepintotheconversation.I
don’tknowhowlonghe’sbeenstandingthere,butinthemoment’spause,hestepsforwardandstretchesouthishand.

“Mr.Makers.Suchapleasuretomeetyou.I’mWilliamPennington,thenewVPandpublisherofourPenningtonPendivision.”
Oswaldblinksupatthetallmanandhesitatinglyreachesouthishand.“What…whathappenedtoHarry?”heasks.
“Areyougettingyourplansallsortedoutfortheday?”Williamsays,pressingonasthoughhehadn’theardhimatall.
Oswaldblinks.Looksatme.
“Weare,”Ijumpinenthusiastically.“We’rejustplanningto…to…”Butallthat’scomingtomindisbiscotti.Andmanicotti.Andlatteswithswirlyfoamartintheshapeofaleaf.Inrestaurantswherethetabisaweek’sworthofpay.Allfree.
IcanseeWilliamlookingatmeexpectantly.C’mon,Sav.Youdidplanthisout.Youhadawholelistofthingstodooutsideoffood.Think.Whatwasonyourlist?BrunchatButcher&Bee.DropintoscoutaroundParnassusandtheBookshop(because…books).LunchatMargot.Aquick
drinkatAttaboybeforereturningtohearTraceGreenforLOAcommencement.

NowthatisonethingIamparticularlyexcitedabout.Imean,TraceGreen.I’velovedhimsincecollege.Hewasactuallywhatstartedmeonwritinginthefirstplace.

IwasinthemiddleofyetanotherbreakupwithFerriswhenIreadoneofhisbooks.Andbecamehooked.Hooked.Flewthroughalltwenty-fourofhisnovelsinthespanoftwomonthsandspentthenextthreewanderingaroundmorosely,craving
more.EverybodythoughtmyslumpwasbecauseImissedFerris.Butno,itwasn’t.Notthattime.Imean,ofcourse,thebreakup
washard,butitwasn’tnearlyasheart-wrenchingasthefactthattherewerenomoreGreenbookstoread.TherealitythatIwasgoing
tohavetowaitawholeninemonthsbeforeanotherofhisreleaseswasalmosttoomuchtobear.

Imean,what,afterall,happenedtoClarainTheWomanontheTrain?

Wouldsheevergetoutofthatmanhole?

ThewholeexperienceofstumblingintohisbooksmadesuchanimpressiononmylifethatIwentdowntotheregistrar’soffice,setoneofhisbooksonthecounterbetweenmeandtheregistrar’sassistant,anddeclaredIwantedtochangemajors.Nomorenursingforme.Mylifewasgoingtorevolvearoundwords.
Atotalstrangerhadgivenmesolacethroughthepowerofwords,helpedmeescapethetroublesofmyworldifjustforenough
timetogetamuch-neededbreath,andeven—throughseveralquietlyupliftingmessagesthreadedthroughouthisfast-pacednovels—showed
mewhatitwasliketopursuemydreams.Trynewadventures.Dare
Thewrittenwordbecamemypassion.AndfromthatmomentonallIknewwaswhatanincrediblehonoritwouldbetobringthat
adventure,thatlife,thatjoy,thathope,thatworldtosomebodyelse.

Topennovels—toplayanyroleinbringingfictiontolife,forthatmatter—istowieldasuperpower.
“LeécureuilVolant!”squealsGisellefromacrosstheroom,herbonyfingersjubilantlyclaspingDelilah’s.Ihaven’tseen
herthishappysinceTrinafromAccountsgotfiredandfreedupthatparkingspot.“Andafterwegothere,ParnassuswantstotalkaboutyourSundaysigning.Then,ifyou’regame,IbookedafantasticpackageatthePaintboxforamani-pedi.”

“Mr.Makers.”MyattentionisdrawnbacktoWilliam,andalthoughhe’ssmilingatOswald,Icanseeasteelyflashinhis
eyesastheydartmomentarilymyway.“YouflewinfromNevada,isthatright?”

Oswaldgazesupathimlikethisisatrickquestion.“Yes,”hesaysuncertainly.
“Andyouplantoleavetomorrow?”
Oswald’sslightdoublechinwobbleswhilehiseyesdartfromWilliamtome,hesitatingasthoughtryingtomakeoutwhere
thetraplies.

Atlasthegivestheslightestofnods.
“Well,weatPenningtonwouldlovetomakethemostofyoureffortsintravelinghere,”Williamcontinues.“Sopleasetell
us,whatisitthatyouwouldliketodobeforetonight’swelcomingbanquet?”

Thepreviouslongpauseseemslikeasnapincomparisontotheonethatfollows,andforwhatfeelslikeaneternitywestand
there,watchingthemanthink.Ashistearyblueeyesswivelroundtheroomasifthisisthedeepestquestionhe’sbeenasked
allday,Ifeelanoddsenseoftrepidationrising.Whatwillhesay?Withanyoneelse,Icouldpredictananswer.Butwith
Oswald?Theman’sashotinthedark.Youneverknowwherehe’sgoingtoland.

But…thisisokay.Thereisstillawinhere.ThepointisIhavethecompanycard.IhavethedayofffrommydesktotourOswaldaround.AndIdolookprettysharpinmyoutfit,ifIsaysomyself:adeepmarooncardigan,whiteblouse,blacktights,andtrendygrayskirt
withjustenoughtwirltoshowIcanbefunwhileprofessional.Mycelebratoryoutfitfortheeventualvictoryinsending
inmymanuscripttonightand,ontopofthat,snaggingthefreeday.Ittookquiteawhiletosqueezemyselfintothisthing,
butevenOliviahadtocomplimentmeonitthismorning—andthat’sreallysayingsomething.

“I…Ibelieveyouhaveoneofthoseswimmingtanksaroundhere.”
Mythoughtshalt.IseeoutofthecornerofmyeyeoneofthedarklocksIpainstakinglycurledthismorningstarttofall.
Whatdidhesay?

William’sbrowsarepinched.“I’msorry,I’mnotsureIknowwhatyoumean.You’llhavetoclarify.Youwanttogoswimming?”
“TheFloatSpot?”Oswaldsaysatlast.Heblinksatme.
Istareforamoment,lettingthewordssinkin.TheFloatSpot.Ofallthethousandsofwonderfulthingstodotoday,he
wantstogotothe.Float.Spot
Thenewestsensory-deprivationsaltwatertankintown,whereyoustripdowntonothing,squeezeyourselfintoatinycapsule,
and,worstofall,shutthedoor.Tonothing.Lylaintroducedthisbizarrehobbytomeafewmonthsagoonaholiday.SheaskedmeifIwantedtogowithher,andIwent
along,thinkingthewholetimeweweregoingtoaspafullofordinarythingslike,oh,Idon’tknow,relaxingmusicandpink
nailpolishandfootmassages.Instead,wheredidIfindmyself?Sittinginanitchyrobeinacoldroom,waitingformyturn
inthealienbirthingpod.Idistinctlyrememberthisterrifyingsignontheoppositewallinboldredletters:

EXTENDEDSENSORYDEPRIVATIONCANRESULTINEXTREMEANXIETY,HALLUCINATIONS,BIZARRETHOUGHTS,TEMPORARYSENSELESSNESS,AND
DEPRESSION.
Fortherecord,theyforgottoaddNAUSEAtothelist.

Icannotpossiblythinkofaworseidea.
“Whataterrificidea.”IsnapmyheadtoseeWilliamPenningtonsmilingbrightly.“Icanimaginefewthingsmorerelaxing
afteralongflight.I’msureMs.Cadewouldlovetojoinyou.Wouldn’tyou,Savannah?”

He’slookingatmeexpectantly.He’swaitingformetoreply.He’swaitingformetosay,“Oh,whatadream!”whileGiselleisoffinthecornerwithDelilahRaysomehowjustifyingtheneedtopurchasematchingToryBurchbagstoholdalltheirbookmarks.
Well,I’mjustnotgoingto.That’sallthereistoit.I’lldriveOswaldtothecrazystationifhewants,andthenI’ll
sitinthelobbywithagas-stationhotdogforthreehourswhileheenjoyshissilence.Oh!Icouldpossiblyevensneakbackintotheoffice,grabthemanuscript,andworkonitwhileI’mwaiting.WithanyluckIcouldhave
itsentofftoClaireDonovanevenbeforethewelcomingbanquettonight.

ButasWilliam’scoldblueeyespeerintomine,Ihearmyplanssputteruntiltheydieout.Ifeelexposed,asthoughevery
thoughtisstreamingacrossmyeyesforhimtoread.Somehow,heknowswhatI’mthinking.Fromthefrowntiltedeversoslightlyuponhislipstothecreasebetweenhisbrow,heknows,andhe,theboss,cares.Icanhearthewordsreplayinginmyownhead:“Andeditors,dowhateverittakesthisweekendtokeepyourauthorshappy.Whatever.It.Takes.”
Acoldfeelingcomesoverme,theairdroppingfifteendegreeswithinadark,ominousshadow.
I’mnotgoingtogetfood.
I’mnotgoingtogetbiscottiat8th&Roast.
I’mnotevengoingtogettolistentoTraceGreen.
No,whatI’mgoingtodoisgetinthatstupidtank.
MyvoicestranglesasIturntoOswald.“That’sabrilliantidea,Oswald.Ican’twait.”
“TraceGreen?”IhearGiselle’svoiceringout,herBotoxedforeheadstrugglinginvaintocrease.“Yes,wecanhearhim,
Isuppose.Butitmightcutintoourpeditime…IshetheonewhowroteAmberWaters?”

“Tides,”Imumblebitterly.“AmberTides.”

Well.It’ssettled,then.Whilemysupervisorisoffgettingherperfectlymanicurednailsrepolishedandhalflisteningtooneofmyfavoriteauthorssharepowerful,never-heard-beforetaleswhilesheisalsoscrollingthroughtheJ.Crewwebsite,I’llbestarving.Inalukewarmtank.Inthedark.Hallucinating.
IlookupandrealizeWilliamPenningtonisgazingatme.Thistime,however,it’sinawaythatisn’taltogether…well,
terrifying.“So.YouareafanofGreen?”hesays.

Istiffen.Greenisn’texactly…literary.Morelikeread-him-if-you-want-to-go-on-a-stay-up-till-dawn-ignore-all-family-and-friends-call-in-sick-for-two-days-fictional-adventure-of-your-life.
Thattypeoffiction.

“Oh,”Isay,shrugging.“Imayhavereadhimatsomepointyearsago.I’mmoreofa…aChaucerfanmyselfnowadays.”
There’salongpause.
“Chaucer,”herepeats.
Hislipstwitch.Ishetryingnottosmile?
“Yes,”Isay,liftingmychinamillimeter.“IadoreChaucer.Chaucer’s…”Iscourthecrevicesofmybrainforthatnew
WordoftheDayIlearnedrecentlyforjustsuchanoccasion.“…phantasmagorical.”Iwavemyhandaround.“Icanread
Chaucer’stalesforhours.”

Andbelieveitornot,thereitisagain.Theliptwitch.
“Really.Andwhichtaleisyourfavorite?”
Shoot,Savannah,nowyou’vedoneit.ButIknowthis.IreadChaucerinEnglishLitmyfreshmanyear.Orpartofit.OratleastwhatIcouldunderstandthrough
allthe“fuloftetymehehadde”and“gentilknights.”Now,whichtales…whichtales
Atlast,likeablesseddovefromabove,atalecomestomind,andIsnatchforit.“Well,ifpressed,I’dhavetosay‘TheMiller’sTale.’Excellentmessage.”
Hisworkfrownhasapparentlylostthebattleagainstamusemententirelynow,becausethetwitchgivesupandfinallyconcedes
toagrin.“Thedrunkenmiller’sfabliauaboutacarpenterandthetwomenwhowanttosleepwiththewife.Thatmessage?”

Foramoment,oureyesarelocked.He’sdaringmetoanswer.
“Yes,”Isay,tryinghardnottogrindmyteeth.“Yes,that’stheone.Positivelyrivetingstuff.And,ofcourse,thereare
myotherpassionsaswell,likethosebookson”—myeyesdarttoOswald—“landscaping.”

“Well,ofcourse.”William’seyesturntoOswaldasheputsoutahand.“Landscaping.So.Chaucerand…landscaping.You
musthaveasizableyard,then.Forallthatgardening.”

“Notatthemoment,”Ihedge.“ButIdohaveawindowboxthat’sveryinviting.”
Forthebirds,whohavebuiltanestonlastyear’sdeadpansies.
“Oh,right.Yes.Ihaveseensomeratherelaborateones.There’sreallyanartthere.”Butforallhispolitewords,William’s
templesarecrinkling,hiseyeslookingdangerouslyclosetobeingoutrightmirthful.“Icommendyouforyoureffortstoeducate
yourself.Pity,though.I’mabitofaGreenfanmyself.Would’vebeennicetomeetanother.”

Icanseethechallengeinhisgaze.He’swaitingforme.Waitingformetocrack.
Nowit’smyturntopullanOswaldandbewaryoftheconversationaltraps.
“What’sthenameoftheoneheputoutlastyear?”Hefrownsasthoughtalkingtohimself,tryingtoremember.“TreacherousGames?”

LiesThebookisTreacherousLies,andheknowsit.

Inarrowmyeyes.
ForallIknow,thisisatest,andWilliamPenningtonisevenmoreinsaneabouttheevilsofcommercialfictionthanhis
motheris.Afterall,hewasbroughtintobethehangman.HeisheretosavePenningtonandmakethehardchoices.I’mone
ofthenewestemployeestothecompanyafteralltheothershavebeencut.Firstheseesmesmugglinginromanceonthejob.
Now,perhaps,he’sgatheringfinalevidencebeforethekill.Playingalittlegoodcopbeforeslammingthecelldoor.

“Anyway,”Isayloudly,“we’vegotabigdayaheadofus,Oswald.We’dbetterbeoff.”
ForamomentWilliamsurveysme,lookingasthoughhe’sworkingoutwhetherhewantstopursuetheconversationsomemore
orletitgo.Butthenheblinks,andwithit,hisexpressionvanishes.HeturnshisattentiontoOswald.

“Ilookforwardtohearingaboutittonight,”WilliamsaysandgivesMr.Makersonefinalshakeofthehand.
OswaldandIhavejusttakenourfirststepstowardthedoorwhenWilliamadds,“AndSavannah?”
Ipauseandturnmyhead.
“Iamparticularlyintriguedtohearhowyourexperiencegoesinthepodtoday.Pleasebesuretoupdateme.Perhapsit’ll
besomethingforthecompanytoconsideraddingasabenefitinourhealthplan.”

Andthereitisagain.Themeresttwinkleinhiscorporateeyes.IfIdidn’tknowbetter,I’devencallitadare
Iplastermysmilefirmlyinplace,partlybecauseIrefusetoadmitadarefrommybossandtheCEO’ssoncouldevenexist,partlybecausethemerethoughtofaddingfloattankstothecorporatehealthplanissorevoltingitthreatenstomakemenauseous.“Ofcourse.I’llbelookingforwardtoit.”
***
Eightlonghourslater,myhairstillclingswetandtangledinatightbunonthetopofmyhead.Notthecutekindofbun.Nottheoh-look-at-me-in-my-slouchy-sweater-and-ballet-flats-while-carrying-a-coffee
kindofbun.Theotherkind.TheI-was-locked-into-a-small-wet-hole-and-stared-into-the-abyss-for-an-eternitykind.Andfor
therecord,theanswerisno.No,Ineveractuallyrelaxed.Notforonemillisecond.

Ispentthebulkofthetimethinkingaboutmymanuscript.AndthemoreIthoughtaboutthemanuscript,themoreIitched
toretrieveit.AndthemoreIitchedtoretrieveit,themoreanxiousIfeltaboutturningitin.

Whatifthebanquetthiseveningtakessolongitgoespastmidnight?Whatifeveryonegetsreallyexcitableandtalkson
forages,andI’mexpectedtojustsitthere,playingthegoodhost?WhatifafterthebanquetOswaldsayshewantstogo
oversomeconcernsabouthisnewestwork-in-progress,andIcometofindoutI’mtrappedwitharegularVladimirNabokovinsomniac,
brainstormingwithhiminhishotelroomwhilehetapsfeverishlyonhiscomputerkeysuntildawn?Andmostimportantofall,
WhatifInevergetoutofthistank?!
Ididgetoutofthetank.
IdidmakeitbacktothebanquetwithOswald(whereamealhasnevertastedsogoodinmylife).

Ididdrophimoffathishotelandmanagesomepartingencouragementabouttomorrow’ssigningtoamanwholookedlikeheneededanotherhitinthesensory-deprivationtankjustthinkingaboutthechaosofthedaytocome.
AndIhavemanagedtosneakbackinbeforethedoorsarelockedupatPenningtonforthenight.
ChinaclattersdownstairsasIwindaroundthelastofthestaircaseandstridedownthehall.There’snoneedforpretense
thistime.Theonlypeopleinthebuildingarethecatererspackingupwhat’sleftofthewelcomebanquethourspriorand
Robby,Pennington’slong-servingjanitor,vacuumingsomewhereonthesecondfloor.Itakesolaceinthehummingbelowand
pushopenthedoortotheARCroom,mystepsdetermined.It’sdarkerthanusualasIpulloneachlightbulbchain,blazing
thepathwithlightuntilIreachthemetalfilingcabinetontheotherside.OnceI’veduckedinside,Ipushthedooropen.

Acrescentmoonshinesthroughthestained-glasswindow,thesparrowlookingasthoughit’sbalancingthemoononitspointed
yellowbeak.Ismiletomyselfandfeelmyselfexhale,asifforthefirsttimethatday.Mystomachispleasantlystuffed.
Oswaldissafelytuckedintohishotelroom.Andhere,at10:30p.m.,Istillhaveafullhourandahalftoturnmymanuscript
in.I’mexhaustedbutfinallyreadytoreleaseit.

MyfingerstightenaroundthestringconnectingtothelightbulbasIdroopilylookdownatthefloor.
Ipause.
Squint.
Andjustasmyheartstartstopunchatmyribcage,Ipullthecord.
Lightfloodsthesmallroom,andwithitconfirmation.
Becausethere,inthemiddleoftheoldPersianrug,ismymanuscript,thepapersnolongerscatteredanddisarrayed,thecornersofeachpagenolongerfoldedinwonkydiscordancy.
No.
Mymanuscript.Sittinginacrisp,neatpile.Arubberbandsnappedaroundthemiddle.Andworstofall—inboldblackink—are
words.Dozensoffreshhandwrittenwords,scribbleddownthemargins.

Wordsthatarenotmine.Chapter4
BythetimeIreachthepristinewelcomematofmyapartmentdoor(didOliviareallyjustcleanitagain?),I’mexhausted.Head-to-the-squashed-toes-I-limped-home-onexhausted.ThewickedheelsIspentthedayinpokeoutfrom
thethinleatherofmylaptopbagwhereIthrustthemthesecondImanagedtosnatchmytennisshoesfrommylowerdeskdrawer
onmywayoutofPennington.

Elevenp.m.
WiththebusynessoftotingOswaldaroundalldayandthewholeissueofstashing,thenretrieving,mymanuscript,I’mleft
withonlyonemeaslyhourtolookovermyfinaleditsandsenditin.Andthen,ofcourse,thereisthewholeissueofwhat
todoaboutthescribblingallalongmybelovedmanuscript’smargins.

Despitehowmuchmyheartisracingmeforward,Ipause.Pressmyearclosetothedoor.Listen.
ThereisthewhizzingofonePelotonbikeinside.Justone.Nottwo.Iexhale.
ButthenIcheckmysteptrackerandseethenumberthere:6670.Ifeelmyribcagecompressingagain.
Perfect.
Icanonlyhopeshe’ssoengrossedshedoesn’tnoticeme.
Mykeyslidesintothelock,andasquietlyaspossible,Iinchthedooropen.DirectlyacrosstheroomOliviacyclesonher
bikebesidethesecond,currentlyunoccupiedone,sweatbeadingonhermodel-highcheekbones,abookproppedonthehandlebars
thatlooksthickenoughtoholdopenabankvault.She’ssodeepintoitshedoesn’tlookup.Good.

Ihaven’talwayslivedwithmysister.No,foroversixyearsLylaandIsharedatinygarageapartment.We’dscoreditfrom
mymother’sBelmontcolleague,whowasonthehuntforapairofbrightyoungstudentswhoprizedthepeacefulsolitudeof
historiclittlehomesover,say,belchingcontestsinthehallways.Andwedidloveit.Loveditwitheveryfiberofourbeing.
Untiltheysoldthehouse.Andwithit,ourgarage-apartmentbungalow.WhichforLylaworkedoutseamlessly,asshemarried
hercollegesweetheartjustthreemonthsafterwegottheboot.Butasforme,itleftmedangling.

Andlookingathouseadsaftersplitting$550-a-monthall-inclusiverentforsixyearswas,letmesay,theworstreality
check.

So,afterbeingtoldbyseveralprospectivelandlordsto“Justignorethesmell,we’rebombingforroachesagain”and“Now,
justknowthebiohazardcleanupspecialistswillbecominginonthefifteenthtocleanupthatbloodleftoverfromthe…[clearsthroat]previousowner,”Iresortedtocallingmymom—whowithintwenty-fourhourshadOliviacallingme,offeringupherspareroom.Now,mindyou,Olivia’slipswerepressedtogetherprettytightlywhenshesaid,“No,no,Idon’treallyneedaroomdedicatedtoahomegym,”whenIquestionedher.But,givenitwasmoveinwithherorbackwithmyparents,Ididn’tpressthatmuch.
See?Youdoforfamily.
TheCadeway.
Itiptoetowardmyroomandamjustreachingthewall-to-wallbookcase,theonlyspaceintheapartmentthatisallowedto
existindisarray—withcookbooksandclassics,booksonFrenchanddictionariesinSpanish,thickvolumesonlawandancient
hardcoversontheprinciplesofeconomics,andevenafewglossyonesonfitnesspokingoutfromthelowestcorner,allstuffed
inapuzzle-likemannerbothhorizontallyandvertically—whenOliviacallsmyname.“Oh,Savvy!”

Isqueezemyeyesshut.TurnandseeherpullingoutanAirPodfromoneear.
IloathebeingcalledSavvy.

“Yougetyourstepsintoday?”shesaysthroughpants,herforearmsslickwithsweatasshesitsuprightandpressesboth
handstoherhips.Herlegsaresoskinnyinherblackleggingstheylooklikeagranddaddylonglegsracingonahamsterwheel.

Ihesitate.“Nearly,”Ilie.
Olivialiftsaneyebrow.Herspindlylegsslow.Shechecksherwatch.“You’vegotanhourleft.”
“Iknow.”
“Willyoubeabletomeetyourquotafortheday?Exactlyhowfaroffareyou?”
“Nottoofar,”Isay.
Oliviasighs.“Icanmakeupfortheshortageifyouneedmeto,Savvy.Imean,aslongasit’snottoofaroff—”

“I’llhandleit,”Isayfirmly,butevenasI’msayingsoIfeelafaintpulsingheartbeatinmyears,likeatickingbomb.Myhandsmoveinstinctivelytomylaptopbagandthemanuscriptinside.
“Yes,but…you’vesaidthatbefore,”Oliviasaysdubiously.
Thisiswhatyougetwhenyouliveinanapartmentwithyourhyperactive,perfectionistsister.Oliviaisthreeyearsyounger
thanme,graduatedsummacumlaudefromVanderbiltattwenty,andhasbeenworkingondualPhDsinlawandeconomicssince
August.Becausewhygetonedoctoratewhenyoucangettwo?

Andthiswholetracking-stepsthingisOlivia’sbaby.TheSteps-4-LifeStep-a-thonrunseachFebruary.Onemonthoftracking
andloggingstepseverydayinordertoreachamonthlygoal.What’sevenbetter?Youcan’tfib.Itsyncsfromyourwatch
toyourapp,andthenyou’restuck.Beinghonest.Withanobsessive-compulsivemicromanagerforteamleader.Wholiveswith
you.Andmonitorsquiteliterally,youreverymove.

ItstartedthreeyearsagoafterOliviagotthefluforaweekandwasinbedforfivedays.Sowhatdidshedo?Sitinbed
forfivedayswatchingFrasierreruns?Makehorribleonlinepurchasesat1:00a.m.onlytowakeuptoAmazonboxesonherdoorstepshecouldn’trecallordering?
Sleep?

No.WhatOliviadidwasusethetimestuckinbedasaspringboardtobrainstorm,figureoutthelogistics,securethemoney,
buildtheapp,andultimatelyputthestamponSteps-4-Life,herownnonprofitorganizationdedicatedtoconqueringseasonal
depressionbyencouragingtogetherness,healthyweightloss,andself-esteem.ToOlivia,everyproblemcanbecuredwithexercise.
Andaspeopleweren’texactlystampedingwithenthusiasmoverherfirstidea,Ultra-Marathons-4-Life,sheeventuallywhittled
downherexpectationsto“meetthelowerpeople[akanormalhumans]wheretheyare”andsettledonwalking.

InthreeyearsSteps-4-Lifehasraisedoverthreemilliondollarsandhasbecomeayearlytraditioninoverthirty-sixstatesacrossAmerica.
I,too,hadthefluthatweekthreeyearsago.Iendedupwithahumidifierintheshapeofanelephant,threeshirtsfrom
Aerie,andacrateofdarkchocolatefromafair-tradeorganizationinGhana.

“Idon’twanttopesteryouaboutthis,Savvy,”Oliviacontinues.“It’sjustthat,youknow…”Sheswingsherarmina
heartywaylikeshedoeswhenevershegivesherslogan.“We’reallinthistogether.Andyoudidsayyou’dgettwelvethousand
stepseachday.Youdid”—hervoicelowerssolemnly—“makethepledge.”

Oh,geez.Nowshe’slookingdownonmeasifI’veenlistedforwar,arrivedatthefrontlines,andamconsideringhightailing
itforthewoods.

Idon’thavetimeforthis.
I’mjustabouttoopenmymouthtotellherI’msorrythatIwasstuckinasensoryfloatpodwithanauthor,tryingnottohyperventilate,andI’msorryaboutthebanquetafterward—allthewhileknowingshestillwon’tbeabletofathomwhyIdidn’tjustruninplaceatdinner
whilechewingmyasparagus—whenavoicespeaksupfrombehind.

“Leaveheralone,Olivia.TheCaderankingisn’tgoinganywheretonight.”
IstiffenasIfeelhisbreathsocloseitliftsthehairsonmyneck.Hemust’vecomefromthehallbathroom,buttome,
whodidn’thearhimoverthewhizzingofthePelotonbike,hemightaswellhaveemergedfromthinair.Myreactionwould’ve
beenthesameeitherway.

“’Xcuseme,Savvy.”
Ifeelthelightesttouchofhisfingersonmyhip,andittakeseverythinginmenottojumpafoot.Donotmove,Itellmyselffirmly.Donotreact
Butdespitemyself,myheartthudsagainstmychestashebeginstomovepastmeintheslimhallway.
Asifinslowmotion,Ferristurnshisheadandlooksdownatme.Hislong,carelessbrownlocksdriftintohisequallybrown
eyes.Hislipsturnupslightly.“Andbytheway,hi.”

“Hi.”MyvoiceismorebreathlessthanIintend.
No.
Iballmyhandsintofistsatmysidesandtryagain.I’dtakeonegiantstepback,butmybackisagainstthewall,andhe
seemsinnohurry.“Ididn’tknowyouwerehere,Ferris.”

“Yeah.Justgettingsomeworkdone.BigdepositionMonday.”Hemovesanotherstepforward,andItaketheopportunitytoslide
outoftheway
“Sure.Sure,”Irepeatandmoveswiftlyformydoor.BeforeOliviacancallouttomeagainandmakemoreguilt-inducingremarks,
Islipinsidemyroom.

Bringingpeopletogether,yeah,right.IfIdidn’tknowthecreatorofSteps-4-Lifemyself,I’dsayitwasdesignedbydesperate
familytherapistsanddivorcelawyersneedingtodrumupbusiness.

“Youdon’twanttostickaroundforamovie?”IhearFerriscallfromthehall.“C’mon,Sav,it’sFridaynight.Don’tgoto
bedyet.”

“No,thanks,”Icallbackthroughthedoor.
Itakeabreathandexhaleand,afterasecond’shesitation,turnthelock.
Ferrisismyex-boyfriend.
FerrisisOlivia’sfiancé.
Itryvery,veryhardtobeanadultaboutit.

AndwhileIwouldtypicallyspendthenexttwohoursonthecouchdowningextra-butteredpopcornwhilethewhizzingofPelotons
goesonbehindmeandcaloriessweatoffthetwoofthemlikeraindrops,provingIreallyamcom-plete-lyfineinthecompanyofthemanwhohasconsumedallmyfirsts—firstdate,firstkiss,firstlove—Ihavemorepressingissues
toattendto.

Likethis.
GingerlyItakethemanuscriptoutofmymessengerbag.
Setitonthebed.
Pressmyfingertomylips.
Stare.
Well,asIseeit,Ihavethreeoptions.
One.Icantakeinthefullfactthatsomeone(a)wasinmylittlesparrowroomtoday,and(b)readmymanuscript.Butthat
wouldleadtoanervousbreakdown,andI’mtoopinchedfortimeforthat.

Two.Icantabletheissuethatmybelovedroomisnowcompromisedforalaterdate(say,3:00a.m.,whenI’mstaringatthe
ceiling)andinsteadlookatthisfromtheanglethatismostnaturaltome.Thisisjustsomeone’sedit.Someone’stypical
editforamanuscriptI’mlookingat.I’maneditor.Idothisforaliving.Thisisnotabigdeal.AllIneedtodoisread
throughasmanycommentsalongthemarginsasIcanintheshortspanoftimeIhave,findwhatcommentsIalignwith,and
editthemanuscriptaccordingly.

Three.IgnorethecrazybatwhodaredtouchmymanuscriptandsenditontoClaire.
Iinchtowardthemanuscriptandplaywiththerubberband.
Thehandwritinglooksprettypretentious,doesn’tit?Cursiveandshortinwidthyetstillmakingashowofallthet’sandd’sandb’s.Allinaboldblackink.Thedotofeachiismissing,asifthewriterwastoobusyandimportanttoworryaboutsuchinsignificantdetails.Prettyannoying,actually.
Ihaveasuddenitchtodoteachone.

Myeyes,havingsquintedtoavoidreadinganyoftheactualwords,widenslowly,takingthesentencein.
Startisweak.
Istare.Start.Is.Weak.
Whatdoesthatmean,thestartisweak?
Thisisthefirstpage,practicallythefirstparagraph!Themysteryeditorhasn’tevengottentothegoodpartwherethey
meet.

Myeyesdroptothebottomofthenextpage,andIreadthenotethere:Unoriginalmeet.
Unoriginal?Thepairofthemgettingtheirdrinksmixedupatacoffeeshopiswildlyoriginal.Andwhatmakesitparticularlycuteisthattheyorderthesamedrink.Notsome“Oh,dearme.Here’syourblackcoffee.Idon’tknowhowImistookitformyventiFrappuccinowithextra
whip”nonsenseyouseeinsomeromances.What’ssocuteand,mostimportant,realisticisthattheybothmistookthebaristacallingouttheirdoubleAmericanowithpumpkinspiceastheirown!Itwasanaturalmistake,giventheorderwasidentical.Andonlywhentheyseetheotherperson’snameonthecupsthey’re
holdingdotheymakethisreallyadorableremarktoeachother.

IwasactuallysoproudwhenIthoughtofit—
NauseatinganddirectlyplagiarizedfromeveryHallmarkmovieinthelasttenyears.
Okay,that’sit.
Iflipthroughthepages,cheeksgrowinghotterasIreadeachwordalongthemargins.
Slowbeginning.Gettothemeat.Givereadersareasontostay.Ifyouborethem,youlosethem.
Awkwardwordchoice?
Dropthisparagraph.
Wedon’tneedthischaracter.
Rabbittrail,sticktothepoint.
ChangeofPOV.
Haveyouconsideredshiftingthemanuscripttopresenttense?
Alright.That’senough.
IslamdownthepagesIhold,mywholebodyflaming.OnlyasIseemyselfinthemirroroppositedoIrealizeI’mpanting
asifI’vesprintedamile.But,honestly,whoisthisperson?

Deluded,that’swhattheyare.Deludedandhaughtyandahaterofallthingshappy.Andmostsignificantofall,deadwrong.Deadwrong.Thepersonprobablydoesn’tevenlikeromance.They’reprobablylikeeveryothereditoratPennington,poringoverbooksaboutexistentialismandthehistoryof
dogshowslikeit’sthemostrivetingstuffintheworld.

Onimpulse,Ipullopenmyclosetdoor.ThemetalrailscreechesasIpushtheoverstuffedmassofsweaters,shirts,anddressestotheright,revealingalargecardboardboxonthefloor.Withonehandpressedtomyclothes,holdingthemback,Iopenthecrisscrossedtopoftheboxandthrowthemanuscriptinside.
There.Discardedlikealltheotherpiecesofjunkinmylife.
Inoneseamlessmove,Islidetheclosetdoorshutandslipintomydeskchair.Clickonthemouseasthedesktopscreencomes
tolife.Tapswiftlyonthekeyboardtodraftanemail.

Realistically,there’snowayIcangettoallthelittlemarkupsImadetodayanyway.MostofwhatInotedwasjustsecond-guessing
actionsandwordchoices.Phrasing.It’sbettertojustfollowmygutandsendit.Betternottomakeanyhastymoves.Better
totrustthewriterIwaswhenIwasworkingslowlyandclearheadedlywithoutadeadlineinsteadoftheonenowexhausted
andconfusedandfeelingpressuredtochangeitallinthelastsecondofthegame.Andreally,thisisexactlyhowmyauthors
saytheyfeelbeforetheyturnintheirmanuscriptstome.Ishouldpatmyselfontheback.I’mdoubtingmyself,ergoImust
bearealwriterafterall.

Clingingtothatshortandmomentaryencouragement,IpressSendandheartheemailzoomofftowarditsfinaldestinationbeforeIcanbackpedal.

Foralongmoment,Istareatthecomputer,hardlyabletobelievewhathasjusthappened.
Suchasmallact,justonelittlebuttonpressed,andyet…
Done.
Noturningbacknow.Noregretswhatsoever.What-so-ever.
It’sanunsteadyingfeeling.AfeelingIwasn’texpecting.
Istandupfrommychair,andasIdoso,myeyesaredrawntowardtheclosetdoor.Thebitternessisstartingtosettlein.Whoevertookmymanuscriptnotonlyreaditwithoutpermissionbutstolemymomenttoo.I’msupposedtofeelelatedrightnow.I’msupposedtofeellikealoadhasfinallybeenliftedoffmyshoulders.I’vebeendreamingofthisparticularmomentformonthsnow.
No,years.Butnow?NowallIfeelisagrowingsenseofpanic.

Somuchformycelebratoryday.
Ihearalightknockonthedoor.“Sav?”Ferris’svoiceisgentleontheotherside.“Sav,yousureyoudon’twanttocome
watchthemovie?I’mabouttostartsomepopcorn.Ifyoucome,IpromiseI’llkeepherfrommakingyoudosteps.”

Itakeabreath.Turnmyeyesfromtheclosetdoorandriseupfrommybed,haulingalongalltheemotionsofthedayasI
dragmyfeettowardthedoor.

“I’mcoming,”Icallthroughthedoor.
I’vedoneit.
I’vesentmymanuscript,andthat’sthethoughtI’mgoingtochoosetohangonto,nomatterwhat.
Celebration.Chapter5
IwakeupjustlikeIdoeverymorningofmylife,tothestomp-stomp-stompingofOlivia’s5:30a.m.sprintonthetreadmillinherbedroom.You’dthinkI’dbeusedtothenoiseayearaftermovingin.
Orbetteryet,you’dthinkI’dhavehadaclueastowhatIwasinforwhenIwatchedOliviatearthewrappingpaperoffthe
treadmilllastChristmasmorning.

Anyway,hereweare,ayearlater,andthefirstthoughtbubblestilltoforminmymindis,Whytheheckcouldn’tFerrishaveboughtherthequietone?Followedshortlybyanothermentalfavorite:Andit’sSaturday,Olivia.Can’tyousleepin,justonce,onaSaturday?
Buttodaynewthoughtsgreetme,andwithajoltIsitupright,thememoriesandactionsoftheprevioustwenty-fourhours
linedupformetoreconsideronebyone.It’snotatypicalSaturday,andIhavesomanythingstopreparefortoday.So
manythingstodo.

TheLOAconference.
Oswald’ssigning.
TheARCroom.
Themanuscript.
Findingoutwhoexactlytamperedwithmymanuscript.
LastnightIstayedupwatchingthemoviewithOliviaandFerris.AndevenwhileIshedtearsintomypopcorn(unlikeOlivia,
whotakesafirmstanceagainstcrying),mythoughtswerealsofaraway.WasitcreepyRem?Hedoeslurkalotaroundthebuilding.Butdoesn’thehavethatthingaboutheights?Wasn’tthatwhyPam
championedmovinghisofficetothefirstfloor?Becausehekeptlookingoutthewindowandpassingout?
WhataboutLyla?No,no,ofcoursenot.She’dneverwritethosethings.Idon’tthinksheevenknowshowtospelltheword
sesquipedalianism.

Which,fortherecord,mymysteryeditordeclaredinoneoftheirhandymargincommentsissomethingIdo.Andwhich,for
therecord,Imostcertainlydonot.TheinsinuationthatIwouldscourdictionariestofindobscure,five-syllablewordstothrowintomymanuscriptjustto
puffmyselfupissolaughableit’sinsane.It’sfarcical.Itmakesmerepineforthedaysreaderswereeruditeandcould
appreciateawell-chosenword…

Okay,it’satinybittrue.Butnevertheless,it’sagoodtrue,notabadtrue.Afterall,there’snothingwrongwithfine-tuningaparagraph,andfrankly,Iworkinabuildingfullofpeoplewhoaresmarterthanme.Ineedthebigwords.
Peopleprizethepeoplewhopulloutthebigwords.

CoulditbeGiselle?Ha.WhoamIkidding?Iwouldn’tbesurprisedifshe’soutsourcingherowneditingtosomeunpaidcollege
interninthebackboothsofsomesaltysaloon,letalonevoluntarilyreadingsomeoneelse’smanuscript.
AndthemoreIthoughtaboutit,allthewhilemunchingonmypopcorn,themorefuriousIbecame.Whatrightdidthismysteryeditorhavetoreadmymanuscript?Munch.Whatsortofcrazypersonwouldwalkintosomeoneelse’sroom(okay,evenIknowthat’sstretchingabit),plonkdownonthe
rug,andproceedtotearsomeoneelse’smanuscriptapart?Munch.It’snarcissistic.Munch.Sadistic.Munch.Theyprobablylovedseeingmymanuscriptindisarray,sheetsoutoforderandpiledonthefloor.Munch.
Imean,it’snotlikewhatIdoforaliving.Igetpaidtoedit.Igetaskedtoedit.Myauthorswantmetoedit.Andmostimportant,I’mkind.
ThesearethethoughtsthattransfixmetwohourslaterasIsitonabarstoolinthekitchen,manuscriptinfrontofme,
frowningatasentenceinOswald’slatest.AbitaggressivelyIunderlineaparagraph,thenscribblethewordsinthemargins
inmyuntidyhandwriting:I’mnotunderstandingthepointofthisparagraphhere.Clarify.
Ibringthecoffeemugtomylips,thensetitdown.
Please,Iadd.

See?I’mkind.
“Stillinyourjammies?”Oliviahustlestothefridgeandopensitup.There’sastackoftwentymealsneatlyliningtheleft-hand
sideoftherefrigerator.Shepullsoneout.“Ithoughtyouhadtogotoworktoday.”

“Ido.ButIdon’thavetobethereuntilnine.And…seeingasIcouldn’tsleep”—Iliftmyeyesfromthemanuscriptto
giveanaccusinglooktothebackofherhead—“I’mgettingsomeworkdonebeforeIgo.”

“Oh?”Olivia’sdampponytailswingsassheturnsherhead.Shelooksatmewithfresheyes,asthoughthere’shopeformeafterall.“Whatagooduseoftime.Where’stheconference?”
“MusicCityCenter.”IfeelarushofanxietyasIsayit.
ClaireDonovanwillbethere.Forthefirsttimeinayear,we’llbeinthesamebuilding.She’llbebusyatherownBaird
Bookstent,I’msure,butwecouldrunintoeachother.Probablywillrunintoeachother.Icouldprobablyeven“happenchance”
bumpintoher.ButthenwhatwillIsay?

Oh,hey,Claire.Haveyoureadmymanuscriptinthelasttwelvehours?
Ican’tbethatauthor.Ican’t.

Ittakesmetypicallyafulltwelveweekstogettoanynewmanuscriptsthataren’tfrommyauthors.Andwe’reasmallhouse.
It’sridiculoustothinkit’dtakeherameretwelveweeks,positivelyludicroustothinkitcouldbedoneintwelvehours.
Betweenmidnightandnoon.Theeveningbeforeconference.

Oliviachecksherwatch.“Youknow,ifyoudecidetowalk,youcouldnotonlygetaheadofworkbutreachyourdailystep
goaltoo.”Hereyespositivelysparkle.“Talkaboutawin-winbeforenoon,amIright?”

Myownexpressiontightens.LeaveittohertoalwaysthinkIshouldbedoingonemorething.“Gee,Olivia.Whatawonderful
idea.”

Oliviagivesamodestshrug.“Youcanneverbesurehowthedaywillgo,so…”Shesnapsopensthecontainer,revealing
twoperfectlyportionedsquaresofdriedfruitandGreekyogurt.“Besttogetthosestepsinearly.Andthen,notonlywill
youhavethesatisfactionofknowingyouaresuccessfullyworkingtowardahealthierbody,butyou’llfinditeasiertoretrain
yourmindto—

“Climbtheothermountainsinyourlife,”Ifinishinunisonwithherandtakeanothersipofcoffee.
IamtherecipientofoneofOlivia’sSteps-4-Lifespeechesonceaweek.
“Well?”Oliviasays,scowling.“Itisscientificallyproven.Honestly,Savvy,ifyoujusttrieditforasolidmonth…”

ButasapatheticasIact,Ican’thelpwatchingherfigureassheturnstowardthesilverwaredrawer.Olivia,inhermaroon
runningtights,calvesperfectlysculpted.Herbackmuscles,exposedbyhercrisscrosstanktop,ripplingdelicatelybeneath
flawlessskinasshereachesdownforaspoon.Herneck,longandlean.

Shehasn’talwaysbeenthisway.Backinourschooldayssheusedtobetheshyone.Theonewithalittlebitonherhips.
Theonewiththemouthfullofbracesforaninordinatelylongperiodoftime.Followingme—withthebrightersmile,better
grades,smallerpantsize—throughschool.ButthenIleftforcollege,andatsomepointinthatgapoftime,thingsshifted.
Slowlyshestartedtakingonextracurriculars.Learningtoplaynewinstrumentseveryfewmonths.Takingoninternships.Then
after-schooljobs.Thinningasshetookuptrack.Thencrosscountry.

Bythetimeshegraduatedfromuniversity,topofherclass,Ihardlyrecognizedher.
WhilesomewhereinthereIsettledintomediocrity,sheburstforthasthenextshiningCadestar.
Oliviapullsaboxofoatmealsquaresfromtheoverstuffedcabinetassheturnstome.“Really?Anotherbox?Don’tyouhave
anothertwelveoftheseshovedinthepantry?”

“It’shealthy,”Iprotestandthenrubmynoseasshemakesaface.“Comparatively,anyway.AndIlikethem.”
“Wedon’thaveroomforthem,”Oliviaretorts.“Forgoodness’sake.Doyoueverlookinthepantryanymore?Ifyoujustcheckedthekitchenwhileyoumakeyourgrocerylistatleasteveryonceinawhile—”

“It’sjustaboxofcereal,Olivia,”Ireply,bristling.“Justacoupleboxesofcereal.Ithinkthepantrycanmanage.”
“Yes,well,Icouldlineupallyour‘coupleboxesofcereal’andplaydominoesacrosstheapartment.”Oliviawavesanarm
atthelivingroom.

“Andwhataboutyourpreciouscontainermeals?”Isay,standingwithmymug.“Youstufftheentirefridgewiththemandleavemeenoughspacetosqueezeinablockofcheese—”

“It’smyfridge,”Oliviareplies,hervoiceloudernow.“IthinkI’vebeenprettygenerouswithmyfridge—andmywholeapartment,forthatmatter—thesepasttwelvemonths.”

Myfacegrowshot.Isshereallygoingtoprickatmyinsecuritylikethat,here,beforeI’veevenfinishedmycupofcoffee?
Doesshereallywanttotrytoplaythisgame?Beforesecond-guessing,Iblastbackwithmyowntrumpcard—thecardInever
wanted,thecardshe,byherownactionswithFerris,handedme.“Ohyes,Olivia.I’mwellawareofjusthowgreatyouareatsharingeverything—”

“Ladies!”avoiceboomsfrombehindus,andwesimultaneouslyturntoseeFerrissteppingintothelivingroomfromthefront
door,acoffeetraycarryingthreesage-greencupsinhishand.Hischeeks—ruddyfromthewindoutside—arenearlyasredas
themaroonsweaterhe’swearing.Hesmilesbroadly,asthoughhehasn’theardmysubtleremarkaimedathim.“Who’dlikesome
coffee?”

WhileFerrishandsouttheusuals—asmallnonfatlattewithonetablespoonofhoneyforOlivia,amediumwhite-chocolatemochaforme—Inoticemineislargerthanusual.Ferriscatchesmyeyeandgivesalopsidedsmile.“Iknowwekeptyouuptoolatelastnight,”hesaysquietly.“Figuredyou’dappreciateasizeupforyourbigday.”
AstightasmychestisfromdealingwithOlivia(aconditionIexperienceatleastonceaweek),mylipscan’thelpcurling
upwardasIsetdownmymugandacceptwhathe’sbroughtmefromtheRaven.Already,IfeelmyinsidesdefrostingasIhold
thetoastycupinmyhands.

Forallourpatchytimes,Icouldn’teverdenythatFerris,whenhe’swantedto,hasalwaysbeentheonewhocouldwalkinto
aroomandcalmmedown.Whetherwithatimelyprofferofacaffeinatedbeverageorawillingnesstositdownforhoursand
hashoutawholesituation,hehasalwaysbeenthereforme.Alisteningear
Lovedhim.

Andnowappropriatelyappreciatehimasmuchasanymaturewomanwouldappreciateherex-boyfriend-now-sister’s-fiancé.
WasithardtoloseFerristomysisterafterthelonghistorywehadtogether?Sure.WasIfullofthrow-your-computer-out-the-window
blindfuryatthediscoverythat,afterhecivillybrokeitoffwithmeoneeveninginmybedroom,hedeclaredhisundying
affectionformysistertwenty-fourhourslaterinhers?

Ab-so-flippin’-lutely.

Butit’snotquitethateasytoblockapersonlikeFerrisoutofyourlife,asitturnsout.Notwhenhehasbeenapart
ofthefamilyonandoffthelasttenyears.Notwhenheasksyoursistertomarryhimthreemonthsaftertheygettogether.
Andnot,principally,whenyouareaCade.

BecauseweCadeslivebythreelifewords:Generosity.Persistence.Family.Youliveeachdaylookingforanopportunitytoserveanother.Youpersistinachievingthebestforyourlifecomedrought
orhighwater.Andyousticktofamily.Alwaysandforever,yousticktofamily.We’relikethemafia.Only…nicer.

Andwhile,yes,mysisterinitiallyplayedtheblacksheepbybreakingtheCadecodeandallowingthemanwhohadbrokenmy
hearttocapturehers,themomenthedroppeddownononeknee,thesituationchanged.

Infact,thesituationrequiredanintervention.Preciselytwelvehoursaftertheengagementannouncement,myparents“dropped”
bytheapartment.Satmedown(onOlivia’scouch).Insistedtheyhearoutthewholestory.Myfeelings.Myclaims.Myhurts.
Then,withhalfaboxoftissuesusedup,Mompattedmeonthehand,gavemethebiggestsympatheticeyesshecould,andsaid,
“Darling,we’vegotaweddinginfourmonths.We’regoingtohavetospeedthingsup.”

Thiswasfollowedwithalengthy,statistics-ladenexplanationthattheyhadpassivelywatchedasbystanders,wantingtogive
meroomtomovethroughthefivestagesofgrief,fromthefirstdenialphase(akaafullmonthofbubblyoverenthusiasmand
overbrightstatementstoanyonewithinearshotthatwewerejust“onabreak”)allthewaytowardacceptance.Onlyapparently,
accordingtomyparents,Iwasstuckonstagetwo—theangerstage.Youknow,whereyouarediscoveredsittingcross-legged
inyourcloset,cuttingoldletterstoshredsbythelightoftheoldphotosofthebothofyouatpromnowinflamesona
dinnerplate.Thatstage.

Whichwasallfineandwell,exceptnowhewasgoingtobeaCade,andbygolly,MotherhadadressfittingatHarold’sonMonday.Theyweregoingtohavetohelpmealong.
Andso,aftermanysuchlengthydiscussions,Ieventuallydidcometotermswiththings.
Even,bizarrelyenough,startedtoseeeveryoneelse’spointofview.
Afterall,foreverybodyexceptmeitdidmakesense.Itwasquiteromantic,even.
Theboywhohaddatedtheoldersisterallthroughhighschoolandnevernoticedtheonethreeyearsyoungerwithbraces,
watchingthemthroughthestairrailswhiletheywentofftotheirpromsandparties.Theyoungersisterwhoeventuallygrew
upandwenttoherownuniversity,gainedherindependence,blossomedintoherownstrengths,andthen,nearlyadecadelater,
ranintotheboy-now-manshe’d(apparently,asIwastodiscoverintheglowinghow-we-metstoriestheyliketoshareatparties)
hadsuchacrushonbefore.How,whenImovedintoOlivia’sapartmentlastyearaftermyfinancialcrisis,theireyeslocked
thatfirstevening.AndwhileI—sweatsoakedandpantinginstainedT-shirts—hauledboxesuptomyroom,theyapparentlyhad
“hilariously”stumbledintooneanotherinthehallway,whereshehad“thecutestlockofhairthathadfallenoutofplace”
andhehad“falleninlovewithheratfirstsight.”

Hewas,ashesays,“captivatedagainsthiswill.Lovehadchosenhim.Cupidhadshothisarrow.”
Andtherewasnothinghe,norI,coulddoaboutit.
LikeIsay,it’sromantic.Foreverybodybutthegirlwhogetsdumpedandreplacedbyhersuccessful,beautiful,youngersister.
ButIwillsaythatforhispart,Ferrisdoesfeelterribleaboutwhatitdidtome.Evennow,healwaystriestomakeupforhowthingshappened.Alwaystriestoincludeme.MakesureIfeelimportant.MakesureIknowI’mlovedandnotalone.Ihonestlythinkthat’swhythey’vepushedtheweddingouttwicenow.Forme.
Ilookattheclock.Ferrisseesmyfingersfidgetingonthecounter.
“You’regoingtodogreat,Sav,”hesays,givingmealittlesmile.“You’vemasteredtheropes.Couldprobablyrunthewhole
conferencebynow.”

Igivehimasmileback.He’sassumingI’mnervousabouttheLOAwreckfrommyfirstyear.Theassumptionisoffbase—I’ve
double-,triple-,andquadruple-checkedthatallthebooks,bookmarks,andbookplateswillbesafelysecuredbeneaththebooth
tablebythetimewegetthere.Still,it’sthoughtful.

He’strying.
Hejustwantsusalltogetalong.
“Youknowwhat?Imayjustwalkdownthereafterall,”Isay,scrapingtogetherasmuchkindnesstowardmysisterasIcan
muster.Itonly,allcollected,comestoapinchworth,butit’senough.“Mayhelpwiththejitters.”

Ferris’ssmilewidensasOliviaturnsfromthefridgewhereshe’sholdingaglassundercoldrunningwaterwhilejoggingin
place.“Yeah?”Hereyesflickerfromtheclockabovethesinktome,thenbrighten.“Yeah,that’sagreatidea.And…good
lucktoday.”

Imanageatinysmile.“Thanks.”
There,Ithink,mygrinbroadeningasIlooktoFerris.Olivebranchgiven.Olivebranchreceived.
TheCadenamepreservedanotherday.
ButthenoblegesturelooksawfullypalebythetimeIstride,freezingfingerswrappedtightlyaroundthewaistofmycoat,throughthetwentiethstoplightandupthestepsoftheMusicCityCenter.Andthankstoanunforeseen5K,withthestreettapedoffandamassofrunnerssprintingbywithcountrymusicblaring,IwasforcedtodetouranextradozenblocksIhadn’taccountedfor.
I’mpainfullylate.Icanfeelit.IknowitsodeepinmysoulI’mafraidtocheckmywatch.
AsIreachthedoors,Iclenchmyjawanddareaglance.
Nine-oh-threea.m.
Shoot.
AsIfollowthesigns,MusicCityCenterisbuzzingwithactivitythat,afteronlytwoyears,stillmakesmefeelabitlike
akidinacandyshop.

Oh!Lookatthatbanner!Ididn’tknowSophieKinsellahadanewonecomingout.
Oh!Thatpersonhasanentiresuitcaseofbooks!Whatdidtheyfind..
Oh!IsthattheFonz?!Here?!SIGNINGBOOKS?!
AndjustasI’mabouttoveerofftofollowtheoldHappyDaysiconintothebathroomforanautograph,I’mfunneledintoanevensmallerhallwayandpopoutatthetopofanexpansive
exhibitroom.Bannerscoverboothsasfarastheeyecansee.Booksspillfromeveryinchofavailablespace.Stackslieon
tables.Besidetables.Beneathtables.It’sonly9:00a.m.,andalreadythecrowdsswarm.

Everythingasfarastheeyecanseeisthelibrarian’sdream.
Thebooklover’sdream.
Thedream.
Andsureenough,Icanseehundredsoflibrariansracingaroundlikeantsfrommyperchatthetopofthestairsoverlookingitall.It’sthatoldTVshowSuperToyRun,whereoneluckykidracesthroughatoystoreinfiveminutes,throwinganythinghecanintoashoppingcart.Everything
free.Exceptinsteadoftoys,it’ssomethingmuch,muchbetter.

Books.
Hundredsandhundredsofcrispadvancecopiesofbooks,freeforthetaking.
BesidealargeHarperCollinsbannerIspotasmallerone,thesparrowlogonexttotheneatwordsPENNINGTONPUBLISHING.Lylaisbouncingfromoneendoftheboothtotheotherinapinkpantsuitandthree-inchheels,tryingtostopthewoman
inthecornerwho’scurrentlytryingtosneakallthecopiesofonebooktitleintoherbag.Giselleissittingofftoone
side,sippingcoffeeasshescrollsherphone.AndWilliamPenningtonhashishandsonhishipswhilehestandsbesideOswald,
lookingaroundimpatiently.

Shoot.
Shoot.Shoot.Shoot.
Idartdownthreesteps,onehandholdingontotherailing.AwomaninaT-shirtthatsaysWILLBRAKEFORBOOKStakesupthestairwaywitharollingsuitcasebyherside.

“Excuseme,”Isay,tryingtosqueezeby.“I’vejustgotto—”
“We’reallhereforthesamething,”thewomansaysgruffly,pushingoutherrollingsuitcaseandblockingmefromthepotential
footofspacebetweenherandthemanontheotherside.

“No,youdon’tunderstand,”Ibeginbutthenspot,overthewoman’sshoulder,thebookletdetailingthescheduleofevents.Hour-by-houreventsarenotedoverthecourseofthenextthreedaysontheleft-handside,butit’stheheadlinecoveringtheright-handsidethatgrabsmyattention.“Green?Green’sgotanewonecomingout?”
“Onlytwohundredcopiestoo!”themanbesidehersays,towhichsheeyeshim,thenme,suspiciously.Shefoldsthebooklet
up.

Twohundredcopies?Ican’thelpthinking.Aretheysigned?Butno.Imentallyshakemyself.Ineedtostayfocused.IneedtorememberwhyI’mhere.

Iglancetowardmytentagainandinstantlyregretit.Oswald’shandsarenowgrippingthebackofthetable,andhe’sinching
hiswaytowardtheexit.Asformynewsupervisor?Well,maybethatfaceisalwaysthefacehemakeswhenhe’sdoingbusiness.
Maybethatmurderous-lookingfrownashiseyesdartaround,onehandgrippedonOswald,isjustbusinessasusual.

Maybe.
Icheckmywatch.Nineeleven.
Iwanttowail,Moveit,people!butthenspotthesituation:anelderlywomangettingsettledintoawheelchairatthebottomofthestairs.Knowingthis
place,sheprobablytookonelookaround,spottedfromadistancethatsportingyoungmanintheneonstaffT-shirtnowhelping
herintothewheelchair,andrealizedhecouldwhipheraroundthreetimesfasterthanthecompetition.

Iforceacalmbreath.
Isn’tthatnicethatallthosepeoplearehelpingherintoherchair?Iforcemyselftothink.Isn’tthatjustsonicethatweareallhere…atthisevent…alltogether…rightbeforeIgetfired!Getoutoftheway,everyone,orI’mgoingtoscream!
IgrabmyphonefrommybagandwhipoutatexttoLyla:Stuckatstairsinapileup.Canyoutelltheboss?
Mostpeoplewouldn’theartheirphonesinthechaosoftheroom.Moststaff,forthatmatter,wouldn’tevenhavetheirphonesontheirpersonwhiletheydancedaroundduringsuchanevent.ButnotLyla.ShecouldhearthesingledingofatextacrossastadiumduringtheSuperbowl.

Iwatchasshepullsthephonefromherpocket,readsthetext,andhustlesovertoWilliam.Goodol’Lyla.
Amomentlaterheturnshisheadtowardthestairs,andafterseveralmomentsofscanning,hiseyeslandonme.
No
I’vemadeitworse.
Ishrinkunderhisvolcanicglare,wishinginthatmomentforanescape.Any.Escape.Backward.Forward.Idon’tevenhavetogotothisevent.Afterall,Idon’treallyneedthisjob,doI?Really?Icould
justsquatinmysister’ssparebedroomforever,wallowinginself-loathingwhileMomandDadtellOlivia,“Yoursisterjust
can’tcutitintherealworldlikeyou,honey.Butremember,youdoforfamily.”

Theelderlywomaninthewheelchairpointsaheadatlast.“StartattheBerkleytent!”shedeclares,andmomentslaterthe
staffmemberinneonracesherintothecrowd,proddedonasthewomanpushespeopleoutofthewaywithhercane.

Now,wherewerewe?Oh,yes,tryingtofaceMs.Pennington’sson.
BythetimeIreachthetent,LylahasgivenuponthelibrarianinthecornerandappearstohavecorneredOswald,talking
avidlywhilehisbifocaledeyesdartaroundforameansofescape.

IfaceWilliam.
“Thatwasamadhouse—”Ibegintosay,buthecutsmeoff.
“Doyouthinkthisisunimportant,Ms.Cade?”
Hisvoiceiseerilycalm.Idon’tthinkIexpectedittosoundlikethat,Irealize.IthinkIwassuspectingittosoundmorelikehismother’s—loudandquasi-hystericalandattention-grabbing.Butcalm?Somehow,itfeelsworse.
“Doyouthinkweareinsomesortofshoppingmall,whereyoucanjustfloatinwhenyouplease?”hecontinues.
Iopenmymouth,butheliftsafinger.
“WasInotabsolutelyclearyesterdaywhenIstatedjusthowsignificantthiseventwastoday,andhowimperativeitwouldbetogoaboveandbeyond?”
MyeyesdarttoGiselle,whohasnowtakenoutafilefromherpurseandisfrowningatanail.“IfthiswasmystaffatSterling,
ifIgavethematimetobesomewhere—”

“Will!Thereyouare!”
William’seyesdartup,followedbymine,astwomenapproach.Astheysauntertowardhim,withenoughlackadaisicalconfidence
ineachstepthatothersslideoutoftheway,Ifeelthetensioninmychestreleasing.I’msaved.Momentarily,atleast,
I’vebeenspared.

UnlikethosesurroundingthepairofthemincolorfulcardigansandcleverbookishshirtsandpinssayingthingslikeNeverJudgeaBookbyItsMovieandAbibliophobia:noun.Thefearofrunningoutofbooks,thetwomenweargray.Suitsthatareutterlyfreeofanysortofemotion.Asiftheveryideaofaccidentallycausinga
smileisrepugnant.

I’mjusttryingtoinchmywaybackwardandoutofthescenewhenthetallestmanclapsWilliamontheback,hissmilerevealing
thewhitest,straightestteethI’veeverseen.“We’vebeenalloverthisplacelookingforyou.Ikeptsaying,‘Pennington
Publishing.Iknowit’ssmall,butithastobesomewhere.Surelyitisn’tsuchasmallpubtheydon’tactuallyget’”—helaughsashesaystheword—“‘invited.’”
Hiscompanionchimesinwithasoftchuckle.
“Anyway,”themancontinues,hishandturningfromaclaptoagripandshouldershake,“withalittlesquintingwefound
you.”

“Jim.Howgoodofyoutocomeover.”IfI’dthoughtWilliamwasintimidatingbeforewithhiseerilycalmbehavior,Inowsee
he’sonlybeenusingquarterstrength.Hiseyeshaveallbutcrystalizedintotwosharp,piercingicicles—butnotthenice
kind,no.Notthekindwhereyoutouchtheirdribblytipsastheydangleofftreebrancheswhilesaying,“Aw,look!Icicles.”
No,thekindthataresobigandsharppeoplesnapthemoffandusethemasweapons.Thatkind.

Andhisback,forthatmatter,isstartingtolooklikeanuprightcuttingboard.HisbodyissorigidIfeellikeifthis
guyshookhimhardenough,hewouldn’tbend,he’dtipover.

There’sapainfullysilentpause,whereinJimovertlybeginslookingatme,nodoubtawaitingintroduction.Stiffly,William
putsoutahandtowardme.“Savannah,thisisJimArrowoodandJensonForbes,formercoworkersatSterling.”Hischinbarely
movesaninchtheirway.“ThisisSavannahCade.AcquisitionseditorforourPendivision.”

Ialmostputin,“Actually,it’sassistantacquisitionseditor,”butholdmytongue.Now’sprobablynotthetimetocorrect
thenewboss.

Thetallone,Jim,putsoutahand.Hissmilehasgrowntofull-onused-car-salesmanstatus,andforablinkofaneye,I
wonderwhatexactlywouldhappenifIrefusetoshakeit.Reluctantly,Igivein.

“Nicetomeetyou,Savannah,”hesays,givingmyhandaheartysqueezeandshakethemomentitgripsmine.Thenextsecondhe’swhippinghisotherhandintohischestpocketandpullingoutabusinesscard.“EditorialdirectoratSterlingHouse.We’realwaysonthelookoutforthenextgenerationofgreateditors.”
Ilookdownatthecardinmyhands.Readhisnameandtitlebelowtheclassicoutlineofthedignifiedoldmansionthatis
SterlingHouse’slogo.

Unbelievable.
Notonlyisthemanusingmetoloudlyremindmynewbossthathetookhisjob,he’sopenlydiscussingpoachingmeinfront
ofmyemployer.Asthoughmyplaceofemploymentisofsuchlittleregarditcouldn’tpossiblybeconsideredoffensive.

Mylipstighten.
Idon’tknowthisman,andIcertainlydon’tknowWilliamPennington,butIdoknowPenningtonPublishing.IdoknowPatricia
Pennington,terrifyingasshemaybe,andthelong-standinggrit,determination,andintegrityshehaspouredintohercompany.
AndIdohavesomeself-respect.

Etiquettecantakethebackseatonthisone.
TheCadesdoforfamily,andforme,evenifitbeinasmallerway,PenningtonPublishingisfamily.
Evenasmycheekspink,mygriponthebusinesscardtightens.BeforeIknowitI’mholdingitouttohim,apolitesmile
onmyface.“I’mhappywhereIam.”

There’sanenormouspauseasallthreemenlookdownatme,freshshockinvaryingdegreesontheirfaces.
Isensethepressuretoaddtomywords,tobackpedalquicklyinbothprofessionalandgoodsouthernfashion,butIstandfirm,smilestampedinplace.InmyperipheryIseeaflickerinWilliam’seyes.
Hedoesn’tlooklikehe’sabouttobrimoverwithhappinessoranything,butthereisaspark.
Good,Ithink.Rememberthismoment,William,insteadoftheireofthelastfiveminutes.
Slowly,Jimreachesoutandtakesthecard.
“So,”hesays,stuffingthecardquicklybackintohischestpocketandshufflinghisgazetothetentbehindus,“howhave
youbeenthesepastmonths?WhenIheardyoulefttheCity…”Heshakeshishead.“Icouldn’timagine.Iwouldkillmyself.”

William’ssmiletightens.“Yes.Well.It’snotforeveryone.”
JimgivesabarkoflaughterandtriestogiveWilliamaloosening-upshake.Itdoesn’twork.“Oh,comenow.Let’snotbe
likethat.Whodoyouhavelinedupfortheday?”

Jimlooksatthefoamboardinthecenterofthetent,wherealargeheadshotofOswald’sfaceisplasteredbesidehisnewest
book.Jim’sbrowsfurrow.“TheCompleteGuidetoPruningTechnique,”hemurmurs.“That’squitethechangefromGreen,isn’tit,Will?”hesays,hiseyesmirthful.

Green.
…Greeeeen.
Trace…Green?
MyeyesswivelbacktoWilliam.
WilliamPenningtonwastheeditorfortheTraceGreen?TheoneIadorewholeheartedlyandyetsoforcefullyrefusedtoadmitknowledgeofyesterday?AndWilliamwas
demotedtothis?

EvenIcan’thelpfeelingalittledisgustedatourboothasJim’seyesslowlyrovearoundit,clearlyneitherfamiliarwithnorimpressedwithanytitle.Thentheystop,andaflickerofamusementignitesinhiseyes.
“Uh,Will,”hesays,pointingtowardOswald.“Youmightwanttodosomethingaboutthat.”
BothWilliamandIturnatthesametimeandseeOswald,who,witheyeswideandunblinking,ispressinghimselfagainsta
wallofbooks.He’sstaringatLyla,transfixed,asthoughcaughtinherweb.

Williamstartstoturntowardme,butIheadhimoff.“I’monit.Goodmorning,Oswald!”myvoiceringsoutasIspringinto
action.

AndforthenexttenminutesIstandbesideOswald,alternatingbetweenpeelinghimoffthewallofbooksandjumpinginfront
ofanypassinglibrarianswhoslowtheircantertogazeathisposter,shieldinghimfromthosewhomightrecognizehimand
unintentionallycausehimtothrowhimselfunderthetabletherestofthemorning.It’sconsumingwork,butIstillcatch
theconversationgoingbetweenthethreemen.

Alltheirwordsarebarbed,eachcarryingtheirowninsinuation.
Frankly,it’sfascinating.
It’slikethey’replayingtwogamesoftennisatonce,aracketineachhand.Oneconversationvolleyingbackandforthacross
thenetisthesurfacediscussionaboutbusinessandhomeandNewYorklife,whiletheotherisastab.AndwhileWilliam
doesmakehisfairshareofjabs,it’stheonesfromthetallguy,Jim,thatIfeelinmygut.

JabsthatWilliamisnotmissed.
Jabsthathe,William’sreplacement,isfarsuperiorineveryway.
Jabsthat,withWilliamgone,headlinersareflockingtoSterlingindroves.
BythetimetheannouncementgoesovertheroomaboutGreen’ssigningatBooth#207andthetwomensetoutwithself-importance
towardtheir“abandoned”(andyet,asstatedthreetimes,apparentlyrunbyanonslaughtoflowerstafftrippingonthemselves
tofulfilltheireverywish)booth,evenIhaveforgottenallaboutWilliam’spiercingwordsaboutmebeinglate.

Asthetwomenfallintothecrowd,Williamturns,andforamomenthisexpressionhasfallen.Helooksragged.Helooksabused.
AndevenI,inthatmoment,can’thelpfeelingforhim.

Butjustthenhecatchesmyeye,andIturnanddiveheadlongintomyduties
NowtherearefourthingsI’mgoingtohopehehenceforthforgetsaboutandneverbringsup:themanuscriptpagehereadyesterday,
myresponsetomeetinghisformercoworker(evenifhewasghastly),mytardiness,andthewaytheentireconversationplayed
outaboutGreen.

Idon’tknowwhyI’djustassumedhehadheadedupsomeupscalefictionbranchbackinNewYork.
Itakethatback.OfcourseIknowwhyIassumed:becauseheisMs.Pennington’sson.Onlyson.Andforher,takingoncommercial
fictionwouldbelikebeingaMontagueandjumpingthefencetohangoutwiththeCapulets.Andlookhowwellthatturned
outforRomeo.

Truly,I’dbeafraidtositinonthePenningtons’Thanksgivingdinners.
Oswald’ssigningcomesupshortlyafterward,andwithitalotofheavyliftingonmypart—servingbothasthebodyguardensuringpeoplekeepasolidtwofeetfromtheanthropophobicmanandasasortoftranslatorbetweenhisreaderswiththeirfandom-speakandOswaldwithhismumbling.Theintensityofthenexttwohourssavesmefromanymoreconversationwithmyboss,andbythetimeIamgivingwellwishestothelaststragglersinline,Williamisnowheretobeseen.
“Nicejob,”Lylasays,pattingdownmyhair.“You’dthinkfivehundredcopieswouldbeenoughforthislot.”
“Thenyou’veunderestimatedthepowerofproperlytreatedhydrangeas,”Ireply.Iturnmyfacetowardthepodium.“Isn’tthat
right,Oswald?”Ifrown.“Oswald?”

Oswaldisstaringbleaklyoutatthecrowd,asifhe’sresignedtohislifesentenceinthechair.“Okeydokey.C’mon.”I
moveawayfromLylaandtakehimbythehand.Igiveitasoothingpatandthenreachmyarmoutbehindme.“Youdidsowell
today.Didn’the,Lyla?”

Lylagivesagenerousnodandpromptlyslidesmypurseupmyarm.
“Let’sgetyoutothehotel.”
Andwithonearmholdinglightlytotheelbowofhissleeve,Iwindthroughthecrowd,guidingOswaldtowardthedoubledoors.
Oncewe’rebackintotheconventionhallwaywithitsexpansiveceiling,Iletgo.Thereareonlyafewpeopleshufflingabout
now,mosthavinggonedowntotheexhibithallortotheconferenceroomstolistentothespeakers.Oswald,forhispart,
isperkinguplikeawater-deprivedflower.He’sdoingsowell,infact,thatI’mabouttoaskhimifhe’dliketositdown
foronelastcupofcoffeeattheonsitecoffeeshopwhenafamiliarpatchofbrownhairwithseveralstrandsofglinting
graycatchesmyattention.Thesamesmall,petiteframe.Thesameshort,blockyblueheels.

Inthatmoment,timefreezes.
Ican’tdecidewhetherIwanttograbOswaldbythearmanddraghimintothecoffeeshoporleavehimthenandthereand
makeamaddashforher.Orrunawaymyself,forthatmatter.MaybeIdon’twanttofaceheratall.

ButbeforeIcanthoroughlythinkitthrough,Irealizemybodyhasmadethedecisionforme,becauseit’stakenupOswald’s
elbowonceagainandisnowallbutrushingforthedoor.ClaireDonovanhasherbacktous.Sheisthelastinasmallline
waitingtoplaceanorder.IfIhurry,mybody—andmymind,asit’sslowlyrealizing—knowsIjustmightmakeittoherbefore
sheslipsaway.

“Offwego,”Itrill,speedingusupevenmoreaswehurrydownthestairsforthedoubledoors.“AsIwassaying,Oswald,
itwassogoodtoseeyou.Youwerefabuloustoday.”Ipushopenthedoors,andagustofwindbitesatoureyes.“Please
thankyourwifeforlettingusstealyouaway.”

“Mycoat,”Oswaldsays,strugglingtotakeitoffhisarmtoputiton.
“What’stheusewhenyou’reabouttogetinsidethiscozytaxi?”Isay,alreadyraisingmyarmandwavingataslowingcab
comingtowardthecurb.Asithalts,Ipullopenthedoor,thenstretchmyarmsoutwidewithalargesmile.“Itwassogoodtoseeyou.”

Dumbly,hereceivesmyhug.“Butweweregoingtotalkoverthesaleschannelreport…”
“That?Let’snotworryaboutthattoday.Notontheheelsofsuchatriumphantsigning.I’llbesuretoemailyouallabout
itMonday.”

Hispuzzledexpressionissomewhatadorable,likeapuppystaringathisowntail,dumbfoundedastowhyitkeepsfollowinghimaround.ButasIpatthetopoftheopendoorinvitingly,heblinksandfollowsmyorders.
“Haveagoodflight!”IcallasIshutthedoor.Iforcemyselftostayplantedandwavewhilethetaxirumblesoff,counting
tofivewithasmilepastedonmyface,thenturnandracebackupthestairs.

Myheelsclaploudlyonthemarblefloorsoftheemptyhall.I’materriblehost.Igaveaterriblyrushedparting.Butif
therewasanyoneIcouldshoveofflikethatwho’drespondwithafive-starreview,it’shim.

Andthis?Thismatters.
WhenI’mcloseenough,Iscanthelineattheregister.Thelinehasmovedontonewfaces,andforonedarkmomentIthink
Clairehasgone.

Then,overbythesugarstation,Ispother.
She’sopeningapacketofhoneyandpouringitintohercup,aslightfrownonherfaceasshetakesawoodenstickandbegins
tostir.

Mypaceslows.Whyisshefrowning?
Thismustbeabadtime.
Thisisabadtime.She’snodoubtonherwaytosomegrandandseriouslecture,somewhereonlyfittingfortheliteraryelitesof
thebiggesthouses.LikeaVIProom.Yes,aVIProomthatnobodyelseknowsabout,whereonlythebiggestprofessionalsin
thebusinessgatherundersoftlightinganddiscussthefutureoftheindustry.Acircleofplushredcouches.Sconcesglowing.
Waitersservingthemfoodonsilvertraysbecausetheyaretoobusydeterminingthefutureofcultureandliteratureeverywhere
todealwiththehassleofdecidingwheretodine—

Andthen,asifshefeelseyesuponher,Claireturnsandlooksmedirectlyintheeye.
Sheblinks,andthenhereyescrinkleinrecognition.Herfrowndissolvesasshetentsupasmileandstartswalkingtoward
me.

Thisisit.I’mboundnow.
Ifollowsuitandmovetowardher.
“Savannah,”shesays,hervoicewarm.“Iwasactuallyjustthinkingaboutyou.”Shewavesatanearbytable.“Haveaminute?”
Ihesitate.
AndbythisImeanIforcemyselftohesitate.
Myimmediate,naturalreactionistohoptherailingandsprinttowardheruntilI’mhuggingherknees.ButinsteadIgive
aslightnod,hopingI’mcommunicatingsomethinghalfwaybetweenOh,whatdoesitmatter?andOhmygosh,yes!Yes!YES!
“Sure,I’lljust…getacupofcoffeeandjoinyou,”Isayinmyposhest,mostcasualdemeanor,likewe’reoldfriends
whodothisallthetime.LikeIalwayshavecoffeewiththechiefeditorofBairdBooks.LikeweemailPinterestrecipes
toeachotherlateatnightwithmessageslike,“This’llbeperfectforourbrunchnextweek.”

No.Big.Deal.
I’veonlydreamedaboutthismomenteverysingledaysincelastJanuary.
IgetmycoffeeandslideintothechairacrossfromClairejustasshefinishestakingasipofhertea.Asshesetsitdown,Iseethesamedown-to-earthwarmthinhereyesIfoundlastyearaswestoodinthatlongline,chattingforthehourwewaitedforamomentwithMargaretAtwood.Weweresuchkindredspiritsthen,justtwoeditorsenthusiasticaboutthesameliteratureanddogsandmovies.Whenshesaidsheacquiredromanceauthors,Itoldheraboutmymanuscript.AtfirstIdidn’tclaimthestory,leavingitopenasjustamanuscriptIwaslookingover.Buteventuallysheprobed.AndeventuallyItoldherthetruth.Thatitwasmyown.ThatI’dbeenworkingonitsincecollege.Thatmydreamwastoseeitoutintheworldoneday,justlikeIcheeredonmyauthorsastheirbookswentoutintheworld.Shelikedthehookenoughthatweexchangedbusinesscards,hertellingmetosenditoverwhenitwasready.ItwasonlywhenIlookeddownathercardthatIrealizedexactlywithwhomIhadbeenspeaking.Notjustaniceeditoratanicehouse.Thechiefeditoratthehouse.TheBairdBooks.Thehousetobeatallhouses.EvenSterlingPublishingwalksinBaird’sshadowasfarasromanceisconcerned.

Andthosesamewarmeyesarelookingintominenow,easingallmyfears.WhathaveIbeensoworriedabout?Ithink,takingmyfirstsipofcoffee.WhyhaveIbuiltthiswholethingupinmyhead?Thisisn’tscary.Thisisn’tintimidating.Shesimplycalledouttome.

Askedmetositforcoffee.
She’ssmiling.
It’salllllgoingtoworkout—
“Igotyouremaillastnight.”
Myattentionsnapsatherwords.“Oh?”
Thisisit.Themomentoftruth.Themomentallmydreamscometrue.Ordon’t.
Andthen,withthosewarm,down-to-eartheyes,ClaireDonovanblinks,andinthatmomentthecornersofhereyesdipever
soslightlydown.Asthoughsheknowswhatshe’sabouttosay.

Knowsit.Andhatesit.
Butofcourseshedoes.
Becausewearekindredspirits.
AndI,too,hatewitheveryempatheticfiberofmybeingthispartofthejob.
Delivering…rejection.
“Weneedtotalk.”Chapter6
Iforcemyselftostaygluedtomychair,handsclaspedneatlyonmylap,anklescrossedpolitelybeneathmychair.Eventhough
everypartofmewantstorun.

Thevolumeintheworldaroundushasturneddown,loweringtoaquiethum.Timeslows.Mypalmsfeelwarmandstickyasthey
clasponeanother,liketwohotpancakesstackedtogether.I’msuddenlykickingmyselfforputtingonthatexpensive,made-from-organic-tree-bark-while-saving-Liberian-puppies
deodorantOliviaproddedmeintobuyingsoIcould“domyparttosavetheplanet”whileensuringthealuminumintheregular
stuffdidn’tseepthroughmyporesandgivemedementia.Rightatthismoment,I’dgiveanythingforagood,cheap,all-body
rubdownofaluminum.

“Soundsgood,”Isayatlast,forcingtheconversationtocometoitsinevitabledestination.Myvoiceisalmostnormal,exceptfortheraspyriseasIfinishtheword.WhatI’dintendedasacarefreetoneturnsoutbetoananxious,mousysqueak.Ilowermyvoiceanoctaveandpresson.“I’mimpressedyou’reevencheckingyouremailgiveneverythinggoingonthisweekend.”
Shewavesahandwithacompanionablesmile.“Oh,youknowhowitisforusworkaholics.It’sneverthateasytoleavethe
workbehind.”Shegivesalittleself-deprecatinglaugh,andIchucklealong.

“Isn’tthatthetruth,”IsayandtrymyhardesttomusterupthebiggestsmileIcan—whichisn’tsayingmuch.IfeelIcan’t
keepupwiththisshabbyattemptatlightheartedpreamble.It’stimetogetonwithit.Boththankfullyandhorrifically,
shesensesittoo.

“Anyway,”Clairesays,hervoiceinstantlymorebusinesslike.“Iopenedyouremaillastnightforareason.Whenyoushared
withmethehookofyourstorylastyear,Iwasintrigued.Arecoveringshopaholicandyourpersonalfinanceradiopersonality
fallforoneanotherinacoffeeshop,onlytothenhavetosettleouttheirdifferences?Itwassocharming.Truly.Butthe
storyyoutoldmelastyearandthestoryIsawonthepagelastnightaretwoverydifferentthings.WhatIwanted—”She
pauses.“WhatIreallyhopedforwasthatstory.”

Thatstory.
Shewantedthatstory.

Mystomachdropstosomewherearoundmyfeet.I’mnotevensurewhatshe’ssaying.Mymanuscriptisnotthesameasmymanuscript?
Ofcourseit’sthesame.Everythingaboutitisthesame.Theonlythingsthatchangedwereafewrevisionshereandthere
becauseIwaswiseenoughtoknowIwasnoexpertintheromance-writingdepartmentandconsequentlytookupasmuchreading
onthesubjectasIcould.

I’dreadanewbookonthecraftofwritingandrealizeaghastlyamateurmove,thenshiftthemanuscripttoparallelthewinningwisdomwithinthatbook.
I’dreadanotherbook,realizeanothermajorflaw,andadjustmymanuscriptaccordingly.
Yes,attimesthebookswouldcontradictoneanother,andthatwas,Iadmit,confusing.ButIworkedthroughit.Mymanuscript
workedthroughit.

Andcameoutstronger.
Ithink.
“Oh,”Isayfeebly,tryinghardnottofidgetwithmyhands.Tryingjustashardtoformcohesive,intelligentwordswhile
keepingmyfaceandvoicefromgivingawayjustexactlyhowIfeel.Whichisasthoughalightningbolthasstruckoverhead
andatelephonepolehasbludgeonedme.

“Now,Ididn’tgetthroughallofitlastnight,ofcourse,”shecontinues.
“Ofcourse,”Isay,abitofhoperising.Ofcourseshedidn’treadthewholemanuscript.Ofcourse.“Howfaralongdidyouget?”

Shehesitates.“Enough.”
Herwordfallslikeamassiveblow.
Enough
She’dread…enough.
Ifeelsicktomystomach.
Thisauthorsideofthingsisawful
I’veneverbeenonthereceivingendofmanuscriptrejectionbefore.It’sdreadful.Nobodyshouldwrite.
“Buttherearepiecesthere.Potential.And”—shepausesthoughtfully—“undernormalcircumstances,IthinkIsawenoughpotentialinyourstorythatIwould’vewelcomedtheopportunitytocontinueworkingwithyouonit,gettingitintotip-topshape.”
Iraisemyeyes.Yes.Yes,thatwouldbeagoodidea.ImyselfdothatsometimeswhenIgetparticularlykeenonapotential
client.We’lljust…exchangeemails.We’llvolleythembackandforthuntilit’sright.Andthenshe’lltakeittoher
team.Andthenit’llmoveontopubboard.AndthenIgetacontract.

Thesweetwordsechoinmyear.AndthenIgetacontract.
“But,”shecontinues,“thefactofthesituationisthatI’mnotundernormalcircumstancesatthispointintime.HadIgotten
thisemaillastyear—evensixmonthsago—thingscould’vebeendifferent.”

Claireshiftsinherchair,clearlytryingtobeassubtleasshecaninthereminderthatIshould’vesentherthismanuscript
sooner,likewediscussed.

ButItriedtosenditsooner.

Ireallydid.Itjustneverwasquitereadybackthen.Neverquiteperfect.

“I’mretiringattheendofMarch,”shecontinues.“Assuch,Iaminthemidstofoffloadingmyauthorsontoothereditors,
nottakingonanynewones.AndthereasonItookalookatitlastnightwasbecauseIlikedyourhook.Ilikeyou.Andwere…”
Shehesitates,asifconsideringifI’memotionallyabletohandlewhatshe’sabouttosay.“Werethemanuscriptinprime
condition,Iwould’veconsideredtakingiton.Just”—shegivesawrysmile—“getitthroughcontractsandthenhanditover
toaneditoronmyteam.But…”

Shetrailsoff,andwhilethatlittleshrugshe’sgivingmayseemlikeagoodenoughfinaleforher,Ifeelmyanxietyrising.
But…what?

What?
Youcan’tjustleaveoffourconversationwith,“Well,Icould’vemadeallyourdreamscometrue.But…,”andthenshrug
andaskmetopassthesugar.

You’retheeditor,forcryingoutloud!Iwanttowail.Youneedtoknowhowtoendascene!
“Ihatetohavetothrowmyselfoutoftheringbeforethebiddinggetsstarted,though.”Shesmilesatmeasthoughshe’s
theonetobepitiedhere,notme.Which…nowthatIthinkofit,Imaybeatinybittoblamefor.Imayhavetouted
myselfjustalittleafterIgotherbusinesscardlastyear,ballooningupthefactthatonesmallpressalmostcertainly
workingoutofitsgaragehadexpressedinterestintotheillusionthatdozensofNewYorkhouseswereknockingonmydoor.
Oops.“Anyway,youprobablywouldn’thavewantedtodissectallthepiecesofyourmanuscriptwithmeanyway.Especiallywhen
I’monlyoneopinion.”

You’retheonlyvoiceIwanttohear!mybrainwantsdesperatelytoblurtout,andIsqueezemyhandstogethertightlytokeepfromdoingso.You’retheonlyvoicethatmatters!
It’stimeforanothertactic.
“What,”IbeginaslightlyasIcan,“sortofthingsdidyounotice?”
“Hmm.”Hereyesdimslightly.Shetakesanextra-lengthytimetoreply.“Well,forexample,themeet.”Sheputsupahand.
“Now,meetinginacoffeeshopisawonderfulidea,”shesaysencouragingly.Shegivesagentlesmileasshewavesahand
around.“We’remeetinginacoffeeshophere,justlikethousandsofpeopleusethecoffeeshopasanextensionoftheirliving
room.Thereisalwayssomethinglovelyabouttheambience.But,”shesaysafterapause,“it’sjust…abitoverdone.”

Mymindflashestothewordsmymysteryeditorinscribedonthemanuscript:Wildlyunoriginal.
“Ijustthought,”Iventure,“perhapsitwasoriginalconsideringthewaythetwocharactersmistakenlymixeduptheircups
whentheypickedthemup,onlytofindout,youknow…”Ishrugwithasmile.“Theyactuallyorderedthesamedrink…”

“Yes,andIbelieveHallmarkhasenjoyedthatopeningaswell.Timeandtimeagain.”
Hersmileistender.Iknowshe’stryingtomakelightofitall,makeitajokeformysake.AndforhersIsmilebackas
thewordsonmymanuscript’smarginflashacrossmyeyes:NauseatinganddirectlyplagiarizedfromeveryHallmarkmovieinthelasttenyears.
“Interesting,”Isay,noddingasthoughI’mcasuallydigestingthisinformationandit’snotfeelingintheslightestlike
glassshreddingmyinsidesasitgoesdown.“Sothemeetupneedssomeattention.”

“Andthecharacters,”Claireadds,noddingback.
“Thecharacters.Yes.Ofcourse.Thecharacters.”Ipause.“Howexactly…withthecharacters?”
“Well,forexample,Sloan.”
“Sloooan,”Irepeat.“Yes.Sloan.ExactlywhataboutSloan?”
“Sloanhastogo.”
Clairedeliversthefactofthematterjustaseasilyasshewouldsay,“Youknow,Ithinkthattablelamphastogo.It’s
throwingoffthevibeinthelivingroom.”

Sloan.ThequirkywomandesperatelyinlovewithRenaldo.Theonewhoinsertsherselfineveryothersceneinonebumbling
wayoranother.Theonethreadedexpertlyintothestorytohighlightthemovementandgrowthoftheothercharacters.Sloan.

Andpreciselyhow,Iwanttoyell,wouldImanagetakingoutamajorcharacterwithouttheentirestorycollapsing?
Themysteryeditor’swords—Wedon’tneedthischaracter—arecracklingthroughmybrain,butIdon’thavetimetodwellonit.

“AndIdidhaveonethought,”Clairecontinues,hereyesbrightening.“Haveyoueverconsideredshiftingthemanuscriptto
thepresenttense?”

HaveI.Everconsidered.Shiftingtopresenttense.
ClaireDonovanisreplicatingthewordsandthoughtsofmymysteryeditorsowellshepracticallyistheeditor.Whoknows,maybesheactuallyistheeditor.Maybesheistheonewhostoleintoaforeignpublishinghouseinordertosneakupintoasecretroom,scribblehatefulcommentson
mymanuscript,andstealawayagain.Thatseemsliketheonlylogicalconclusionhere.

Thator,Ifeelwithsickeningdread,mymysteryeditorwasright.
Everyonearoundmeisright,andI’mtheonlyonewhocan’tseetheflawsinmyownwork.
I’veheardthisfrommyauthorsbefore,atleastadozentimes.Howblindedtheygettotheirownwriting.Howharditis
toseethestoryfromthereader’sperspective.Inmymind,IliveintheworldofHarpwood,Indiana.I’veworkedsohardandforsolongonthisstory,Iknoweveryintricatedetail—bothwritten
andunwritten
Asuddenmoodofdespairhitsme,andIcan’thelpbutfeelmyshouldersbeginningtoslump.AllthistimeIthoughtIhad
something.Anidea.Aspark.Allthistime,Ithought,Imayjustbeabletodothis!Imayjusthaveawriter’ssoulafterall!ButwhatamI,really?

Justagirl,sittinginacoffeeshop,who’scompletelydeludedherself.
“Well,I’dbetterbegettingback,”Isay,shiftingmykneesoutfromunderneaththebistrotabletostand.Iforcealittle
laugh.“AndI’msureyouhavemuchmoreimportantthingstoattendtothantalkingwithmeallday.”IsmileasIspeak,my
cheeksplasteredintoformation,althoughI’mfindingithardtolookherintheeye.“Thankyousomuchforeverything,though,
Mrs.Donovan.IknowIam…verysmall…comparedtoyou,andyetevenIunderstandwhatit’sliketohaveyourin-box
floodedwithproposalsandideas.I’mtrulyhonoredyouchosetoconsidermine.”

Imovetostand,allthewhilegazingfixedlyatthefloor.
“Savannah,waitjustamoment.”
Ipause.
Forcemyselftomeethereye.WhenIdo,hergazeissteady,open.
“Yourstorydoeshavepromise,”shesaysslowly,asthoughhopingwitheachmeasuredwordIfullyabsorbandbelieveit.“It
trulydoes.Youjustneedtogetthatstory,theoneIheardlastyear,onpaper.That’sall.”

Foralongmoment,Ipause.
Andthere,lookingintoherwarmeyes,allthewhiletryingtoabsorbherwordsassheintended,I’mawareofanewthought
forming.Andforamoment,Ipushawaythedoubtsflappingtheirlarge,thunderouswings.

ThisisnotsomeonetryingtobuttermeupwhenI’mfeelinglow.ThisisClaireDonovan.
TheClaireDonovan.

Andwemayhavehadajollychatinlinelastyear,yes,butthefactisthisisherjob.Shegetshundredsofsupremelyvetted,hand-selectedmanuscriptstoperuseeachyearfromthehandsofafewselectliteraryagents.Andwhile,yes,wedidhaveonenicechatlastyear,thefactisshewouldn’thavesathere,wastingtwentyminutesofherprecioustime,ifshedidn’tactuallythinkmystoryhadaninklingofpotential.Shewouldn’thavewastedthetimeopeningthatemailifshedidn’treallybelievetherewassomethingthere.Shewouldn’thavereadatleastafewpagesbycomputerlightnearmidnightifthehookhadn’tgrabbedher.Andshecertainlywouldn’thavetakenthetimetopullmeasideandtalktodayinsteadofshootingoffasympatheticemail.
Contrarytothechantpulsinginmyears,Iamnotdoomed
Imightnothaveagoodenoughmanuscriptheretogetadealonthespot,butIhaveastart.Agoodstart.
AndIneedtomakeadecision.Rightnow.Becauseitreallymightbenowornever.
ThesmileIhadplasteredonbeforefalls,myexpressionreplacedwithaseriousbrow.
“So,yousaidthatifmymanuscriptwasuptothequalityyouhadhoped,youwouldbewillingtopushitthroughpubboard
beforeretiringattheendofMarch.”

Sheeyesmewarily,clearlynoticingthechangeinmyowntone.“If.Yes.Iwould’ve.If.”

“So,ifIcangetthismanuscriptperfectedbyyournextpubmeeting,you’llconsiderit.”

Shehesitates.Takesabreath.“Well,Savannah,I—”
Iraisemyhandsintheair.“Iknowyouaretalkingaboutamajorrewritehere.Iaminnowaymisunderstandingthelevel
ofworkyou’reaskingfor.”

“Itwouldtakequitetheupheaval,”shesays.“Morethan,Ifear,youmaybeabletodoinsuchashorttime.OurpubboardmeetsthefirstTuesdayofthemonth.”
“ThefirstTuesdayofthemonth.Icandothat,”Isay,nodding,moretomyselfthantoher.“Iwilldoit.”

Shepeersdubiouslyatmeforsolong,Iscrambleandthenthrowoutthewords.“Ievenhaveaneditorworkingwithmenow.
Someonewhoagreeswithallthepointersyou’vejustgiven.”

Shepauses.“Youhavesomeonehelpingyou?”
“Yes.”Help.Criticize.Samething.
Icanseeherexpressionslowlyturning,myowneagerexpressionandconfidencecausinghertobudge.“Ican’tpromiseanything.
Youknowthat.”

Inodfervently.“Ido.”
Severalsecondsofsilencepass.Thehubbubaroundusgrows—classesout,hallsfillingupwithpeople.
“Alright,Savannah.Getittomyin-boxbyMarch1,inthebestconditionyoupossiblycan,andI’llgiveitanotherlook.”
Andwiththosewordsourmeetingisover.She’srisingtoherfeet.

Ishowerherwithadozen“Thankyous”and“Iwills.”Aswepart,shedoesn’tsmilequiteasconfidentlyandcarefreelyabout
ourinteractionasIwouldhavehoped,butitdoesn’tmatter.ThepointisInowhavetimetoproveshe’smadetherightdecisioningivingmeanotherchance.Ihavetime.
AsweseparateintheseaofpeopleandIfollowthestreambacktowardtheexhibithall,myheadracesasIprocesswhat
justhappened.

Mydreamsweredashed.Momentarily.
Thentheycametrue.Sortof.
AndnowIhaveexactly—Icheckmywatch—forty-fourdaystocompletelyrewriteabookthattookmefouryearstowriteinthefirstplace.
Forty-fourdays.
Forty…four…days.
SixMondays.
SixTuesdays.
SixSaturdays.
Justsix.
Ican’tbesure—IonlyeditedBreatheYourWayThroughPanicAttackslastyear—butifchapter4isanyindicator,IbelieveIfeelapanicattackcomingonasthestatusofmysituationstartstosettle
in.

Istepintotheaislewithboothsoneachside.
ThePenningtonboothisstillpacked,thecrowdlessangstyhereintheafternoon(nodoubtbecauseeveryonehasalreadycruised
bytheboothsatleastonce)thanitwasthismorning.Peoplenowareactuallyperusingthestacksofbooksonthetables,
makingtheatmospheremorelikethatofabookshopandlessofahijacking.Isqueezebetweentwowomenholdingupablack-and-yellow-striped
diskastheydiscussLinden’snewaudio.

OutofthecornerofmyeyeIspotLyla,whosetypicallyglossycurlsnowlooklikethey’vebeenbeateninawindstorm.Her
smilelookslikeshe’sputVaselineonherteeth(oneofseveraloddcheerleadingtrickssheonceusedinhighschooltokeep
smilingforlongperiodsoftime).Sheholdsascannerouttoaman’sbadgeasshetalks,butwhenoureyesmeet,shebreaks
offherspeechtogivemealookthatsays,Run,Sav!Runforyourlife!
Ihaltimmediately.
“Savannah!”Justasthelibrariansinfrontofmebreakapart,Giselle’sfigurecomesintoview.“Tomwasjustaskingaboutyou.”
Tom.
Ifrown.
Who’sTom?
Andthenthebellclangsloudlyinmyhead.
“Tom?”Isay,suddenlyonthereceivingendofahug.Ashisratherround,Santa-bowlbellybumpsintome,Iinhalethedistinct
smellsofsour-cream-and-onionchips,cigarettes,andancientrecliners.Isqueezeoutwordswhilehesqueezesme:“Tom.Ididn’trealizeyouweregoingtobeintown.”

“Iwasn’t,”hesays,thenletsgotostepbackwithahugegrin.Asthoughthiswashislittleruse.Asthoughhe’sjustgiven
methebestsurprise.“ButthenIthoughttomyself,what’ssixhoursforafineopportunitylikethis?Youdidn’tgetmy
email?”

“Uh…no,”Ihedge,takinganotherstepbackwardforgoodmeasure.Tomisoneofthoseauthorswholikestosendmethirty
emailsaweek,mostlyaboutcats.“Imust’vemissedit.”

“Ah,well,Ithoughtthat’swhathappened.Anyway,hereIam!”hesaysandthrowshisarmsoutgrandly,causingatleastthree
peopletoduck.

TomHaggertywaspickedupbyanothereditor,Siri,ahandfulofyearsago.WhenSirigotthebootsixmonthsago,Giselle
divvieduphisauthorsamongtheteam.WhichmeantshegainedFrancineThomas,aperennialbestsellerwhosendsGisellecupcakes
onherbirthday.AndIgotTom,aperennialbestsellerwhoprefersreallytight,full-frontalhugslastingthirtyseconds
toolong.

“Don’tmindme,though,”Tomsays,scratchingthefabriconhisstomach.“Iknowyou’llbeallkindsofbusyatthesethings.Iwon’tgetintheway.”
“Nonsense,”saysGiselle,sidlingupbesidehimandgivinghisshoulderapat.“You’repartofthePenningtonfamily.Ijust
knowSavannahwouldlovetotouryouaround.”

Forty-fourdays.
“Actually,”Ibegin,butthenIseeafamiliarpairofoxfordssteppingupbesideme.MyteethareclenchedsotightlyIcan
barelyforceoutmyownVaselinesmile.“Ican’tthinkofasinglethingI’dratherdo.”

Itrytoignoretheacheinmysternum.
Forty-fourdays.That’sbasicallyachapteraday.Abrand-newchaptereverysingleday.

Withameetcutethatneedsatotaltransformation.
Charactersthatneedslashing.
Dialoguethatneedsatotaloverride.
Andlanguagethatis,apparently,snobbishandutterlydénuédesens
“Terrific.”Tomhasthrownouthishandsagain,thistimetopplingawholestackofbooksontomyfeet.Igatherthemupin
myarms,andwhenIstand,IdiscoverTomhasslidintotheremaininginchesbetweenus.Hiseyesareatwinklingmossygreen,
matchingbothhismoss-greencollaredshirt,ofwhichhe’signoredthetopthreebuttons,andhisrathergloomy,philosophical
Camus-stylebooksthatdiscuss—fartoooften,infact—moss.Hisvoiceislow.Sortofpurring.“That’sjustterrrrific.”

“Ibelievewehaven’tmet.”
AndsuddenlyIseethesleeveofanarmbeingthrustbetweenusandTomtakingastepback.Heturnsand,withaslightfrown,
surveysthemanwhohasjustintervened.

William—cleanshaven,poised,andwithanexpressionthatconveysathinlyveiledWhotheheckareyou,andwhyareyoutalkingtomyeditor?—standseyetoeyewithTom.Thesamenessoftheirheightis,mostrefreshingly,wherethecommonalityends.

“WilliamPennington,”Williamsays,takingaslightlydazedTom’shand.“NewpublisherofthePenningtonPendivision.”His
eyesdartdowntoTom’snamebadge.“AndyoumustbeTom,oneofourauthors.Whatasurprisetoseeyou.”

Andnowit’smyturntofeelaflashofdelightsparkinginmyeyes.
“Yes,well,”Tomsays,hiseyesbrightening.HeshakesWilliam’shandheartily.“Ihadtheweekendoff,andIthoughttomyself,
who’stheonlypersonintheworldIwanttosee?”Heturnshisgazeonme.“AndofcourseIknewtheanswerimmediately.”

Igivealittlesmileinreturn.IseemtobeoneofTom’sfavoritepeople.
Myanklesthrobatthereminderofthathideouseveningjustafewmonthsago.IlookdownatTom’sshoesandgrimace.He’s
wearingthem.Thepointyredcowboybootswithatleastadozenrhinestones.

“Ah.Yes,”Williamsays,retractinghishandandputtingitinhispantspocket.“Soyouhavesomeworktogoovertogether,
Igather?”

That’sfunny.Williamdidn’taskonceaboutworkwithanyoftheotherauthors.
“Work.Ofcourse.Yes.Andthen”—Tomgivesacheekygrinwhilehesurreptitiouslypullsuphisjeanstohighlighthisboots—“I
imaginewe’llpaintthetownredagainlikelasttime.Thatwasone-of-a-kindfun,wasn’tit,Savannah?”

“One-of-a-kind,indeed.”Inreality,theideaofheadingtoeverykaraokebarandline-dancingsalooninNashvilleissounoriginalit’slaughable.
IspotLylainsomesortofaltercationwithanelderlywoman,thelibrarian’sbeadedeyeglasschainswingingasshetries
toyankbackthemassivefoamboardofOswald’sfacefromLyla’shands.

“Excuseme,I’mgoingtohaveto…”ItrailoffasImovetowardthecouple,andbothmen’sfacesturn.William’sexpression,
forhispart,doesn’tflicker.Clearlyhe’sbeentosomanyofthesethingshe’scometoexpecttheoddlibrarian-trying-to-make-off-with-our-cargo
situation.

“I’lljustwanderaroundforawhile,then!”Tomcallsmerrily,andstuffingbothhandsintohispockets,hedriftsoutof
thebooth.“Seeyousoon,Savannah!”

Iforcethesmallestsmilethatcouldstillpassforprofessionalinterestandcallback,“Okay,Tom.”
TomHaggerty.Linedancing.
Andforty-fourdays.Chapter7
ThemusicinsidethePaintedPonySalooncracklessoloudlyoverthespeakersI’mgoingtoneedaspirinfordays.Between
thenoise,theswirlingkaleidoscopiclightsonthedancefloorthepastthreehours,andthecallusescurrentlyformingon
myinnerthighsfromtheirconsistentrubbingbeneathmyjeans,Iwouldgladlydiveintooneofthosesensorydeprivation
tanksoverthis.

“Whooooeeeee!”Tomhollers.Myearsquakewiththethunderofhisclapbymyheadashefollowsthelinedancerdemonstrating
onstage.

Hegrabsmebythehandandthrowsmeintoanothertwirl.
Icouldhavetakenaneditorpositionatanotherpublishinghousetwoyearsago.Anice,sanehouse,withsanebossesand
saneeditorsandsaneauthorswho,whentheycometotown,wanttodothingslikeeatasparaguswrappedinbaconwhilediscussing
possibleendorsements.

Butnoooo.
Instead,IgetTom.AndapublishinghousethatwantsmetotourTomaroundlikeI’msomekindofline-dancinghostessat—Icheckmywatch—eleveno’clockonaSaturdaynight.WhenI’malreadyexhausted.Andoverwhelmed.Andhavetodealwithafulldaytomorrowaswell.
Thesongendsandtransitionsintoanewone,andasasinglenoteslowlyrakesacrossaviolin,themanonstageholdsthe
microphonetohislipsandtipshiscowboyhatdown.Hisvoicelowersasthoughhe’sgotanintimatesecrettoshare.“Ladies
andgents,we’regonnatakethisoneeasy.Soslow’erdown,holdyoursweetheartclose,andswaytoanoldcountryfavorite,
‘JustAnotherWomaninLove.’”

Tomspinsonme,histhinlipsliftinginawirysmileasiftosay,“Welp,Iguesswehavenochoicebuttodowhatwe’re
orderedto,”andIimmediatelyputuptwohands.

“Ohno,Tom.IthinkI’mgoingtositthisoneout.”
ButevenasIspeak,Ifeelhimtugonbothofmyelbows.“Aw,c’mon.Listentothissong.”Hiseyesarebrimmingwithelation
ashetugsmeaninchtowardhim.“Thissongisaclassic.”

“Yes,it’sverynice,”Isay,strugglingtounwraphisfingersfrommyelbows.“Allthesame,it’sgettinglate.”
“Late?”Hisforeheadwrinklesatsuchaninsinuation,andIrealizeasthelightsfalluponhisglassyeyesthathemayhavesnuck
yetanotherpintofbeerdownsomewhereinthelasthalfhour.“Nosuchthingaslatewhenyou’reaccompaniedbysuchfine
musicandfinewomen.”

“No,really—”Ibeginbut,despitemyprotest,feelhishandsgrabontomywristsandpullthemfirmlytowardhim.
Ashedoessomyfacegrowshot—ashotasitcanbeonthispackeddancefloorsurroundedbybeerandcheapleather.Ifeelmyselffinallylosingmylast,shakygripontheself-controlI’vebeenwarringtokeepholdofallevening,andallthoughtsofTom’sNewYorkTimesbestsellerrankingsandPennington’sprofitsandtheworld’stougheconomictimesflyfrommymind.I’mlikeatwo-liter
ofsodathat’sbeenshakenonetoomanytimes,andcapornocap,I’mgoingtoexplode.

I’mjustabouttomakemystand,nomatterwhathemightsaytoGiselle(who’dslayme)orWilliamorevenMs.Penningtonherselftomorrow,whenIfeelsomebodystepinand
grabTombythearm.

“Ithinkthat’senough,”Williamsays,andmymouthpracticallyfallsopenasIseehim.

He’sstillcladinhisbluesuitandtanoxfordsfromearlierintheday.Buthelooksdifferentnow,lesspolishedthanthe
poisedprofessionalIsawthismorning.Histieiscrooked,theperfectcreasesinhisperfectbluetrousersgone.There’s
evenwhatappearstobeabitofgumandtorn-offpaperstucktothebottomsideofoneshoe.Byclothingalone,helooks
weary.Butinhisfrankblueeyesthereisanicysteelinessthatsayshecangoallnight.

Tomtakesastepback,clearlyseeingthesamethingI’mseeing.“Wewerejusthavingabitoffun,”hesays,thenaddsan
overripelaugh.Heturnshisheadtowardme.“Weren’twe,Savannah?Justsomegoodfun.”

MyeyeswidenasIturnfromTomtoWilliam,unsureofhowtorespond.I’mabouttoopenmymouthtogivethebestnoncommittal
yetprofessionalreplyIcancomeupwithwhenIfindIdon’tneedto.

Williamtakesastepinandfaceshim,completelyblockingmeout.AndthenI’mstandingthere,staringintoaseaofblueonthebackofmyboss’ssuitascolorfullightsfromabovepanslowlyby.
“Evenso,there’sanUberwaitingoutsideforyou,”IhearWilliamsaycoolly.“Itwilltakeyouwhereveryouneedtogo.”
“But…Savannahwasgoingtodrivemebacktothehotel.Andwehadsomethingstotalkaboutformynextbook.”
“Goodnews,Tom.Youwillbepleasedtoknowyouhavebeenpromoted.Iamnowpersonallytakingresponsibilityforyouas
editor,andunfortunately,Idon’thavetimetodancewithyou.Goodnight.”

ForseveralsecondsIstandthere,hiddenbehindWilliam’sstoicholdonthedancefloor,barelyabletobreathefromwhat
Ijustheard.Didhejustsaythat?Didhejustdothat?Onmyaccount?

WhenWilliamdoesturnaroundatlast,thereisnosignofTomanywhere.
Ilookaround,butallIcanseearoundusisaseaofslow-dancingcouples.
Couplesandslow-movingstrobelightsand,mostimportant,nomoreTom.
IlookupintoWilliam’sfaceandforthefirsttimeallnightfeelmyshouldersbegintodroop.Mypent-upbreathexhales.
WhenIdo,abubbleoflaughterwellsupinsideme.Abubblingofanxiety,ofreleasefromanxiety,ofdisbeliefatwhatjust
happened.JustrememberingtheshockedlookonTom’sfaceisalmosttoomuch
William’sface,forhispart,isstillsteelyashekeepshiseyesonthedoors.Drawn.Andfrankly,exhausted.
Ican’thelpit.MyshouldersshakealittleasIletoutaquietchuckle.
Heturnsasifnoticingmeforthefirsttime.Hisexpressionshifts.
Thesinglelineonhisforeheadcreasesdeeper.
Goneishisconcernatwatchingtheuncivilized,handsymanexit.Hereistheconcernatwatchinghispetite,bizarreemployee
inthecenterofthedancefloor,laughing.

“Ican’tbelieveyoudidthat,”Isay,fightinganewroundoflaughterbuildingupinthepitofmystomach.Bossornoboss,
Ican’thelpmyself.

Foramomenthejustlooksatme,frowningslightly,asifhe’scomeacrosssomesmall,oddcreatureandhe’stryingtofigure
itout.“Ican’tbelieveyoudancedwithhimatall.”

Thethreatoflaughterstops.
Surelyhe’snotgoingtoputanyoftheblamefortonightonme.“Yousaidtoentertainourauthors,”Ireply.“Yousaiditwasvitaltoletthemknowhowimportanttheyare.”

“Yes,butnotthatvital,”hesays,rakingahandthroughhisbrownhairashedartshiseyestowardthedoors.Hethrowsanarmout.“Forheaven’s
sake,Savannah.Surelyyouknowit’snever,everthatvital.”

ForamomentI’mstunnedbytherealizationthathe’scriticizingme,asthoughIshould’veknownitwasobviousnottosubjectmyselftoTomforthesakeofperformingwellinmyjob.Asifhe’sfrustratedbytherealitythatheisclearly
goingtohavetobabysittheneweditorsunderhiswing,unlikethebig,brassy,self-sufficientonesattheelaboratepublishing
houseinNewYorkCity.

AndIwouldbeoffended,exceptforthenewquestionthatsuddenlycrowdsmythoughts.“Howdidyoufindus,anyway?”
“Ididwhateveryotherbachelorettepartyintowndoes,”hesays.“Ifollowedthestrip.”
Arushofemotionsurgesthroughme,andforamomentIforgethispreviouscriticismandfindmyselfsurveyingthismanwho
moveshisgazebacktowardthedoors.I’mfindingithardtobelievethesituationbeforeme.Sothisguy,mynewboss,battled
hiswaythroughthecrowdedstreetsofNashville,overflowingwithdrunktouristsmovingfromonenoisyhonky-tonktoanother,
tofindme.

To…whatexactly?
TomakesureIwasokay?
“Mindifwetakethisconversation…,”hesays,noddingtotheareaoffthedancefloor.
“Oh.Yes.”Ialltooreadilystarttowardthebar.Myfeetacheinmyboots,notwornsomuchforthesakeoflookingthe
parttonightbuttoprotectmytoes,givenhowmuchTomsteppedonthemlasttime.“Please.”

Itrytohobbleaslittleaspossibleasweweaveourwayaroundcouplesandfindtwobarstools.Bothofusexhaleaswesit
onthecrackedredleather.Abartendercomesover,andIglanceattherowsofbottlesontheshelvesbehindhim.Mybrain,
however,istooampeduptodelegatetimetothetaskofmakingachoice,soIthrowoutthenameofthefirstdrinkthat
comestomind.

“Ginandtonicforme,”Isaytothemanontheotherside,brandishingtheIDoutofmybackpocket.
Williamseemstofeelthesameway,becausewithouthesitationheadds,“Makethattwo.”
Andforalongmomentafterthebartenderleaveswesitinsilence.Bothtryingtofindpeaceandourbearings,itseems,inthecurrentenvironment.
“Whydidn’tyoujustcallme?”Isaywithasuddenthought.Ican’thelpfeelingabitruefulabouteverythingasIglance
overtothemanwholookslikehe’sjustrunamarathon.“Surelyyouhaveaccesstomynumber.”

“Idid,”Williamresponds.“Severaltimes.”
IreachinstinctivelyformyphoneinmyotherpocketandblanchwhenIseethemissedcallsfromtheunknownnumberline
uponmyscreen.“Sorry,”Isayatlast.“Ididn’trealizeitwasonsilent.”

Hewavesahandasifdonewiththeconversation.“It’sfine.Ijustneedtomakeamemoforthenextcompanypeptalk:DoEverythingwithinOne’sPowertoPleaseAuthors,ExceptLineDancingwithScurrilousMen.”

“‘Scurrilous.’”Igrinasmyhanditchestotypethatoneintomyphone’snotesapp.“That’sagoodword.Peopleshoulduse
itmoreoften.”

Hepauses,andIseehimsmilelightly.“Ornot.”Iraisemybrows,aquestionforming,andhecontinuesashepullshisdrink
towardhim.“Notwhen‘completeidiot’willdo.”

Ismile,pullingmyownglasstowardme.“Ifyouweresoopposed,whydidn’tyoujustsaysomethingthisafternoon?Saveyourself
allthistrouble.”

“BecauseIwasn’tsoopposedthisafternoon,”hesaysmildly.“UntilIsawthewayhelookedatyouashefollowedyouout
thedoor.”

I’mjuststartingtofeelalittlecreepedoutimaginingwhathewitnessedfromhispointofviewwhenWilliamtakesathoughtfulsip,thensmilesalittledarkly.“Iamgoingtothoroughlyenjoybeinghiseditor.”
ThepreviouspictureinmyheadslipsawayasIgiveanall-outlaugh.“Youdorealizeyousoundterrifying.”
“Asaneditor,Icanbeterrifying,”hereplies,andhesaysitsoautomaticallyandwithsuchauthority,Ibelieveit.
Well.
IfhewantstoenjoygivingTomahardtimeviaemailinthecomingmonths,byallmeans.AndIhaveafeelingthatthose
thirtyemailsTomsendsaweekofcatmemesandselfieswillunexpectedlyhaveahardtimefindingthePenningtonin-box.

“Well,forwhatit’sworth,thankyou.Iwasabouttoholdmyown—”
“Isawtheflashinyoureyes.Idon’tdoubtit.”
“ButI’mgladIdidn’thaveto,”Ifinish.Ipause,thenraisemyglass.“Togoodbosses.Thankyou,WilliamPennington.You’re
doingprettygoodforyoursecondday.”

Foramomenthealmostlookslikehewon’tplay,butatlastheclinksglasseswithme.Ican’tbesureaswebothfacethe
wallofbottlesandtakeoursips,butoutofthecornerofmyeyeIthinkIseeasmallsmileonhislipsjustbeforehe
tipshisglass.Good.Heshouldfeelgoodforwhathedid.Notmanybosseswouldgotosuchlengths.Unless…

Ifeelthesilentquestionrisingwiththebeatofthenextsong,andwithitalittleflurryofactivityinmystomach.
Butno.
Surelyhe’snot.Surelyhewouldn’tbe…interested…
“CallmeWill.Andagoodpublishinghousedoesn’tjusttakecareoftheirauthors,”hesays.“Theytakecareoftheiremployees
too.Ihopeyouknowthat.”

Ifeelamomentaryriseofdisappointmentbutjustasquicklywhiskitaway.Ofcourse.Ofcoursethiswasallaboutwork.Orliability,even.Maybehejustwantedtomakesurehewasn’tgoingtostepPenningtonintoalawsuit.Enablingharassment.Allofthat.Ofcourse.
Aswedrinkinsilence,Ifeeltheneedtoturntheconversation.Tosayanything.Anythingatall.
“So,I’msureitwasabigmovecomingallthewayfromtheCity,”Iventure.“Doyoumissit?”
ThesecondIaskthequestionIregretit.Themanwasfiredfromhisbigger,betterjobinNewYorkCity.Theonlyreason
hehasreturned,mostlikely,isalackofotheropportunities.Great,Sav.Justthrowsaltonhiswounds.
Heraiseshishandforthebill,theexpressioninhiseyesunreadable.“Sometimes.”
“I’vebeenthereafewtimes,”Isay,tryingtokeepthetoneupbeat.“OncewhenmyfatherendedupontheTODAYshowtomakesomebaklavaandtalkabouthisnewcookbook,andoncewhenmysisterwasmarchingintheMacy’sDayParade.”

“Yourfatherisachef?”
“No.Dentist,”Isay,thencatchmyself.“AdentistwithapenchantforpastriesandathrivingYouTubecookingaccountwithaSaturdaybakingclassforunderprivilegedyouthsdowntown.”

“Adentistwithasweettooth,”Willmuses,smilingslightly.“Howironic.”
“Goodjobsecurity,”Isay,grinningback.
“Andyoursister?”heasks.“Whatinstrumentdidsheplay?”
“Allofthem.”
Hesmilespolitelyasthoughwaitingformyrealanswer.
“No,really,allofthem.Imean,intheparadeitselfsheonlyjuggledbetweenflutesoloandtrumpet.Butyes,allofthem.”
Hisbrowsraise,andIseethesamelookIseeineveryone’seyeswhenItalkaboutmyfamily.“Arealgo-getterfamilyyou
gotthere.”

“Youhavenoidea.”
“Well,IcanseewhyPenningtonPublishingmustbegladtohaveyou,then.”
“Ohno.”Ialmostchokeonmygin.“No.I’mnothingliketherestofthem.”
Will’seyeswiden,andasmirkslowlyrisesononesideofhisface.“Ah.Soyouaren’tahighachiever.Toobad.”
“Wait,no,”Iamendquickly,settingmyglassdowntofocusoncorrectingmyself.“Idon’tunderwork.Idojust…enough.”
“Averysatisfactorylevel,youmightsay.”
Iseeitnow,inhiseyes.They’remirthful.He’steasingme.Mylipsstarttocurl.“Pleasantlysufficient.”
“Perfectlyadequate,”hesays,hiseyescrinklingtoo.“YoucouldhighlightthatonyourCV.”
“HowdoyouthinkIgotthisjob?”
Oureyeshold,andforalongmomentwejustsmile.Awarmthspreadsthroughme.Ican’tdefineitexactly,butifitwere
ascent,it’dbeeggnogsprinkledwithnutmeg.Ifasound,it’dbethefootstepsofadearfriendonyourfrontporch.

“Oratleast,”hecontinues,“youcanthrowitinyourCVwhenyouemailSterling.”
ForamomentI’msothrownbythiscommentinthemidstofourbanterIfumbleforaresponse.Heseizesthemomentinstride.Hisexpressionshifts.“Fortherecord,thankyoualsoforwhatyoudidtoday.Therearen’tmanypeoplewhowouldhandabusinesscardbacktoJimArrowood.Forwhatit’sworth,Iappreciatedit.”
Heappreciatedit.
NotPennington.NothimonbehalfofPennington.
He.
Will.
“Well,yourformercolleaguesarerealscurrilous,”Isay,inwardlytuckingawaythecomplimentwhile,ontheoutside,brushing
itoff.“Andbesides,younowaresubjectedtobeingTom’seditor.I’dsaytonight,yoursacrificewasfargreater.”

“Ah,yes.Tom.Well,we’lljustseehowlongTomlastswithPenningtonintheend.Ihaveafeelinghe’llbemovingonsoon,
soIwouldn’tworrytoomuchaboutme.”

HegrinswhileIraiseabrow.“Youdoknowhe’ssurprisinglysuccessful,don’tyou?Hesoldahundredthousandcopiesof
hisbooklastyear,nearlyoutofthegate.”

Andtherehegoesagain.Thesmilehe’shangingontodriftingdownlikeanautumnleafoffhisface.“Yes,well,forthe
record,itwasaneditorialandpublishingmissteptoallowhimtoallbutplagiarizeCamusashisown.Hewalkedarazor-thin
linethroughoutthenovel,particularly—”

“—withthequote,Iknow!”Iinterrupt.“Heallbutclaimed,‘Tobehappy,itisessentialnottobetooconcernedwithothers.’
That’swhatItoldeveryone!”

Willpauses.Adjustsinhischairandlooksatme,reallylooksatme.
“Youtoldeveryonewhat,exactly?”
Hisvoiceissoprobing,IfeelalmostcertainnowI’vemadeamistake.MyvoicetreadslightlyasIrespond.“Justthat…itseemeddangerouslyclosetoacopyrightissueforhimtofollowthesamestorylineandthemes,andeventitle,asthoseinTheFall.RegardlessofwhatTomclaimed,toevenhavetheappearanceofliftingCamus’squotesbyreplacingwordswithafewwell-chosen
synonymswas—”

“—absolutelyrecklesstoallow,”heinterjects.“Itwas.Andnobodyagreedwithyou?”
Ishrug.Itdoesn’tseemwisetogivethespecificdetailsofhowGisellehadallbuttoldmeIwaslikeachildinmeetings:
theretobeseen,notheard.“I’mjustanassistantacquisitionseditor.”

ThecreaseinWill’sforeheaddeepens.Hedoesn’trespondrightaway,butwhenhedoes,itsoundsasthoughhe’smadeuphis
mind.“Isee.Well,whereIcomefrom,everyonehasavoice.Evidently,thoseinPenningtonmayneedthatreminder.”

Weletthesilencelinger.
Whatistheretosay?
Andafterseveralmomentspassoftwistingmyglassonthecountertop,thinkingofwhattopictoapproachnextwhilewatching
thecondensationbubbleupontheheavilypolyurethanedwood,Igivein.Changethesubjecttothefirstreasonablething
thatcomestomind.“Atanyrate,IhopeyouenjoytheshiftfromNewYork.I’msurethere’salottobemissed,buthopefully
you’lllikethechange.”

“Thankyouandyes.”Hepauses,andIcanseethoughtcloudsstartingtoforminhiseyes.“Muchtobemissed,butatthe
sametime,Ihope,muchtobegained.”

Whatdoesthatmean?Isthisaboutmorethanhisjob?Doeshehavesomelong-lostgirlfriendupthere,perhaps?Someonehe
yearnstogetbackto?

Butofcoursehelefthislifeupthere.Heprobablyhadaslewofclosefriendsand,eventhoughIdon’tfindmyselflikingtoadmitit,anumberofstunninggirlfriendsovertheyears.It’sNewYork.Theybreedprettypeoplethere.
Besides,it’snoneofmybusiness.Andmoreimportant,he’smyboss.Andclassy.Andsophisticated.Andtrulyaman.Settledintoamaturelife,nodoubtuninterestedinsomeonewhocan’tevenpulltogetherherlifeenoughtomoveoutofher
sister’sapartment
Butmostpertinenthereisthereminderthatitdoesn’tmatter,andIdon’tcare.
Atlastthebartendercomesover,andWillpointsatbothourglasses.“I’llgetthese.”
“Ohno,please,”Isayimmediatelyandbeginscrabblinginmybackpocket.“Icouldn’tletyou.”
“Onthecompany,”hesays,pullingoutaflashysilvercard.“Ourapologiesforoneheckofanight.”
ForamomentIwonderifhe’sserious,ifhe’sreallytryingtorepresentPenningtonPublishingandmakeamendsforthedisastrous
authorinourhousewithatwelve-dollarcocktail.ButthenIseehisnameonthepersonaldebitcardandcatchthelight
inhisarcticeyes.

“You’reallforgiven,”Isay,grinningasIslideoffmyseattostand.“Considertheslatewipedclean.”
Anewtopicloomsovermyhead,andbeforeIcanwimpout,Isnatchattheopportunemoment.Thisisthetimetofindout
whatheknows.IfIsayitjustright,Icanaskwithoutgivinganythingaway.“And…aboutthatmanuscriptIdropped
atthemeeting.”Myfingertapsonthecounter.“I’msorryaboutthatand—”

Hestopsme.“Don’tworryaboutit,Savannah.It’saneasythingtohappenwhenworkingwithallthatpaper.Butyoumightwanttoconsiderusingthebindingmachinenexttime.Orbetteryet…keepitoutofsightaltogether.”
Hissmilegrows.“Afterall,noteveryoneatPenningtonsharesthesameappreciationofthemore…adventurousfiction
asyouandme.”

***
Islidemykeyintothelockthirtyminuteslaterandfindmyselfstillalittleamazedbyhoweverythingwentdown.Replaying
thelookonTom’sfaceasWilltorehishandsoffmeandsteppedin.HearingWill’sauthoritativevoicedeclaringhewastaking
Tomfromnowon.Hearinghimexoneratemeformymanuscriptslipwithoutanyquestionsraised.

Itwaspriceless.
Allofit.
Priceless.
ButasIplayitallbackinmymind,questionsjumpinhereandthere.Likewhatwereallthosethoughtssoclearlyoccupying
himhalfthetime?AndwhoexactlyisupinNewYorkthathemisses?

Butthen,asIopenthedoor,comesthatother,higher-prioritythoughtthatIwon’tberidofforamonth.Forty-fourdays.It’snearlymidnightnow,yetagain,butIcan’tbedeterred.

ItakeastepintothelivingroomandamgreetedbythewhirringofthePeloton.Olivia,inthemiddleofflickingapage
ofherbook,pausesassheseesmecomein.

“Howmanyareyouat?”Oliviasays.
Nohello.
Idropmylaptopbagoffmyachingshoulderandwearilycheckmywatch.“Nineteenthousand.Andhello.”
“Nineteen,”Oliviabreathes,lookingsoproudshemightcry.“Excellentworktoday,Savvy.Whatdidyoudotoday?Whateveritis,just
repeatiteverydayforthemonth,andyou’regold.”

Right,Ithink,movingawayfromherbeaminggazeandtakingmypoor,achingbodytowardmybedroom,alongwiththelaptopbag
IdragacrossthefloorAllIneedtodoisrepeatthechaosoftodayand—

Istopatthesightofthesmallbouquetofflowersonthetablebymybedside.AsImovetowardthem,foroneinsanemoment
Ithinkwithastutter,DidWillPenningtonsendthesetome?
Butno,Irealize,seeingthescribbledhandwritingonthesmallcardstickingoutofthebundle.Itakethenote,flickit
open,andreadtheinscription:

Hopeyouhititoutoftheparktoday.
LeaveittoFerristodropbysomeflowersonbehalfofthetwoofthem,justtomakesureIcheeredupfromthismorning.
Theyaren’tfromOlivia,Iknow.Buttheyareateamnow,justlikehowMomalwaysaddsDad’snametotheChristmascards
withouthisawareness.I’llhavetothankthemtomorrow.

Itakeacoupleofmomentstostopandsmellthem,inhalingthescentofthepetiteyellowroses.Readthecardagain.Hopeyouhititoutoftheparktoday.Well,inaway,Ididhititoutofthepark,didn’tI?IhadabraveconversationwithClaire;IassertedmyselfwhenI
couldhavecowered,andnowIhaveatremendousopportunitybeforeme.NottomentionInolongerhavetodealwithTom.Everagain.Itreallywasahome-runkindofdayifyouthinkaboutit.

Propelledbymymomentaryburstofself-congratulatoryencouragement,Iturntowardmyclosetand,aftermuchyankingand
digging,findthetatteredmanuscript.

AsIsettledownonmybed,computerbesideme,stackofpapersinhand,Ifeelinstantlybetter.Ihaveaplan.Itmaybe
hectic.Itmaybeincrediblybusyoverthecourseofthenextmonth.Imayhavetohunkerdownandsetalltheotherpriorities
inmylifeasideforawhile,butIhaveaplan.Iwillgetthroughthis.JustsolongasIhavethedirectionfoundinthese—

Ihalt.
AllthistimeI’vebeenflippingpages,readingthroughtoseeallthenotesmymysteryeditorleftforme,howmuchwork
I’llhavetodo,howmanywordsfillupthemargins.Butthensuddenly,onpage16,itallstops.

Nothing.
Ifliptothenextpage.
Nothing.
Iflipthreemoreandseenothingbuttheclear,cleanwhitemargin.
Nothing.
Iflipthroughtherestofthemanuscript,andallthewhilemyheartsinkslowerandlower.WhywasIsostupidastothink
whoeverdidthishadactuallyreadthroughthewholemanuscript?WhywouldIbesoridiculousastothinktheywouldchoose
tospendtheirafternoonjottingathousanduglynotesinthemargins?

Iclosemyeyes.Takeadeepbreath.Assessthenewsituation.
So,mymysteryeditoronlywentthroughthefirstchapter.
Well,then,Ihavetwooptions.Strikeoutonmyown,trustingmy—clearlyblind—intuitiontoguideme.Or—
Igulp,alreadyknowingwhatIhavetodo.
Askforhelp.
AndhopeIgetananswerback.
Chapter8
DearMysteryEditorandIntruderintoMy-Most-Secret-Precious-Oasis-of-a-Room,
Ifyouarereadingthis…
Help.
It’sbeenthreedays.Or,asmymindpreferstothinkofit,4,320minutes.Fourthousandthreehundredtwentyexcruciatingly
longminutessinceIleftthePost-Itnoteonthemanuscriptinmyhiddenlittlesparrowroomandwaitedforananswer.I
livethiswaynow.Inminutes.

LylaisconvincedIhaveaurinarytractinfection.I“visittheladies’room”aboutfiftytimesaday,andthen,whenIescape
oursharedofficeandsmileandgivealittlestroll-bywavetotheotherswhosedoorsareproppedopendownthehall,Iturn
thecornerandallbutsprintupthetiny,twistingstairsfortheattic.I’vedoneitsomuchthesedaysI’vemetmydaily
stepgoaleachdayandlostthreepounds.

(Butseriously.Threepounds.Oliviaisthrilled.)
Andnow,thisWednesday,Isitinmyofficechairbythewindow,chewingmynailstothenubs(adisgustinghabit,Iknow),
whileIdowhatIdoeveryWednesdaymorningforoureditorialmeeting.IclickonMerriam-Webster’sWordoftheDayandtry
mybesttofocusonthetaskathandandnottheloomingdeadlineandthedesperationinmyheart.Ireadthelarge,bold
word:bailiwick.
Hmmm.
1.Bailiwick:lawenforcement:theofficeorjurisdictionofabailiff.

That’llbetoughtoincludenaturallyinconversation.Let’ssee…
“AndwhatmakesthisparticularsubjectofthehistoryofRussianphilosophyfromthetenthtoeighteenthcenturiessounique,
Ms.Pennington,ishowthebailiwickaresooftenreferencedin…withuniquesymbolism…to…”
No.Movingon.
2.Bailiwick:thesphereinwhichonehassuperiorknowledgeorauthority:aspecialdomain.

Nowthere’ssomethingIcanworkwith.Superknowledge.Authority.Let’ssee…
I’mjustscrollingdowntoseesomeexamplesofbailiwickinasentencetomakesureI’veproperlygraspeditwhenLylapopsherearbudsoutofherearsandstands.“C’mon,Sav.I
wannagettherebeforeallthedoughnutsaregone.”

Mybodysays,Goodpoint—Ionlylikethechocolatefrostedones,whilemymindstayssteady.

AboveLyla’shead,autilitarianclockhangsonthewall.Ninefifty.AndIstillneedtoreadthroughtheseexamplesand
besureI’vegotit
“Yougoonahead,”I’matthecuspofrespondingwhenLylasays,“Nottomention,thenewbossisbackandwillprobablybe
watchingforthestragglerssohecancutthem.”

Idropmyhandoffthemouseandstandupsoabruptlymykneeknockspainfullyonthecornerofthedesk.“Okay,”Iagree
andcatchsightofmyfaceinthedecorativemirroraboveLyla’sworkstation.Mydarkhairisamess.Thepale-graysweater
Iputontodaylooksbulkyandshapeless.Andisthat—Ipeerintothemirrormoreclosely.Isthatagrotesquepimplerightabovemylipnofemaleinthispublishinghousehadthedecencytoinformmeof?
Somuchforsisters-in-arms!Icryoutinmyhead,grabbingformypurse.

It’sallthatsugar.AllthatstupidsugarI’veconsumedintheformofTwizzlersandicecreamandDietCoketillthewee
hoursofthemorningtokeepmeawakewhileItrydesperatelytofigureouthowtofixmymanuscript.

Ipulloutatubeofconcealerandstartdottingatthespot.
AsmallcreaseformsinthemiddleofLyla’sperfectlyspotlessforehead,andshecrossesherarms.
“I’vejustgotto…freshenup,”Isay,puttingmoredotsbeneathbotheyes.AndIcan’tmissthosetwodarkshadowson
eachtemple.Andmyforehead—Igrimaceatmyreflectionandbegindottingeveryarealikemyfaceisapolka-dotrug.

“Easy,Sav,”Lylasays,observingmyactionswiththesameexpressionofhorroronewouldmakewatchingsomeoneeatadozenhotdogsatacountyfair.
Irubatthemallvigorouslyuntilit’sallblendedin.
Ohno.
NowIlooklikesomepale,lifeless,overworkedballerinawhostillsomehowhasbagsunderhereyes.Whycan’tIberidofthem?

“We’vegottogo,”Lylasaysimpatiently,checkingherwatch.“Whydoyoucareallofasuddenanyway?”

“It’sacompetitivehouse,”Iretort,startingtoslapmycheeks.“There’salotofpressuretobeprofessional.”
“Well,you’rereallynailingit,”Lylasays,eyeingmeasIrepeatedlysmackmycheeks.
Butsureenough,twolittlerosyspotsstarttoform.“There,”Isay,standingbackandadmiringmyself.“See?Itworked.”
Lylanods.“Yes.Throwawaytheblush,ladies.SavannahCadehassolvedallourmakeupproblemsofthetwenty-firstcentury.”
“Okay,”Isay,breezingpastLyla.“Hurryup,then,”Iaddinmymostprofessionaltone.“Wedon’twanttobelate.”
I’vewalkedhalfwaydownthehallbythetimeLylachimesinbesideme,“Hey,Ms.Professional.Youforgotyourlaptop.”
Iwince,lookingdownatmyemptyhands,andmarchbackwithasmuchdignityasIcan.
Wednesday-morningPenningtonPenmeetingsarealwaysheldintheLilacRoom.Thereareafewreasonsforthis.It’soneof
thebiggerroomswehave,plusit’soneofthefewtechnologicallyadvancedspacesintheoldbuilding.Andthewallsare
thick—whichweneed,becauseyouwouldn’tbelievehowheatedconversationscangetovercolor-codeteallevel#2C4952versus
virtuallyidenticalteallevel#7CADA2onacoverdesign.

ThereareeightmembersofthePenningtonPendivision.Tworatherpersonality-lackingacquisitioneditors,RobOrrenandYossiJacobs,andmyself.Oneeditorialdirector,GiselleShaw,whoapparentlysnaggedajobasayoungeditorialassistantbackincollegeviahergoodlooksandDaddy’scheckbook.Onemarketingmanager,ClyvePrinz,whoissixty-fiveandhasyettonaildownthepurposeofaGooglecalendar.Onepublicist,MargeDippolito,whoseabilitytogetourtitlesintosometrulyincredibleprintshasledanumberofustowonderifshe’snotworkingsomesortofshady,back-alleybusiness.Onegraphicdesigneranddigitalmarketingwiz,Lyla,ironicallythemosttalentedandleastenthusedofthelotofus.
Andnow,Will.
Ihaven’tseenWillsinceourlastmeetingonthatbeer-stained,cowboyboot–scratchedfloor.Hewasn’tatLOAthefollowing
morning,andwordspreadthathehadleftforNewYork—onbusiness,presumably,althoughnobodyknewforcertain.Allweknew
wasthatdecisionshadonceagainfallenintoGiselle’shands,thusexplainingwhyI,specifically,hadbeenpinpointedfor
thetaskofreorganizingeverypieceofpaperinthefilingcabinetsdatingbackto1970,andwhythecoffeebreakroomhad
ashinynewpinkespressomachine.

“Let’sgettoit,everyone.Settlein.”
LylaandIhurryintotheroom,andIsetmystackofpapersandlaptopdownononeoftheremainingseatsattheoval-shaped
table.Lyla,meanwhile,dropsherbagintheseatbesidemineandveersforthedoughnuts.Ms.Penningtonstandsatthehead
ofthetable,herpentappingimpatientlyatthelotofus.Herblueeyesarepiercing,herpermanentfrownisfirmlyinplace,
andherblazingredpantsuitisimpeccable.

Herfrowndeepensashereyesdarttotheutilitarian-styleclock,amatchtotheothersthatadorneveryroominthebuilding.Shepauses
Lylaslidesintoherseatwithadoughnutineachhand.
Wewait.
Andasthesecondhandstrikesthetopofthehour,Ms.Penningtondropshereyestous.“Letusbegin.Yossi,we’llstart
withyou.DidyougettheASMIreportbackfromRogers?”

Yossi,whodespitetwelveyearsinthecompanyjumpseverytimeatthesoundofhisname,grabsforhispapers.“Well,Pam
hasbeenverybusythisweek,whatwithtravelingherefromLouisianafortheconference—”

“You’llhavetocuttothepoint,Yossi.Ihaveanothermeeting—”
“Uh,no,”Yossistammers,takingoffhisglassesandrubbingthemfuriouslyagainsthistweedcoatpocket.“Shedidsayshe’d
sendittomebynextweek,though,and—”

“Failedtoreceivereport,”Ms.Penningtoninterjects,givingashortnodtoBrittney,seatedclosest.Brittney,thedelicate
twenty-three-year-oldassistantwhospendseverydaytrailingafterMs.Penningtonwithanotebookandpen,beginsscribbling
feverishly.ThepoorwomanwriteseverythingbyhandbecauseMs.Penningtonissotraditional.Penningtonlovesalloldthings—wallpaper,
handwriting…Ittookagesforhertogrudginglyagreetocomputers,andthat,Ihear,didn’tevenhappenuntiltheearly
nineties.

“Rob.Tellmeabout”—sheglancesdownatherpaper—“thedevelopmentaleditsforSonya.Hasshereceivedthem,andhowdid
shetakeit?”

AndasRobbeginshisownwinding,skittishanswertoherquestion,Itakeamomenttosurveytheroom.Snowisdriftingdownoutsidethetwowindowsfacingthesmallyardbeyond,andacardinalsitsonanearbybranch.Inside,thetableisonegiantmassoflaptopsandcoffeecups,doughnutsandpapers.Andtwoseatstomyleft,atthefootofthetable,isWill.
IfeelaslightjumpinmystomachandblinkquicklybacktowardMs.Pennington,notdaringtoletmyeyeslingeronanything
buther.Rachel,ourformermarketingmanager,wascaughtdistractedbythatcardinaloutthewindownottoolongagoand
wasfiredonthespotforinsubordination.

Butasthequestionsandanswersfirearoundthetable,whileIkeepmyeyesgluedtoMs.Pennington,mymindwandersoff
toothermatters.

WhydoesWilllooksotired?There’saredrimaroundhiseyes,lookinglikeminedoaftertoomanyhoursstaringatacomputer
withnotenoughsleep.He’swearingglassestoday,subtlecopper-coloredrectangularframesthatmakehimlookevenmoreintimidating
inhiswhitebutton-upandnavy-bluetie.Intimidating…
Doeshealwayswearglasses?Orarethosetheblue-lightglassesLylahasbeenbadgeringmeaboutbuying?Honestly,Idonot
care.

“Savannah,didyoufinishthatmanuscriptbySmith?Whatwereyourthoughts?”
Iblinktoattention.
“Yes.Smith.”Ishiftinmychair,lookingformynotes.“Smith’smanuscriptwas…impressive,”Isay,pushingmystacksofpapersasideinthehuntforSmith’sproposal.“HisperspectiveonthewayGeorgeBirdGrinnell,America’senvironmentalpioneer,ledthewaywithsuch…such…”Ihesitate,scouringmymindfortheword.Ah.ThisiswhatIgetforbeingsobehindIdidn’tgetachancetopreparemystatementbackatmydesk.“Well,itwasdefinitelyhisbailiwick,”Isayatlast.“It’sinsightful.Smithreallyis”—Ithinkquickly,tryingtorecallthewords—“aleadingauthorityinhisfield.I’dliketopursuetakinghisprojecttoacquisitions.”
“Fine,”Ms.Penningtonsays,clearlynotimpressedbymywordchoicesthisweekasshehasbeeninpreviousones,butnot
unimpressedeither—andinourworld,that’sprettygood.Shelooksdownatherpapertomoveon,butthen,asthoughremembering
something,suddenlyliftsherhead.“Oh,andSavannah.”

“Yes?”Isayquickly,onlyhalfwaythroughanexhaleofrelief.
“GiselletellsmeyouwerespotteddrinkingcoffeewithClaireDonovanfromBairdBooksonSaturday.Pleaseexplain.”
Theroomstops.Everymuscleinmybeingpauses.
“Oh,”Isayinsurprise,feelingasurgeofbothshockandrevulsiontowardGiselle.“Yes,that.Well…”Quick,Savannah.Think.WhatwereyoudoingsittingwithaneditoratLOA?Duringworkhours?Withaneditorofromance?Why…
Ifeelthepanicwithinmerisingasanyplausibleresponsefallsshort.Alleyesareonme,includingthoseofGiselle,who’s
sittingcoollyinherchair,asimperingsmilethinlyveiledassheholdshersilvertumblertoherlips.

“Iaskedherto.”
EveryoneatthetableturnstoWillinsurprise,includingme.
Ms.Penningtonraisesabrow.“Youdid,William?Why?”
Yes,William.Whatonearthcanyoupossiblysaynow?
Will’sexpressiondoesn’tsomuchasflicker,andhiswordsdon’tmissabeat.“ClaireDonovanisoneofthemostrespectededitorsintheindustry,onewithwhomI’vehadthepleasureofacquaintanceforseveralyears.Sheisnearingtheendofhertenure,andIwantedtogetherthoughtsonapotentialprojectbeforetheopportunityslippedby.ButasIendedupoccupiedatourappointedmeetingtime,IsentSavannahinmysteadwithmyapologies.”
Ms.Pennington’seyesnarrow.
Willlookscoollyback.
“AmeetingwithClaire,”shesays.
“Yes.”
Somewhereinthedistance,Ihearapencilsnap.
“Asyouarewellaware,Will,Penningtonthrivesonbeingastablefoundationinthenonfictionandliteraryfictionsector—”
“Giventhefinancialreportsofthepasttwelvemonths,onemightdisagreeonboththetermsstableandfoundationhere—”

Everyone’seyesbouncebacktoMs.Pennington.“Wehavealoyalfollowing—”
“Whoareleavinginflocksforcompetitivepublishers—”
“Anddecadesofaccomplishmentsliningourwalls—”
“Thedustyclippingsfromtheeighties.Yes.I’veseenthem.”
“Andmostimportant,wehavenointentionofprostitutingourselvesoutwithflightypaperbacksonedropsintoone’sshoppingcartwhileperusingtheaisleforCheetos—”

AllheadssnaptoWill.“Whichiswellandgood,justsolongasyouinformeveryoneheretostartlookingforemployment
elsewhereassoonaspossible.”

“Itwillneverhappen.”Ms.Pennington’svoiceissofierceit’sshaky,andshestaresacrossthetableathersonsolongIfindmyselfcounting
tothirtybeforeanyonemoves.

Eventually,Ms.Penningtonstraightens.Whenshespeaks,hervoicehasregainedcontrol.“Forsomeofthoseherewhomayhaveforgotten,PenningtonPublishingbeganin1969undermyhandasaplacetocurateonlythemostdistinguishedliteratureworthyofpublication.Itsmissionandpurposewillremainsteadfastasitchargesintoboththenewyearandtheyearstocome.Now,ifyou’llallexcuseme…”ShenodstoBrittney,whoshutshernotebookandstands.“Ihaveanothermeeting.”
Ms.Penningtonsweepsoutoftheroom,tailedbyBrittney,andwesitinuttersilencewhiletheyparadepast.
Nobody.Nobodyinthewholeworldbesidesherownsoncould’vegottenawaywithwhathejustsaid.
Likeeveryoneelseatthetable,I’mtryingtoprocesseverythingthatjusthappened,everywordthatwasjustrevealed.But
alsoattheforefrontofmymindisthegrowingwarmrecognitionofasinglefact:hestoodupforme.

Forsomeunknownreason,WillPenningtontooktheblowforme.Although,isitreallycalled“takingtheblow”whenyoudo
whathejustdid?No.Itwasmorelikeheenteredtheringforme,dodgedeveryfistthrownathimlikeamaster,andthen
rearedback,givingcleanstrikes,untilhisopponenttoppled.Or,inthiscase,foundahandyexcuseandgotoutoftheroom
asquicklyaspossible.

Acobra.That’swhatheis.WillPennington,thecobra.
Andallatoncetheroomexplodeswithquestions.
“Areweabouttoloseourjobs?”Clyveasks.
“JusthowmuchfinancialtroubleisPenningtonin?”MargethrowsinbeforeWillhasthechancetorespond.
“Whyhasn’tMs.Penningtontoldus?”Robinterjects,lookingbewilderedbythechaosaroundhim.“Isshegoingtocutour
divisionafterall?”

Butinsteadofanswering,Willsmoothlystandsupandaddressestheroom.“Iwantanupdateonyourassignedtasksdiscussedinthismeetingbythisevening.Emailmeyourresponses,cc’ingtheentirePenteam,andwecandiscussthere.Asforthesensitivemattersdiscussedinthismeeting,restassuredthatwhenIhavemoreinformationregardingthesituation,Iwillinformyou.Let’sadjourn.”
Withfeebleattemptsatafewmoreunansweredquestions,everyoneeventuallydispersesintothehallway.Lyla,theonlyone
whogavesuchasatisfactoryanswertoeveryoneofMs.Pennington’sprobingquestionsthatshewalkedawaywithnoassignments,
takesmyarm.

“Whatdoyouthinkthatwasabout?”shesayscasually,asifweoverheardtwostrangersarguinginacoffeeshopandnota
threatoflosingourjobs.“Youthinkthewholeplaceisgoingunder?”

Iplaybacktheconversationasweturnthecornerandmovetowardthelobbystairs.Itcertainlywasbizarre.Imean,we
knowtherehasbeenfinancialtrouble;wehaveseenseveralcutsthepastyear.Butnothingsoseriousthatitseemedthe
entirecompanyasawholewasthreatened.Becauseit’snormalwithpublishersthissize.Thisisthestrugglemostsmaller
industriesfacethesedays.Thisistheconversationyoujusthavetogetusedtowhenyouworkinthisenvironment.

Right?
Right?
Wereachourfloor,andIfeelthefamiliartemptationtotreadon.Tokeepgoing.ForasecondIwaver,myfoothovering
onthefollowingstep,tryingtobestrong.Ishouldgetbacktowork.Clearly,witheverythingIjustheard,Ishouldgetstraightbacktomycomputerdeskandstarttypingaway.

But…
“I’mjustgoingtousethebathroomrealquick,”IsayandremovemyarmfromLyla’sgrasp.
Shehesitates,raisesaneyebrow,andchecksherwatch.“Really,Sav,youneedtogetthatcheckedout.”
“Iknow,”Iaffirm,noddingfervently,pullingmyfeettowardthenextsetofstairs.“I’mgoingtomakeadoctor’sappointment
soon,”Icontinue,takingstepsupward.

“Tomorrow!”shecallsafterme.“Imeanit!”AndIgiveathumbs-upbeforedisappearingaroundthecorner.
Scurryingthroughtwomorehallwaysandtwomoreflightsofstairs,IfinallyreachtheARCroomandyankopenthedoor.The
wholewaythereIfighttherisinganxietythataccompaniesmeeverytimeIsearchtheroom.

Whatifnobodyhastouchedit?
I’mondaythreeofforty-fourandhavetriedtocutoutthatcharacter,andsureenough,it’scausedatotalmessofthewholemanuscript,andIcan’tmake
headsortailsofwhattodowiththeice-skatingscenenow.AndshouldIeventrytoredeemchapter8?Anddon’tevenget
mestartedonthecompletelystilteddialogueI’mnowseeingbetweenmymainmanandleadinglady—

Ihalt,onefootinsidethetinyroom
Stareatthemanuscriptonthecenteroftherug.
ParticularlythenewhandwritinginthickblackinkonthegreenPost-Itnotelyingontopofthestack.Itakeastepcloser.
DearMysteryEditorandIntruderintoMy-Most-Secret-Precious-Oasis-of-a-Room,
Ifyouarereadingthis…
Help.
Rule1:Stayonpoint.Chapter9
IpaceslowlyacrosstherugasIstareatthemanuscriptinmyhands.
Thefirstforty-twopagesaremarkedupallalongthesides—mymysteryeditorhavinggonebackanddoubled,even,thecomments
onthosefirstsixteenpageswherehehadcritiquedbefore.Insomeplacestexthasbeenslicedthroughforsolongwhole
paragraphsaremissing.Attwopointsinparticularhewroteawordandunderlineditalongwithnotone,nottwo,butthree
exclamationpoints.

Isay“he”becauseofthreecluesthat,whenputtogether,haveconfirmedmysuspicions.
Thepen.Thepenusedcarriesathickblackinktoit,almostexpensivelookinginthewaytheinklandsonthepage.It’snotathin-tipped
pinkSharpie,likeLylalikestouse.It’snotagoodenoughclueonitsown,givenImyselfliketouseablackpenonoccasion,
butit’ssomething,atleast.

Theconcisechoiceofwords.Now,I’mnoexpert,butaccordingtoonebookIeditedawhileago,CommunicationBetweentheSexes,Idistinctlyrecallthestatisticthat,onaverage,womenusetwentythousandwordsaday—roughlythreetimesmorethanmen.
Andwhilethemarginsofeachpagearecoveredincomments,theytendtobeshortandtothepoint—toafault.Never,ever,haveIseenonecompliment.It’slikethejobistopointouterrors,andsoheispointingouterrors.Anyfluffycompliment
isonlywastedtime.

Hetoldmeabouthisgirlfriend.Well,ex.
Nomaninhisrightmindwouldsaythis.IfIhadsaidthistomyex-girlfriendwhenwefirstmet,shewould’verun.
Myindexfingerstopsonthecomment,andIpauseandlookatthepassageinquestion.It’smyleadingman’sfirstwordsas
hestandsinthepickuplineatthecoffeeshopandrealizeshe’saccidentallypickedupCecilia’scup.Irereadthepassage:

Renaldoliftedthecoffeecuptohislipsandenjoyedthesmooth,bittertasteofcaffeinesoothinghiswearythroat.Ah.
DoubleAmericanowithjustatouchofpumpkinspice.Exactlyhowhelikedit.Butasheloweredthecupandmovedforthe
door,somethingcaughthiseye.Thewritingonthecup.

Cecilia
Thewordwaswritteninlarge,flowingscriptacrossthecoffeecup,andyet…Hetookanothersip.Thiswashisdrink.
Hisparticulardrink.He’drecognizeitanywhere.

“Mmm.”
Heheardthewomanmurmuringcontentedlyasshetookherownfirstsip.Ayoung,beautifulwomanwithuntamedcurlyhairand
sparklinghazeleyestomatch.Andthenhesawhisownname,Renaldo,printedonhercup.

Hiseyeslitup.“Well,well,well,”hesaid,closingtheremaininginchesbetweenthemuntiltheirshoulderstouched.He
smileddownather,theyoung,beautifulfawn.“Lookslikemyluckyday.”

Hesoundslikeaserialkiller.
Furthermore,whattwopeoplestandtheremurmuringdelightedlyabouttheirdrinksinthepickuplineatacoffeeshop?Illogical.
Andfortheloveofall,pickdifferentnames.Thisisnotanopera.YoucanhaveRenaldo.YoucanhaveCecilia.Youcannot
haveboth.

Andwhilemyfirstreaction,whichIseemincapableofhelpinginthefaceofanyandallcriticism,isindignation,thesecond—a
bitsurprisingly—isalittlesmile.Irereadthepassage,seeingitfromhisfreshangle,andallIcanthinkis,Ohmygosh,he’sright.
Renaldodoessoundlikeaserialkiller.
Ireadhalfwaydownthepageandcan’thelptitteringasRenaldocontinues,“I’vebeenlookingforsomeone…someoneexactly
likeyou.Cometomycar.Iwanttoshowyousomething.”

AndallIcanthinkis,Cecilia,getouttathere!
Ipausemomentarilywiththemanuscriptinmyhandasthesnowdriftsquietlypastthestained-glasswindow,seeingforthefirsttimewhatmychapteris.LaughingasIfeeltheanxietyfromthepastthreedaysebbingaway.LaughingasIfeel,forthefirsttime,asenseofhope.
He’sgoingtohelpme.
I’mnotgoingtohavetodothisalone.
Whenthechucklesstop,Igrabmyphonefromastackofbooksservingasasortofnightstandtothebeanbagandsnappictures
ofthecommentsinthemarginsforworkingthroughtonight.Idon’tdarerisktakingthemanuscripthomeincasehedecides
topopupherelaterandfindmorethingstocommentabout.Moreissuestoaddress.Moreproblemstonote.

It’salmostlunchtime,nearlytimetoleave,butIcan’thelpgrabbingapenfromthetopofthestackIcarriedtothemeeting
thismorning.QuicklyIwritebelowhismemo:Andwhatfantasticpickuplinedidyouuseonyourex-girlfriendtowinherheart,then?BecauseI’vegotnothing.
Ijotafewothernotesbelowhisinthemargins,untilatlastthepressuretomovebackdownstairsistoogreat,andIknow
itistimetoleave.Atthispoint,Iwouldn’tbesurprisedtofindLylaonthephonewiththedoctor,arrangingtokidnap
meanddragmetotheirofficeherself
Ifeelmyselfsmiling—aforeignexpressionformyfacegiventheselastfewdays—asIwalkbackdowntomyfloor.
ButwhenIreachmyofficedoor,Lylaisnowheretobeseen.
Instead,it’sFerriswhoisstandingbesidemydesk.
Oh.Right.Isitthattimealready?
Withtwofingerstappingonthewood,he’speeringatthepictureframesonmydesk,deepinhisownthoughts.There’ssomething
inhiseyesashelooksattheoneofOliviaandme.It’stheonewetookatmycollegegraduation.

Irememberthatdayclearly.Oneofourbettermoments,bothofourarmsclaspedtightlyaroundtheother’swaist,bright-eyedgrinsasDadsaidsomethingplayfulabouthisbeautiful,brilliantgirlsandsnappedthephoto.Ferrishadhisowncollegegraduationthatday,asIremember.Hemissedminebutmetupwithmelaterthateveningoutwithfriends.Andindoingso,likesomanyothertimesthroughourlives,bothheandOliviawereshipssailinginthenight.Howmanyhundreds,thousands,oftimesI’vewondered,Howmuchsoonerwouldwehavebrokenitoffhadtheyreallygottentoknoweachotheratanearlierpoint?
Hadhejoinedusduringthefamilybeachtripmysenioryear?
HadhecomethatEasterwhenhisfamilytraveledtoOklahomaandhealmoststayedwithus?
Exactlyhowmuchheartacheandtimewould’vebeenspared,forbothofus,hadtheyreallygottentoknowtheirsoulmates
earlier?

Iimagine,fromthelookonhisface,heiswonderingthesamethingnow.
Hemust’veheardme,becauseheturnsaround.Hisformerexpressionerases,andinitsplacehisfaceliftsintoasmile.
IfIhadn’tbeensocertainaboutwhatI’dseenbefore,I’dbelievethelightinhismahoganyeyes.Hisgentlesoul.Soquick
totrytoshieldmefromunnecessaryremindersoftheloveIhadlostandhehadgained.

Thesearethemomentswhenforgivinghimisbotheasier…andharder
“Readytogo,Sav?”
Ipushthethoughtaway,fightofftheswellinginmychestasIwatchhimstandingthatwaywithhishandsinbothcoatpockets,collarpoppedup,expressionjustso.Inod.“Where’sOlivia?”
“Inthecar,”hesays.“You’llwantacoat.It’sstartingtocomedown.”
Isetdownmylaptopandstackofpapersonthedeskand,asIdoso,fightthesuddenurgetostartorganizing.HowdidI
notnoticebefore?Mydeskisanabsolutemess.Multiplepensarescatteredjustabouteverywhereexceptactuallyinsidemy
penjar.Ihaveapileofbookssittingprecariouslyononeledgeandthreeold,half-drunkcoffeemugslitteringthearea
aroundhalfadozenpictureframesoffamilyandfriends.

Nowonderheleftmeforher.
Oliviawouldneverleaveherlifesocluttered.
“Youcangoonahead,andI’llmeetyoudownthere,”Isay,anxioustogethimawayfromtheembarrassmentofmyworkspace.
“Ihavetofinishupsomethingreallyquickanyway.”

Ferrismakesaface.“Don’tbesilly.Idon’tmindwaiting.”
Soinsteadofjumpingintoapretendtaskandonlyelongatinghisstay,Ishrugintomyblackcoatandreachswiftlytoward
thehookbehindthedoorformyscarf.

I’mjuststeppingoutintothehallway,fumblingtogetmyphoneintomycoatpocketwhilewindingthescarfaroundmyneck,
whenInearlycollidewithWill—andhismugofcoffee.We’relikemagnetsofthesamepole,andjustashischestcomeswithin
twoinchesofmine,werepelourselvessofarbackIknockintoFerris,andWill,alongwithhiscoffeemug,bumpsintothe
oppositewall.

Ferris,thankfully,hasaquickreactionandgrabsbeneathmyarmsbeforeIcandoanydamage.
But,foramoment,Ican’thelpmyself.It’sbeensolongsinceI’vefeltFerris’shands,sinceI’vebeensurroundedbythescentofmuskandcitruscomingoffhiscologne,sinceI’vebeensoclosetohisface.ForasecondI’mlost.
Butinthenext,Ipullmyselfoutofitandreturntostableground.
“Sorry,Ferris.Thanks,”Isay,pullingmyselfoffhischest.Myscarfiswoundaroundmenowlikesomesortoftorturedevice.
Infact,it’sactuallydoingafairlygoodjobofchokingme.Myfingersgettoworkunwindingit,andasIdosoIlookover
toWill.Coffeehassplatteredalloverhishand,Inotice,andhe’smovinghismugfromonehandtoanothertoquietlyshake
theremainingdropletsoff.

“I’msosorry,Will,”Isay,notreallycertainwhetherheorIwastoblame.
“Hazardsofthesenarrowhalls,”hereplies.Butthenhe’sshiftinghispreoccupiedgazefromhishandandthestilldripping
mugtous,andInoticethatitstopsnotatmyfacebutonmymiddle.Andhisfrowndeepens
It’sonlythenthatIlookdownandrealizeFerrisstillhashishandsaroundmywaist.
“Everyoneallright?”Ferrissays,seemingabitdazedhimselfbyallthatjusthappened.
Itakeasteptotheside,andheslideshishandsaway,puttingthemsmoothlyintohiscoatpockets.
“Fine,”Isayandimmediatelyfeellikethehallsreallyareasnarrowasacardboardbox.
Ican’tdefineitexactly,butIsenseanoverwhelmingdesirenottobestandinghereatthismoment.Butit’snotjustbecauseofFerris,I’mrealizingquietly.It’snotjustaboutfeelingdangerouslyclosetoexposurewiththewaymyfaceandmyhot,flushedcheeksarebetrayingmeinthismoment.Mycheeksaren’tflamingmerelybecauseofthesecretthoughtsaboutFerrisIsometimescan’thelpbutharbor.It’ssomethingelsetoo.Willisafactor.AndIrealizeIparticularlydon’tlikethatheistheoneseeingmeandmyreactiontoFerrisinthishallway.Icarethatheisinthissituationandwishhehadn’tbeentheonetoseeit.

Whyisthat?
It’snot,Iknowdeepinmysoul,justbecauseheismyboss.
Along,awkwardmomentpasses.“Anyway…thisisWillPennington,ournewpublisherforPenningtonPen,”Isay,holding
outahandasifI’mshowcasinganewpainting.“Will,thisis…”ForbutamomentIfindmyselfhesitating,stumbling
toexplain.ThisisthefirsttimeI’veeverhadtointroducehim,I’mrealizingsuddenly,notasmyboyfriend.“Ferris.”
Iamendthisquicklywith,“Mysister’sfiancé.”

Will’seyesgiveasubtleflashofsurprise,andIcantellthathe’sreassessingthesituationundernewlight.
“Nicetomeetyou,”Ferrissaysautomatically,asthoughhehadn’tcaughtanyofthatanddidn’tcareto.“Well,weshould
beoff,then,Savvy.We’veonlygotanhour.”

“‘Savvy’?”Willrepeats,hisbrowcrinkling.“Isthat…yourpreferredname?BecauseIcan—”
“No,”Isayhastily,myvoicealmostcracking.“It’sjustafamilynickname.Noneedtostartspreadingthataround.”
“Ah.”There’sthesubtlestwhisperofasmileonWill’slips,andIknowhehasreadthroughthelines.“Isee.Well.You
enjoyyourlunchat…”

“Thebloodbank,”Ireply.
“Ah,”Willrepeats,thesmilegrowing.“Thebloodbank.Hownice.”
Icanpracticallyreadthroughhisresponse,hearingthewordsheeditedout:“Yes,Savvy,youenjoyyourdatewithyoursister’sfiancéatthebloodbank,becauseeverythingaboutthisconversationmakes
completesense.”
IfeelFerris’shandonmywaistagain,makingtonudgeusalong,butthistimeIdon’tfallunderthespellofhistouch.
NordoImoveonashe’sintending.Istayrooted.

“It’safamilything,”Isayswiftly.“Mymom,dad,sister—weallmakeadatetodonateeveryeightweeks.Youknow.Getin
somequalitytimewhilewedosomethinginthecommunity.”IseebyWill’sexpressionI’vemadeverylittlegroundandfeel
compelledtoaddinalightheartedtone,“Somefamiliesmakelunchdatestogether.TheCadefamilymakesblooddates.Anyway,
I’dbetterbegoing.I’llbesuretogetthatreporttoyoubysix.And…IreallydothinkSmith’smanuscripthasreal
promise.”

“Yes,well,that’syourbailiwick,sowe’llbeleaningonyou,”Willreplies.Althoughhistoneisallbusiness,Iseeaslight
twitchtohislips.

Ifeelablushstartingtocreepupmyneckandloosenmyscarfinhopesofconcealingit.BeforeIcanthinkofanything
elsetosay,Willnodsinthegeneraldirectionofusbothandturnsonhisheel.

It’sonlyhalfwaydownthehallthatFerrismutters,“Bailiwick?Goodgrief,Savvy,whatsortofpretentiousprigusesbailiwickinconversation?Nowonderthesepeoplestressyouout.”

***
“Oh,andlookatthisone,dear.Iknowwe’vebeenthinkinggoldchinaallthistime,butwouldn’tsomedecorativecreamplates
looksolovelywiththepeonycenterpieces?”

I’mlyingbackinthefarthestchairtotheleftofalongrow,seeingmymotherinmyperipherytryingtoclumsilyhandoff
herlaptopfullofExcelsheetstoOliviainthechairbesideher.Myeyesaren’tfocusedonthem,though,butonthenurse
standingoverme,pressingherfingeratthelargestgreenish-blueveinatthecrookofmyelbow.Myhandballsupwhilemy
forearmprickles.

NomatterhowmanytimesIgiveblood,Istillhaveanxiety.
“Nowremember,myveinsaredeceivinglysmall,”Iblurtout,justasIdoeverysingletimeIgotothebloodclinic.“People
alwayssaytheylookgoodbutthenhavetousea—”

“Butterflyneedle.Iknow,dear.”Thenursewithherhairpulledintoaslickponytailsmilesatmeasthoughshe’sheard
thisathousandtimes.Which,tobefrank,maybethecase.Butevenso,thememoryofthatonetimeittookthreenurses
threetorturousattemptsoneacharm,andthecontinuedphrase,“Thevein’sgoingtoblow…It’sgoingtoblow…Oh
no,itblew,”istooetchedinmymindformetoeverforget.

Thenursepatsmyarm.“You’llbejustfine.Justkeepgivingtheballasqueezeeverytenseconds,andI’llberightback.”
Igivethefoamyredballinmyhandabigsqueezeandstarttheclockinmyhead.
One…Two…Three.
Unlikeformymother,father,sister,andFerrisloungingintheirchairsbesideme,lookingmoreliketheyaresuntanningatthebeach,givingbloodhasneverbeeneasyforme.Mybloodpressureischronicallylow.HalfthetimeIcomehere,thestaffmakemeeatcrackersanddrinkaCokebeforeIcanevenstart,justincase.Andmyblood,whentheycanactuallygetit,sostubbornlyrefusestocomeoutofmybodyitalwaystakestwiceaslong.Then,ofcourse,thereistheever-presentreminderofthatonetimeIpassedoutafterward.
Notthatanyofthesethingsstopsmefromdonating.No,I’maCade.Wejustarrangecarpool.
“Howareyoufeelingoverthere,Savvy?”myfathercallsoutacrosstheroom.He’ssittinginaHawaiianshirt,whichhedoes
oneveryblooddayashisownjoke,pumpinghisownballwithonehandwhileholdingaCokecanintheother.

Justthenthenursereturnstomyside,andmyanxietyskyrockets.Ismileandmanageathumbs-upwithmyoppositehand,and
mydadliftshisCokecantocheerme.

“Hey,Sav.”
I’mstaringattheenormousneedlehoveringovermyskinasFerrisspeaks.
“Savvy,lookatme.”
Idragmyeyesawayandforcemyselftolookathim,mychestthudding.Ferris’seyesaresoft,fulloflife.Unlikeme,whoisslowlybecomingacorpse.“Rememberthattimewehostedthatmurder-mysteryChristmasparty?Everythingwentwrongjustbeforeitstarted.Thechicken
Parmesanburned,andtheprinterranoutofinkforthosecharactercardsyouneededtogiveeveryone,andwehadthatstupid
fightovermycostume?”

“YouweresupposedtobeSanta,Ferris,”Isay,squintingtoavoidlookingatthehoveringneedle.“Youpromisedmeyou’dbeSanta.Itwaskind
ofakeyrole.”

Hissmilewidens.“Whatwasityouyelledatmejustasthepotboiledover?”
Ithinkbacktothatnightjustaftercollegeandsmilealittleasthewordscometomind.Begrudgingly,Isaythemaloud.“‘Ifyoucan’tdressuplikeahollyjollySantaonthebrinkofakillingspree,Idon’tevenknowwhatwe’redoinghere.’”
Ifeelthepainfulprickinmyarm.Squeezemyeyesshut.
Amomentlater,Ihearmedicaltapebeingrippedoffitsroll.Iopenmyeyes.“Therenow,”thenursesays,securingthestrip
oftapeovertheneedleinmyarm.

IexhaleforwhatI’mcertainisthefirsttimeinaminuteandturnbacktoFerris.AlreadyIcanfeelthecolorcomingback
tomycheeks,whichisironicasbloodisalsonowdrippingintothemovingscaleonthefloorbesideme.

Tomysurprise,though,Ferris’sexpressionhaschanged.Hiseyesareintense,thoughtfulastheymeetmine.“Whateverhappened
tothosefriends?”

“Oh,”Isay,takenabackslightlyattheturninconversation.Itrytorememberwhoexactlyhadevencome.Thereweresix
ofus.Irememberthatclearlybecauseofthecharacterlistfortheparty:onenarcissisticSanta,oneburnt-outMrs.Claus,
oneRudolfinamidlifecrisis,onejealousDasher,onemischievouself,andonelonelysnowmanfacingunrequitedlovewith
Mrs.Claus.IknowFarrahandMichaelwereoneofthecouples,becausebackthenwewereinseparable.“Idon’tknow.Iguess
wealljust…movedapart.”

“It’ssostrangehowthathappens,”hemuses.“Oneminuteyoudoeverythingtogetherandthenext…”Heshrugs.
Igivetheballalongsqueeze.Itisoddhowthathappenssometimes.FarrahandIevenstillliveinNashville.Aftergraduationwekeptupforawhile,butthenworkstartedtofillupourdays,andwebothstartedmakingfriendswithournewjobs,andwithintheyearweweretextingeachother,sayingwereallyhadtohavecoffeesoon,loadingourtextswithheartemojis,butneverreallypursuinganything.“Iguesswejustmadedifferent
friends.IstartedhangingoutwithLylamore.Yougotclosetothoseguysfromyourwork.Ithinkwejustfind‘ourpeople’
aswegoalonginlife.”IpluckaphraseLylalikestosayforthemoment
ButFerrisdoesn’tlookconvincedbymywords,orlikeheevenmildlyagreeswiththem.Insteadhe’sthoughtful,almostbrooding,
andIwatchhim,waitingforhimtopulltogetherhisthoughtsandrespond.Forsomereason,hecares.

“Lookatthis,Ferris.”Oliviasnapsherfingersintheair.“Momsayswecansavetencentspersquarefootonthetablecloth
ifwerentfromEnchantedExperiences.”

So,insteadofmehearingwhathehastosay,Ferriseventuallygetswrappedupintheweddingconversationasthethreeof
thempassthelaptopbackandforth.IwatchtheHallmarkmovieonthetelevisionstationedonthewalloppositeforawhile,
squeezingmybigredballwhiletryingtogatherwhat’sgoingononscreenthroughlipreadingsincethevolumeissolow.But
eventuallynoteventhetallblondwomanandhercandle-shopproblemscanholdmyattention,andmymindwanders.

Afterall,Ihavemyownmysterytosolve.Justwhoisthemysteryeditor?

Thethoughthaspoppedupafewtimesoverthepastseveraldays,butalwayswhenI’msobusyrushinghereandthere,doing
thisorthat,thatIhaven’thadasparemomenttodwellonit.Now,though,stuckinthischairattachedtothewobbling
bloodmachine,istheperfecttime.

CoulditbeYossi?
Nooo.He’ssoafraidofdoinganythingtoMs.Pennington’sdislikinghejumpsathisownshadow.Ifheeveropenedthatfilingcabinet,he’dstareatitsilentlyforabouthalfasecond,slamthewholethingshut,andneverlookbackagain—evenifthewholeroomwasglowing.
Rob?
No.He’smuchtoo…pleasant.Andlong-winded.He’dneverputsuchgut-jabbingcriticismsonpaper.He’ssuchapeople
pleaserwehaveatimegettinghimtogiveanyrealcritiqueforanyofhisauthors.Allhisauthorsthinkthey’regeniuses
becausehe’llgothroughawholemanuscriptleavingonlyafewtinycommentshereandtherelike,“Well,nottopress,but
underthenormalstandardsoftheEnglishlanguage,itiscustomarytouseapunctuationpointattheendofasentence.In
fact,thefirstrecordingofapunctuationpoint,derivedfromtheLatinpunctus,wasinthemiddleofthesixteenthcentury,when…”Whenallheneededtosaywas,“Missingperiod.”

Clyve?No.Clyvehandlesthemarketingjustfinebutcan’tmakeheadsortailsofthingslike“narrativearc.”
Well,thatcoverseveryoneatthePenimprint.ItmustbesomeoneatTrophyorArchorScribe.Unless…
Forsomeunknownreason,mystomachflips,thethoughtalonemakingmefeelalittlebitdizzy.
“You’recomingalong,”thenursesaysreassuringly,observingmybloodbagasshewalksby.
“Thankyou,”Isay,stillfeelingtheworldspinalittle.“ButcouldIgetanotherCokebychance?”
Herexpressionturnstosympathy.“Surething.Areyoustartingtofeeldizzy,honey?”
Atthewords,Ferris’sattentionbreaksfromthehandfulofgraphsinhishands,withtheircorrespondingpicturesofflowerbouquets.“Youdoingokay,Savvy?”
“Yes,”Isayquickly.“Just…Ithoughtitmightbeagoodidea.”
Thenursenods.“Ofcourse.Let’sgetyousomesugarjustincase.I’llgrabsomecrackerstoo,”sheaddsanddriftsofftoward
theminifridgeacrosstheroom.

MycheekstingleasIfeelFerris’sgazeonme.Ihatetobetheperennialproblempatient.
Abuzzeronthemachinegoesoffatthefarthestend,andDadraiseshisownCokelikehejustwonahorserace.“That’sme!”
hecalls.

Tensecondslater,Mom’sbuzzes.“Ohdarn,”shesays.“Iwassoclosethistime.”
Leaveittomyfamilytomakethisintosomesortofgame.
Fifteenminuteslater,andI’mnowhereclosetodone.
“Itoldyoutostopdrinkingallthatcaffeine,”Oliviasaystomeasthenursechecksmybagandcommentsonhowtheblood
isslowingdown.“Youdrinkallthatcoffeeandexpectyourbloodnottoturnintomolasses—”

“Shehadonecup,Olivia,”Ferrissaysinmydefense.“Idoubtitmadeanydifference.”
“That’snotwhatmyresearchsays,”Oliviaretorts.“Ireadthatcaffeinenotonlyblocksyourneuroreceptorsforadenosine,
ithasahalf-lifeofthreehours,and—”

“Ireadfive,”Dadchimesin.
“Oh,I’msureitwasthree,Dad,”Oliviasays.“I’mpositive.”
“You’retalkingaboutthearticleintheWashingtonPostfrom2017?”Dadasks.“BecauseIcouldalmostgambleonthenumberfive.”

Andwhileeveryoneelseinthefamilyengagesinaresearch-drivendiscussiononbloodcoagulation,mymindslipsbackinto
thesingleideapervadingmythoughts.

WillPennington.
Ohmygoodness,WillPennington.
He’sblunt.
He’sno-nonsense.
He’sincrediblyintimidating.
Thetimingworksout,really.He’sfreshlybackfromNewYorkCityjustaroundthetimeIgetthissurprise.But…is
hereallythatrude?Really?

Howisitpossibletoknow,whennobodyyouknowactuallyknowshimasidefromhisownmother(andyou’dneveraskherinamillionyears)?

Isitonthethoughtforasolidminute,andthenthelightbulbturnson.
Ofcourse.
Whatbetterpersontoaskabouthowheeditsthanoneofhisownauthors?
Withonearmtrappedonthearmrest,Itiltmyhipandreachintomypocketformyphone.Myfingers,notusedtodoingthe
typing,fumblethenameTraceGreenintoAmazon’ssearchbar.

It’salittleindustrytrickIlearnedwhenIstartedtwoyearsago.Almosteverybookincludesacknowledgments,andwhile
forthetypicalreaderthisisjustapagetobeskippedover,forthenosyauthor,agent,oreditor,it’sgold.

ItapuntiltheacknowledgmentspageofGreen’smostrecentbookpopsup,thenskimthepageforWill’sname.Green’spublicityteam.Green’sfabulousliteraryagent.Green’ssecondcousin’sboatingcompanion’sbrother,forallhisinspiration.Green’swife,threekids,andtwopuppies.
HopeebbsasIreadlineafterlinewithoutanymentionofWilliam.ThefartherIgodownthelist,themorespacethepeople
mentionedoccupyinGreen’sheart.I’mjustabouttogiveupentirelyafterthementionofGreen’sLordandSavior,Jesus
Christ,whenmyeyesfallonthename.Islowdown.Read.

AndtoWillPennington,mylongsufferinglistener,relentlessencourager,theonewithoutwhomIcoulddononeofthis,thank
you.YouarenotonlythegreatesteditorIcouldaskforbutthemostselfless,generoushumanbeingIaspiretoliveup
to.Thenextround’sonme,friend.

WillPennington.Longsufferinglistener.
Relentless…encourager.
Notjusta,butthemostgenerous,selflesshumanbeing.Ontheearth.

Wow.Iwasprettypleasedwhenoneofmyauthorscalledme“smart,”andWilloverhereisbasicallygettingtheNobelPeace
Prize.

AndhowexactlywouldIdefinemymysteryeditor?
Hmm.
IswipetomyphotosandtaponthelatestpictureItooktodayofacomment
Ifyouuse“suddenly”onemoretime,I’mgoingtodiefromoverexposure.Cut.The.Adverbs.
Yeah.
“Selfless,generoushumanbeing”isn’tthevibecomingtomind.
Themachinebesidemebuzzes,andIlookup.
“Well,lookeethere,Sav,”Ferrissays,pausinginhismovetostandup,thenewestblood-donorT-shirtinonehand.“You
finishedbeforeOlivia.”

Dad—whohasbeenpreoccupiedtryingtodecidewhethertotakealargeorextra-largeT-shirtdeclaringKeepCalmandGiveBlood—turnsasheseesthenursecominguptomysideandswitchingoffthemachine.Olivia,withherhalf-drunkNalgeneofwater
inonehand,frownsfromherchair.

“Howwonderful,”Momexclaims.SheandDadaregazingatmeasthoughIjustdeclaredI’dbeenmadepublisherofPennington.Iwouldroll
myeyesbutfortherealsenseofglowingpridehiddendeepinside.

Ferrisgrins.Evenhelooksproud.“Well.Iguessitlookslikeyouweredoingsomethingrightafterall.”Chapter10
“AndifPenningtonisgoingtobethetypeofinstitutionthatthrowsoutemptypromiseswithoutactualperformance,then
myclientandIwillnotbeabletostandidlyby…”

“Yes,Diann,”Isayovermyshoulder.“Butifyourecall,wewereabletogetAnnabelle’sworkincludedinboththeGardensandMoreandLadiesTeaSocietymagazinesjustlastmonth.”

I’mlisteningasIstandatthewindowcenteredbetweenmydeskandLyla’s,watchingthescenebelowthroughfaded,fringed
lacecurtains.ThehistoricstreetiscoveredwithequallyoldandbeautifulVictorians,allwithwideporchesandgabled
roofs,baby-blueporchceilingsandbaywindows.Butit’snotthebeautyoftheelaborategingerbreadtrimonthewhimsical
yellowhouseacrossthestreetI’mdistractedbyatthemoment.It’sWill.Withhishandeversogentlyrestingontheback
ofMs.Pennington’scoatashewalksherdownthecrackedsidewalkoffthestreetandopensthedoorofhercarforherto
slipin.

IsmiletomyselfasIwatchthecarturnonandhimstandtheresilently,handsinhispockets,waitingasshedrivesoffforsomemeetingorother.
Suddenlythere’satugonmyshirtandIswivelmyheadtolookdown,broughtbacktothepresentasmyauthor’sliterary
agentcontinueshermonologueonspeakerphone.

Lyla,fromherseat,mouths,“Ineedyouropinion.”
“Let’snotbecoyaboutit,Savannah,”Dianncontinues.“WebothknowAnnabelle’sreleasewasincludedinamereroundup,
andbothofthosepublicationshaveatenthofthesubscriberlistofLandscapeandLeisure.ButOswaldMakers,ontheotherhand,wasfeaturedin…”

Oswald.PoorsweetOswaldneverhasacluehowmuchdramahissuccesscausesus.Ourpublicist,Marge,sendsoutallourtitles
tothesamerelevantmagazinesandpublications.It’snotourfaultthattheeditorsalwayssnatchupOswald’snewesttitlesandonlyoccasionallywanttoincludeanyoneelse’s.Andif
Ihadadollarforeverytimemyauthors’literaryagentsgotonthephonebrightandearlythemorningafterwhateverpublication
released…

“IwouldbehappytoaskMargetoemailyouthelistofmagazinessheissendingAnnabelle’slatestoutto,”Isay,while
acrossfrommeLylaclicksbetweentwographicsandpoints.

Ishrug.Frommyvantagepoint,theylookidentical.“They’rethesame,”Imouthback,whichclearly,fromherexpression,wastheabsolutewrongthingtosay.Herblueeyesget
abitoffireinthemasshejabsonelongpinkfingernailatthetextofonegraphic,clicksover,thenjabsherfingerat
theother.

“ThepointiswhenmyclientdecidedtomakethemovefromSutnamPress,wewereundertheimpressionPenningtonbelievedstronglyinthepotentialofAnnabelle’smanuscripts.Butinsteadoffulfilledpromises,allwehaveseenthelastfewmonthshasbeenfavoritismforparticularclients—”
“Idon’tknow,”ImouthasLylajabsherfingerfromoneidenticalgraphictoanotherfaster.

“—tworoundsofeditswithfartoomanyunreasonableasksforchanges—”
“Theleft,”Ithrowout,seeingthatLylaisonthebrinkofexploding.

“—coverdesignthatwasfarbelowthequalityweexpected—”

Lyla,whowasatmaniacEnergizerBunnyleveltwosecondsprior,halts.Hereyesgofrommanictoscarilycalminthematter
ofasecond.Sheholdsoutherhandforthephone.

Ohno.
Idon’tdarenothanditover.
“Ms.Brightside,hi.”Lylasnatchesthephonefromme,jabsonefingernailonthekeytoturnoffthespeakerphone,andcradles
itagainstherearwhileswivelinginherownchairtowardthewall.Herfingernailsbeginclappingfuriouslyasshetypes
onthekeyboardaboutthreehundredwordsperminute.“ThisisLylainMarketingandDesign.Yes,I’mlookingoverthecover
IcreatedforAnnabelleatthismoment.Ifyou’lllookatthecover-testresultswegatheredcomparedwithAnnabelle’slast
coverwithSutnam—whichwasactuallyastockphotoalsoseenonamateur-levelbusinesscardsandcosplayblogswithfivevisitors
permonth—you’llseethat…”

IleaveLylatoherscaryrantandswivelbackinmychair.I’vefinishedmostofmydutiesfortheweek,asidefromtheever-presentbacklogofproposalsandqueriesfillingupmyin-box.WithonequickglancebacktoLyla—whoisclearlygoingtobeoccupiedforafewminutes,andalmostundoubtedlyfacesomeremedialmeetingwiththebossthisafternoon—Irise.
TimeforanothervisittotheARCroom.
Ifurtivelypickupmypurse,whichisheavy,givenit’sholdingafourteen-inchlaptopthesedays,andpullthestrapover
myshoulder.

“No,no,I’mnotimplyingyou’reashamofanagentexploitingthegoodwillofyourclients,Diann,”LylacontinuesandIslideoutintothehall.
“WhatI’msayingisyou’reashamofanagentexploitingthegoodwill…”

Oneminuteandtwenty-twosecondsofshortpleasantriesandslinkingthroughhalls,andIpushthedooropentomylittle
hideaway.MyheartthudsabitlouderasIheartheoldmetalfilingcabinetsqueakandgivewayatmypush.Ionlylefthere
fourhoursago,butmybookisallI’vebeenabletothinkaboutthesedays.Aweeksolidofpassingnotesbackandforth
throughthemanuscript,sometimestwoorthreetimesaday.It’sfairlyremarkable,too,thatsofarIhaven’traisedany
suspicionsorspottedanycluesthatwouldraisesuspicionsofmyown.Butthen,everyonedoestendtoholeupintheirown
officesduringtheday,slippinginandoutfortheoccasionalmeetingandcoffeebreakbutotherwiseleftfairlytothemselves.
AsfarasIknow,onlyLylahasraisedabrowatme,butthat’sbecauseshe’smyofficemate.Andasfarasshe’sconcerned,
I’monantibioticsformy“specialproblem.”

MyeyesarealreadysearchingthePost-Itontopforhiswriting.Forthenewestlog.Andsureenough,Ispotit.
You’reup.
Andexhale.
Wehaveasystem.
TheARCroomisminefromeighttoten,noontotwo,fourtotheendoftheworkday.Hecantaketherest,andneitherof
uscanshowuporleavewithintenminutesofourdesignatedtimes.Itwasaboutfourdaysintothiswritingbackandforth
thatthetopiccameup.Itwaslunchtime,andIhadjustrunuptotheroom,abowlofpotatosaladinonehand,nothingbut
wildhopesanddreamsintheother,andwasopeningthedoortotheARCroomwhenIsawallthelightswereon.FaintlyI
heardthesquealofthefilingcabinetatthefarend,andwithoutwaitingtoseeanyfigurepopoutfromthecorner,Idarted
forthehall.Needlesstosay,mynextnotewasonthetopic,layingoutasetofrules.

Idon’tknowwhyexactlyhewentalongwithit.
Maybebecausehe,too,wantedtoremainanonymousinthislittleexchangeofwords,asIdo,consideringI’mwriting,asMs.Pennington
likestosay,“materialonparwithstuffingcottonballsinone’smouth”duringworkhours,atapublishinghousethatcares
somuchaboutservingupmarketfictionitactuallyhasinitsmissionstatementthegoalto“overwhelmthepopulationwith
qualitystories,soastodeletefromsocietythatwhichisrepletewithtwaddle.”Thereisanasteriskbesidethatsentence
andafootnoteatthebottomoflastyear’syearlysummitstating:“Specificallyremarkinguponthrillers,magicalrealism,
mysteries,historicalfiction,westerns,dramasand—aboveall—romanceinallforms.”

Ormaybehedidn’twanttorevealhisidentityincaseIturnonhimandgethimintrouble,consideringthatwhilenothing
isstatedinanyrulebook(obviously),everytimeIcomehereitfeelsalittlelikejumpingovercautiontape.

Ormaybebecausehewantedtosetclearboundariesonwhentheroomwashis,becauselikeme,hefeelslikeit’shisownlittleoasis.
Ormaybe,justmaybe,he,too,foundthewholethingtobeabitofextrafun—likethejoyofslippingnotesbackandforth
inmiddleschool.Itwasn’taboutthewordsthatwereactuallysnuckbackandforthbackthenthatmadepassingnotesspecial;
nobodyreallycaredtoknow“Whatdidyoueatforlunch?”and“Iateaturkeysandwich.U?”Itwasthemethodthatwasfun.
Theknowledgethatyoupassedoffanote,howevertriteitmightbe,anditwasboundtobereturnedwithanadditionortwo
justforyouinjustafewminutes.

Idon’tknowifhefeelsthatwayaboutournotes.
ButIsuredo.
Andthethingswelearnfromeachotherinourcorrespondencearen’treallyrevolutionaryeither,althoughitcertainlyfeels
thatway.

Thingsjustcomeoutaswejotourcommentsoverascene.Personalfacts.Stories.Hereadsvoraciously—farbeyondtherequirements
ofthejob.Wentonvacationsasakidtosomeold,beaten-downcottageoffthecoastofRhodeIsland.Wasbulliedforachunk
oftimeinmiddleschoolbeforehehitagrowthspurt.

Andeachlittlestory,eachlittlefact,feelslikeazing.Alittlenugget.Agoldstar.

AlreadyI’mflippingthroughthepagesofthemanuscriptasImovetothebeanbag.AtaglanceIcanseehe’saddresseda
coupleofnotesoncharacterdevelopmentinchapter7(evidentlypushingapuppyoffthecouchisarealredflagforcharacter
likability),whichI’mlookingforwardtoaddressinglaterthisevening.Buttoday’szingcomeswiththenewestadditiononpage65.

Yesterdayhelefttheoh-so-gentlystatedcommentaboutmycharacter’sfirstdate:Thefactthatyourcharactercallsthis“thebestnightofherlife”overstalerollsata2-starrestaurantismoreironic
thanMs.Pennington’sever-presentbeliefthat“Medievalpoetryisthewayofthefuture.”Irespondedbyaskinghimwhathisgeniusideawasforafirstdate,andwhileheoverlookedanyresponseonthetopicthis
morning,heseemstohavecircledbacktoit.Andforafirst,theanswerissolengthyhe’saddedaPost-Itnotetotheside
tomakeroom.

Theperfectdatedependsonthepeopleinvolved.Ifsheenjoysfinefood,thenI’dtakehertotheCatbirdSeat.Ifsheenjoys
music,thenI’dtakehertotheSchermerhornSymphonyCenter.Theperfectdatedoesn’thaveanythingtodowithme.It’sentirely
aboutfindingasettingthathighlightswhosheisandseekingtolearnabouteachotherwithinthatamenableatmosphere.

Irollmyeyesatthisanswerandclickmypenciluntiltheleadpeeksout.ThisisexactlythekindofthingIamtryingtoavoidinmybook.EveryprotagonistintheromancesIreadseemstobeanundervalued,secret
childprodigywhobakesaward-winningapplepies,surpriseseveryone(includingherself)withfluencyinthreelanguages,
hasalibraryfullofclassicalliteraturesheknowsbyheart,andvolunteersatthehomelessshelterinhersparetime.No
femaleleadisnormal.They’reallruby-lippedVictoria’sSecret–levelmodelswiththetalentofahundredlivescombined
justwaitingtobesweptintothearmsoftheirheroes.

Yes,butwhataboutdateswithaveragehumanbeings?IwriteIthinkback.Whataboutwithgirlswhospendeverydayworkinginajobtheyaren’tstellarat?Wholiveoffoatmeal-squarecerealasit’s
theonlythingtheycanafford?Whospendmosteveningseithergoingtosomecharityeventtheirfamilyhascoordinated,watching
somemoviesandwichedbetweentheirsisterandsister’sfiancé,orslavingawayinmyroomwritingthisstupidbookthatapparently
issoflawednobodywilleverreadit?
Istop,staringatmyownwords,thenflipmypencilaround.
Ican’twritethat.It’smuchtoopersonal.
Andbesides,I’veevenmadethecriticalerrorofswitchingfromthehypothetical“their”toamostdefinitive“my.”

It’sunprofessional.
It’scringy,even.
Butthen,asIholdtheeraserofthepenciloverthewords,Ihesitate.Becauseapartofmedoeswanttoknow:Whataboutme?
Whatwouldsomebodythinkofapersonlikeme?Who,outthereintheworld,wouldthinkIwasspecialenoughtomaketheheroineintheirstory?

OramItobeonlytheprotagonistofmyown?
Ihesitateforanotherlongmomentandthenflipthepage.I’mgoingtoleaveit.Leaveitandseewhathesays.
Iworkthroughtherestofthenotes,takingpicturesofthecommentsIneedtoaddressinmymanuscriptthatevening,replying
tocommentsandaddingquestionsofmyown.

I’llhaveyouknowIactuallyownedacatnamedWhiskerswhenIwasakid,andyes,hereallydidbarklikeadogandwas
immunetocatnip.That’sarealthing.

Well,ifherearsareallergictoearrings,likemine,thenIreallydothinkit’llbeanicetouchforhimtonoticeand…
No.I’llconcedethatbeingabletoseasonyourownpotsisagoodskill,buthonestly,it’snotsomethingtobragabout…
BythetimeI’vefinished,I’velearnedafewmorethingsaboutmymysteryeditor.He’stall,notsupremelyso,butenough
toknowoffhandafewplacestobuysmartsuitswithextralength.Heisactuallydyslexic,asurprisingissuethatveryfew
knowabout.Andhedoesn’tthinkmymanuscriptishopeless.

Iknowbecauseatthebottomofchapter7therearenewwords.
Thisisgood.Domoreofthis.
Thefirstpositivecomment.Thefirstpositivecommentamidaslewofcritiques.
IfeelmyselfsmilingasIleanbackinthechair,sunlightstreamingthroughthewindowhighlightingathousanddustyparticles
dancingaroundme.Thelighthaschanged,Irealize,lookingupfrommypagetothewallopposite,whereabouttwodozensimple
woodenframeshang,eachshowcasinganautographedtitlepageofabook.ItglintsontheglasssoroughlyIblink,theroom
thatbrighthazejustbeforetheworldgoescoolanddarkattheendofanotherday.Istandandrealizemykneesareachy.

HowlonghaveIbeenuphere?
Icheckmywatch.Fourfifty-twop.m.
Thenmysteps.8588.
IhurrythroughtheARCroom,hesitatingatthedoortothehallwayasItrytorememberifIshutthefilingcabinetdoorinmyhaste.I’mfairlycertainIdid,butasIturnbackjusttobesure,doorknobinhand,Istopdead.
SamfromContractshasstoppedandislookingatmewithastartledexpressionasifhe,too,iscaughtinatrap.
“Sam.”Iletgoofthedoorknob.“Hi.Howare…you?”
Samsmoothshistieandflashesasmile.“Good.Good.”There’sabeatofsilenceaswebothlookateachother.
Sam?
Inevernoticedhowtallhewasbefore.Ican’thelpbutglancedownatthehemofhistrousers.Sixfeet?Sixone?Doessix
onequalifysomeoneasneedingtoorderspeciallengths?

Butsurelynot.
NotSam.Giselle’sex,Sam
AsidefromonelacklusterdinnerdatewithSammyfirstweekonthejobtwoyearsago,Ican’tthinkofasingleotherinstance
whenwe’vespokenalone.Thedatehadprovenweweresoincrediblyillmatchedforoneanotherthatwespentasolidtwenty
minutestalkingabouttheweatherjustwaitingforthebilltoarrive.Eversince,wehavebothmutuallyskirtedaroundeach
other.Keepingthingsprofessional.Givingthepolitenodingreetinghereandthere,discussinginonegroupsettingoranother
acontractwhennecessary,butneveranythingmore.

Afterall,whilehe’snice-lookingenough,Ineverfeltthatsparkforhim.
Heneverreallyfeltthatsparkforme.
Wewerejusttwosinglepeopleofsimilarage,withreasonablysimilarinterests,whothoughtitwasworthashottoseewhere
thatdoorled.

Which,fortherecord,wasnowhere,unlessyouwantedtocountitleadingtoafracturedrelationshipwiththeresentful,ex-girlfriendboss.
No,thatdateonlyopenedtoacinderblockwall.
Right?
“Well…I’dbetterget…that…book,”hesays,edgingaroundme.
“Ohyes.Goodplan,”Isay,althoughinrealityIhavelessthannoclueastowhathe’sreferringto.Imoveoutofhisway,
juttingmyownthumbbackwardwhiletryingnottotriponmyheels.“I’dbettergetbackdownstairstoo.For…dinner
withLyla…”

Henodsfervently,asthoughheagreesthisisabsolutelyrivetingandessentialinformation,andturnsaround.Thesecond
heisoutofsightIstridedownthehall.

Sam.Sam?
Ican’thelpbutfeelawaveofdisappointment,althoughIdon’treallyunderstandwhy.So…sowhatifSamismymystery
editor?Thatwouldn’tchangeanything.He’s…helpingmewithaprojectjustaswell.Hispointsarevalid.I’mfinally
abletoworkthroughmymanuscript.Thisisawin-winhere.Ihaven’tlostanything.

Butifthat’sso,whydoIfeellikesomething’slost?Themagicdeflatingslowlylikeanexpiredballoon?
Itdoesn’tmatter,Itellmyselffirmly.Andbesides,it’stooearlytotell.
Right.BecauseourlawyerSamroutinelyhastogouptocheckoutadvancecopiesofbooksforhiscontracts.
Sure.
Again,notthatitmatters.
Atall.Chapter11
Tabletsandbars.Theyareastellarcombination.

Ilowermynew(blue-light,completelynonprescription)glassesoverthebridgeofmynosetogiveacriticallookatLyla
onstage.It’sabitchallengingtoseeherhere,though,allthewayinthebackbehindtheclusteroftall,baldmenwho
looklikethey’veallhadtoomuchtodrink.

C’monnow,Iwanttosaytothemanonetableover.Thisviewispathetic.Ofallthespotsinthisbar,youpickthisone?
Themusicispainfullyloud,asisapparentlytherequirementforallplacesplayinglivemusicanywhere.Buttheroomis
atleastontheclassierendofthejointswhereLylanormallyhashergigs.Honestly,whenwe(Isay“we”becauseLyla,her
husband,Garrett,andIarebasicallyoneunitinallthingsLyla-let’s-get-you-to-become-a-country-star)gotthecalllast
ThursdaythatthePolarStarwasinvitinghertocomeplay,weallaboutlostit.

Imean,thisisafairskipandjumpfromthegreasyfloorboardsofO’Mainnin’sandStateline.
ThisisthePolarStar.
Thebouncerswearmatchingpolos.Theairsmellslikesmokedbrieandcigars.Andmostimportant,scoutsattendregularly.
MyphonestartsringingonmylapasLylastartsherthirdsong.
Gametime.
Ipickitupwiththefrazzled,busyattitudeofonehatingeverythingaboutthismoment.“What?”Isayintothereceiver,
loudly.“I’mbusy.”

Somewhereontheoppositesideoftheroom,Lyla’shusbandmumblessomethingintohisphone.It’ssoloudthatIcan’thear
whathe’ssaying.Butthatdoesn’tmatter.We’vedonethissomanytimes,Iknowthelines.“Well,Idon’tcarewhatJerry
wants.I’moccupied.”

IpauseforroughlyfourbeatsandlookatLylacritically.“I’mnotsure,butImaybeontoanewlead.”
Outofthecornerofmyeye,Iseethenearestmananglehischinmydirection.Hiseyesskirtdownme,takingmein:female,
dark-brownhairinoverworkedbun,simplepearlstuds,blacksweater,boringshoes,alone,tappingoccasionallyonmytablet.

InanofficeI’dhardlylookoutoftheordinary,buthere?Surroundedbymiddle-andhigh-classgroupslookingforanight
onthetown?Istickoutlikeasorethumb.

Aposh,intellectual,savvysorethumbwhoclearlycanpredictthebestandbrightestinthebiz.
Inotherwords,thecompetition.
ItaponmytabletwiththephonecradledonmyshoulderwhileLylasitsonthebarstoolandsingsherheartout.Maybeit’sthelightingorthevenue,buttonightshetrulydoeslookandsoundbetterthanusual.Thespotlightonherlong,curlingblondhairglintingperfectlyagainstthebackdropofablackwainscotedwall.Hervoicecrystalclear,feminine,yethintingofpowerandsoulasshestrumsthesongIrememberherwritinglateoneeveningatuniversity.
ItapafewnonsensicalwordsonthetabletwithmysternestI-am-importantfrown—LEMONADEPICKLESDAIRYFARM—andseethe
manraisinghispostureslightlyandcraningtoseethewords.LookingforsomeclueastowhoIam,nodoubt.WhatIthink.
Howimportantmyopinionis.

Lyla’svoicebeginstotipupintoalong,eight-beatnote,thepenultimatemomentofherballad,andIliftmygazeasif
surprised.Asthenotelingers,mylong-heldboredexpressionslowlycracks.AsifI’vespentyearswatchingnobodies,hoping
tofindthatlosttreasure,wearyandexhaustedasIworkthislonelyroad.Andthen,suddenly,I’vefoundit.Myfingers
slowlydropfromthetabletasifI’mnotevenawareofthem,asiftheyaredoingwhattheyaremeanttodoontheirown:
findandpressagainstmychest.Myheart.Becausethiswomanonstageisit.Sheistheone.
Honestly.Ishould’vebecomeanactress.
Lylaendsthesongandapplausebegins,justasIsnaptoattentiononthephone.“Peter,”Isay,scramblingformytablet
andhastilyrising.“I’vefoundher.Idon’tcareifwe’rebookedup.Let’sjustprayshedoesn’thaveanagentyet.”Itake
asteptowardherandthenpause.“Whatdoyoumeanyouwanttohearherfirst?Peter,we’vegottosnatchherupbeforesomebodyelsewill.Ican’twaituntilyouhearher—”

Ipause.
“Well,ofcourseI’mright.Iwasrightaboutmylastlead,wasn’tI?”

Ipauseandletfurycloudmyface.“Yes,butdon’tyoudaremakemerecallthemomentyoulostusDierksBentleybecauseyouthoughtyouhadtimetotakeabathroombreak.”Idartmyheadaroundand,intheswiftglance,seeGarrettworkinghisowncorner,usingthesamescript.

ThisisthepartwhereIsqueezemyeyesshut,lookfurious,andrespondwith,“Fine.I’llmeetyououtside,butyou’dbetter
hurry.”

Theplanistofollowthecallwithmegrabbingmythings,rushingoutsidelookingterriblyimportant,thendroppingthecharade
andpoppinginnextdoortoscrollthroughPinterestbeforesneakingbacktenminuteslatertotrytheroutineonsomebody
else.

Fortherecord,we’vebeenfairlysuccessful.
Insixmonthswe’vegottenthreelurkersafterhershow,twoapproacherswhogavehertheircard,andonewhoseemedincredibly
eagerbut,whenpushcametoshove,nevercalledherback.It’sonlyamatteroftime,though.Thesearejustthebitesbefore
thebigcatch.

ButjustasIsqueezemyeyes,rightasI’monthevergeofgivingmyshowstoppingfinale,avoicepopsupbesideme.
Astrongvoice.Masculine.Andone,Irealizewithinstanttrepidation,Iknow.“That’saprettylowblowtobringupBentley.”
Myeyesopen,andIfindmyselfface-to-facewithWillPennington.He’slostsomeofthebusiness-yexterior,wearingasimple
taupecrew-necksweater,darkjeans.Butperhapswhat’smostrelaxedabouthimistheamusedexpressioninhiseyes.Theslight
smileraisinghislips.Howmuchhasheheard?

Ican’thelpbutcringeasIthinkaboutwhatIlooklikenow—anabsolutetablet-carrying,bookingagent–imposternutcase.
Themanintheblackacrossfrommepauses.Heishalfwayintorisingfromhisseat,too,possiblyoffatthisverymoment
tomakeagoatLyladuringthepausebetweensongs.

Shoot
Icanseethehesitancyintheman’sface,likemyresponseinthisverymomentwilltipthescalesonewayoranother.
Myeyesdarttohisattire,makingafinalassessment.All-black,butnotthetypical,corporateall-blackI’veseenahundred
timesbefore.No,thisguyhasalightbeard.Blacksweatshirtwithbleach-whitecordshangingdownonbothsides.Sneakers
thatlooksonewandunassumingtheymustcosthundreds.Eagereyes.Sleekblackbusinesscardalreadyinonehand.Classy
fontwithfussynumbersingoldwriting.

Helooksnew.Notnewasin,“Hey,Ijuststartedthiscompanyyesterdayinmybasement,”butnewasin,“I’mthelittleguy
workinginatotallyoverwhelming,poshagency,andI’dbetterbringinsomebigfishorI’moutofhere.”

Newandlowlyinbigandflashy.Theperfectcombination.
Shoot.There’snochoicehere.Notwhenthisverymomentcouldbetheonewelookbackonasthemomentthatchangedeverything.
“Peter!”Icryout.“You’reso…quick!”IswiveltofaceLyla,nowonherfourthsong.“Whatdoyouthink?Didn’tItell
you?”

IkeepmyeyesonLylaasifI’mgluedtoherperformance,whentherealityisI’mmuchtooterrifiedtowatchhisreaction.
ButifheonlyknewhowlongLylahadworkedforthis.

Marketinganddesignisherskillset
Musicishersoul.
ForaslongasIcanremember,thishasbeenherpassion,andshe’sneverwavered.I’vealwaysadmiredherforthat.Forknowingwhatshewantedandpassionatelygoingafterit,noholdsbarred.Nomatterwhatotherpeoplethink.Nomatterwhathardshipscomeherway.Evenonthoseterribledayswhensheshowedupandsangfornoone.Shekeptatit.Iunderstandthat.Iempathizewiththat.Igetthat.
Will’sexpressionissternashegazesupatLyla,andIcan’ttellifit’sbecausehe’splayingthepartofstudiousagent
orbecausehe’sabouttotelluswe’rebothincrediblyimmatureanddon’tdeservetoberepresentativesofPenningtonPublishing.

Andthelongerhestares,themoreformidablehisexpressionfeels.
It’sbecausehe’srealizingthere’ssomethingwrongwithus.
Herbecauseshe’sreallytryingtobecomeacountrystarinthistownandme,well…mebecauseIspendmyeveningsin
thebackofbars,tryingtolureagentsintogivingheracontract.

“Remarkabletalent.Iconicbeautythatsetsherapartfromtheothers.Doyouthinkshe’swrittenthissongaswell?”
Iswivelbackand,tomysurprise,seeWillgazingatLylaasifentranced.He’ssoconvincingthatforjustablinkIthink
hemightbeserious.

“Yes!”Iwavemyhandout,muchtooenthusiastically.“Yes,shewritesallherownsongs!”Icatchmyself.“Irecallshesaid
sowhensheintroducedoneofthem…atthebeginning…atsomepoint.”

“Well,then,let’smakehaste,”Willsays.“Whatarewewaitingfor?”
“Nothing!”Icry,andthencatchmyself.“Andbynothing,Imeanwecan’tmeetheryet.Because…”Istumble.Whatis
myexcusenow?He’shere,afterall.

Will’sbrowsrise.“Because?”hesaysafterapause.
“Ofcourse…wehavetogooutsidefirstandcall…Oswald!Oswaldhastoclearalldecisionsfirstasheadofthe
agency.”

Will’slipstwitch.“Oswald,”herepeats.“Ofcourse.Withaleadlikethis,Oswaldwillhavetoapprove.Well,then,let’s
beoff—”Heushersmewithhishand.There’saquestioninhiseyes,asthoughhe’sunsureifthisisthenextstepinhis
role.“Right?”

“Right,”Isay,nodding,andleadthewayoutside.
Andsureenough,asweleavetheroomIglancebacktoseethemanalreadyoffhisseat,rushinglikeadarting,eagerfawn
forthestage.

ThemomentIburstontothesidewalk,I’mlaughing.IswivelaroundandseeWillbehindme,grinningaswell.
Meanwhile,thetwobouncersstandoneithersideofthedoor,lookingdecidedlyunamused.
“Thankyou,”Ibegintosay,justashesays,“Whatonearthwasthat?”
MylaughtercomestoitsslowendandIgrinupathim.Foramoment,helooksentirelyboy-like.Notlikeabossbywhom
I’mintimidatedmuchofthetime,butliketheboynextdoor.Theoneyougrowupplayingtrickswithandthrowingrocksacross
thecreekwith.

Ihesitateandthengoforit.
“Comewithme,ifyouwant.I’llfillyouin.”
Andforjustamoment,IfeelthebubbleI’mridingondriftdownwardasIseeacreaseformalonghisforehead.
I’mnotsurewhathe’sthinkingabout,butit’sclearhe’shesitating.Why?
Ifeelagrowingsenseofpanic.
AmIaskingmybossout?
DoeshethinkI’maskinghimout?
Doeshenotwanttocomebecausehe’sawarehe’smyboss?
DoeshethinkI’mhittingonhim?Ohmygosh,amIhittingonhim?

Butbeforemythoughtscantraveldownthatroadintoanewsetofquestions,theexpressiononhisfacedissipates
Andinitssteadcomesaresolutelycarefreesmile.“Leadtheway.”
Ipicktheleastgrimyoptionofthefiveestablishmentssurroundingme,andwemakeourwayforthedoors.Thebarisoddly
hot,giventhecoldJanuaryairontheneon-litstreetoutside.Peopleswarmunderatleastahundredindustriallightbulbs
hangingfromwires,andsomewhereoffinthecorneranotherbandplays.Weorderandslideontotwostoolsliningtheexposed-brick
wallborderingapooltable.

Willlooksatmeexpectantlythemomentwesitdown.“So?Isthis…whatyoudoforfun,then?Impersonatebookingagents
ontheweekends?”

“Ifyoumustknow,yes,”Ireplyoverthespeakersandpeopleandgeneralsenseofmanagedchaos.“It’soneofmyprimehobbies
thesedays.Givesmesomethingtodointheevenings.”

Igrinandtakeasipofmybeer.
“Isee,”hesays,eyeingmewithmockcritique.“Soyoursociallifeinitsnaturalstateisasrivetingasmine.”
“Youcanalwaysjoinme.I’vealreadyseenyourworktonight.Icantellwe’dmakeagoodteam.”
Shoot.I’mdoingitagain.
Iwanttothrowmyhandsout,insistingthatI’mnottryingtohitonhim,butthenrealize,ofcourse,thatwouldonlysucceedinconfirmingthosesuspicions.InsteadIsithere,forcing(andfailingat)anonchalantsmilewhilepretendingtobesuddenlyquiteinterestedinawoman’spurseasshepassesbyourtable.Sequins.Riveting.
Butwhenhespeaks,it’sonanentirelydifferenttopic.AsifhejusttookthewordsIsaidandslidthemneatlyoffthe
table.“So,ourmarketingmanagerandgraphicdesignerwantstobeacountrystar.”

“Yes,”Isay,noddingeagerly,morethanhappytojumptothisnewtopic.“Yes,Ithinkthecatisofficiallyoutofthebag.
Whattippedyouoff?”

“Well,asidefromheractuallysingingonstage,whichwasthebigclue,ofcourse—”
“Ofcourse,”Irepeat.
“—I’dhavetosayitwastheDollyPartonhair,bedazzledbeltbuckleshewearstostaffmeetings,andframedphotographon
herdeskofhersingingwithherguitarwiththewordsinpinkpuffypaint,‘TheNextTaylorSwift.’”

“Ah.Yeah,”Isay,leaningagainstthewall.“Imaybepartlyresponsible,then.Imadethatframeforherbackincollege.”
Mysmilecarriesawince,recallinghowcoolandchicIthoughtIwasbackthenforthemetallic-goldspray-paintedframe
withaboutathousandshakesofglitterwheninrealityitwas(andstillis)hideous.ButLyladeclaredsheadoreditand,
honesttogoodness,haskeptitononedeskoranothersince.

“You’reagoodfriend,”Willsays.
Ilaugh.“Ifyouthinkdemotingthebeautyofsomeoneelse’sworldwithhideoushomemadegiftstheyfeelcompelledtokeep
meansI’magoodfriend,thenyes,Iagree.”

Hegrinspatiently,asthoughacknowledgingmyjokebutwantingtostayonpoint.“Notjustfortheframe.”Hewavesahandaroundthebar.“Forwhatyou’redoinghere.Foreverything.Fewwouldgooutonalimblikethisfortheirfriends,simplyinhopestheybecomearockstar.”
Hisexpressionisoneofsincerity,andfeelingthesuddendiscomfortthatcomesfromadirectcompliment,Ismile.“It’s
countrystar,”Icorrect.“Countrystarornothing.Idohavemylimits.”

“Ofcourse.Myapologies.Country.”
Hisexpressionisbright—merry,even—ashegrinsatme.Thechangefromhisworkposturetooff-dutypostureisastounding.
Hisforearmrestingcasuallyonthetable.Eyesdancingasweplayourlittlegames.

Youcouldalmostbelievehewastwodifferentpeople.Will—theguywhohangsoutwithyouafterwork,crackingjokes,squeezing
outstories.AndWilliamPennington—themanintheimpeccablegraysuitwhostridesdownthehallslikehe’sinthemiddle
ofManhattansurroundedbyslowtouristsandhassomewheretobe.

Ihavebeentoatleastsixmeetingsthisweekwithhimandhehasyettosmile.Inanyofthem.
“Doyoulikeyourjob?”ThewordspopoutofmymouthbeforeIcancatchthem.“Thisnewone,Imean.”
Immediately,hisrelaxedfacetightens.
“I’mjustwonderingbecause,”Iaddquickly,“Iimaginethere’salotofpressure.Youknow,beingatthetop.Tougheconomic
times.Allthat.”

Youshouldn’thavebroughtitup,Sav.Clearlythemandoesn’twanttobereminded.I’mterrible.I’mlikethatstrangerinthegrocerystorewhoasksyouifyoufeelbadbecauseyoulookterrible.

“I’mnotatthetop,”hesays.
“Oh,right,”Isay.ThelastthingIwanttodoisquibbleoverdefinitionsofexactlywhat“atthetop”means.“Sure.So,
it’snotthatbad,then,Ihope.Iwasjustwondering.Anyway.”

Ilookdownatmyboringblackshoesandbracemyselfagainstthesuddenshiftofposition.OnemomentIfelt,Idon’tknow,
attractiveandfun.NowIfeellikeachildinaschooluniformtalkingtoherteacher.

“Ididn’tsayyouwerewrong,”hesaysafterapause.“JustthatI’mnotatthetop.Andthat,actually,istheproblem.”
Wow.Sohe’sgoingwithhonesty.Ifhewasn’tsittingherelookingatmewithsuchamodestandfrankexpression,ifIwas
insteadlookingathiswordsaloneonatranscript,I’dsayhewasincrediblyprideful,leaningtowardegotistical.After
all,whoadmitscandidlythattheproblemisthathe’snottheCEOofthecompany?Asifhispersonalambitionwasrightfully
woundedbysucha“problem”asbeingsecondincommand.Asheexplainstome,alowlyassistantacquisitionseditor.Talk
aboutthefirstofFirstWorldproblems
ButthereissomethingabouthisexpressionthathintsI’mnotreadinghiswordscorrectly,andIamjustabouttoopenmy
mouthandaskforclarificationwhenheraiseshisbrowsatmeandsays,“Why?WhatdoIlooklikeatworktoyou?”

“Oh…”IletoutanervouslaughbecausethatisthefarthestthingIwanttodiscuss.Andhowexactlywouldthatgoover?Well,Will,sinceyouask.Youlookandactasrigidasapinneedle,withascaryrazortip.Youareterrifying,100percent
business,and,frankly,99percentofthetime,lookmiserable.
TheweekafterourimpromptumeetingatthePaintedPony,he’dhardlymetmyeye.Itwaslikethemeetinghadneverevenhappened.Allhedidwasgiveoutorders,workbehindacloseddoortenhoursaday,mysteriouslyleavefordaysatatime,and,onescaryafternoon,fireClyve.(Who,let’sbehonest,wasthemarketingmanagerbuthadyettounderstandacomputer.Itwastime.)
Butevenso,themainwordthatcomestomindisscary
“Efficient,”Isayatlast,settlingontheleastoffensive,possiblycomplimentarytermpossible.“Youseemefficient.”
“Efficient,”hesaysslowly.
“Mm-hmm,”Imurmurbetweenpressedlips,notdaringtogiveanythingmore.
Hegivesmeonelong,dubiouslookandthen,tomysurprise,laughs.It’sthefirsttimeI’veheardit.Aheadysound,full
andrich.It’ssuchanicesoundthatit’sarealpitytotheworldhedoesn’tlaughmoreoften.Eventhetwowomenbehind
uswhoturnseemtothinkso.

Ileanforwardalittle,smilingbrighter.
Notterritorially,ofcourse.There’snothingtoownhere.Nothingtoclaim
Just…alittlemovement.
“Youknow,Savannah,”Willsays,notseemingtonotice,“you’ddojustfineinNewYork.Buthowaboutwejust…leave
theofficeattheoffice.”Hiseyeslandonadartboardontheoppositewallandacouple,havingthrownthelastdart,moving
towardtheexit.“Howaboutagame?Or…areyouneededbackatthePolarStarforanencore?”

TherealityisIamwantedbackattherestaurant.Although,really,Ididaprettygoodjobtonightwiththatoneman.With
anyluck,thatagenthasalreadyslippedLylahiscallingcardbynow.

Andanyway,it’sprobablyhealthyformetodosomethingelsesociallyforonce.
Lyla,forherpart,wouldbeproud.She’salwayssayingIneedtogetoutmore,doingthingsparticularlyoutsidetherealm
ofsittingsomewheredoingsomethingwithFerrisandOlivia.

“ThisisusuallythepartwhereImakeascenewavingacontractovermyheadtryingtogetLylatosign,butitcanwait,”
Isay,slidingoffmychair.“Dartsitis.”

Asweweavethroughthecrowd,IrealizeIneveraskedhimifhehadtogetbacktohisowngroupattherestaurant.Hedidn’t
comealone,surely.He’snotoneofthoseguyswhoroundsouthisFridaynightsaloneatsomeupscalebar,right?

Iriskaglanceathim,suddenlyfeelingaswellofpity.
Gosh.
HowdidInotseeitallthistime?
HehasjustmovedbackfromtheCity.Lefthiswholelifeupthereafterbeingdumpedbyhispublisher.Comehereafterhaving
beengonealifetime.Onlytodiscoverallofhisoldfriendsaregone.Peoplehavemovedon.Movedaway.Gottenmarriedand
hadbabiesandlefthim,justwhenhe’sreturnedhome,utterlydesolateandshakenandinneedofoldchumstofillthevoid.
Andnowhereheis.

OnaFridaynight.
Alone.
It’sterrible,really.
Allthistimehe’swalkedaroundactingsoindependentandunconcernedandso…so…incharge,wheninrealitynone
ofusatPenningtonPubreallyseehimbeyondbeing“thenewscaryboss.”

Ifeelasenseofdutywellingupinsideme.
It’stheCadewayafterall:tobethechangewewishtoseeintheworld.

Greatopportunitiestohelppeopleseldomcome,butsmallonessurrounduseveryday.
Werisebyliftingothers.
Allthat.
Withmyheadfullofplatitudes,IfeelmyenergyliftasIwalkbesidehimtothedartboard.
Ifeelquitecharitable,infact.
Imean,thisisn’tquiteuptotheshare-my-latest-good-deed-at-the-family-table-over-dinnerlevel,andit’snottax-deductible
(asmyparentsalwaysask),butitisclose.

Igrabthreegoldandwearydartsofftheboardandstepbacktothenearlyrubbed-offredstrippaintedonthefloor.Igive
Willabrightsmile.

“Afteryou,”hesays,usheringwithhishand.“Youeverplaybefore?”
“Abit,”Irespond,raisingthedartandsquintingattheboardforapracticethrow.Itossanditlandsonthebeigenine.
“Caretomakeitinteresting?”heasksasImoveasideandhetakesmyplace.
Ieyehim.Measurehimup.“Maybe.How?”Myeyesbrightenasanideaforms.“IfIwin,Igetexecutive-levelvotingpower
duringthenextpubmeeting.”

Hetiltshisheadwithanincredulousbrow.“Youwanttowagerbecomingtheboss.Overagameofdarts.”
“No,”Isay,raisingafinger.“Iwanttobecomebossoverwinningagameofdarts.There’sadifference.”

Helaughsandthrowsadart.Itlandssquarelyontheredeighteen.“Iwasthinkingmorealongthelinesofwhoeverlosesbuysfries.Buthowaboutthis?”Hepauses.“Loserhastoansweraquestion.”
“AgameofTruthorDare?Areweinmiddleschool?”
“There’llbeconditions,”headds.
“Likewhat?”Isay.Andevenwiththethoughtofit,Ifeelmyenergyzinging,givingmeahigh.Theatmospherearoundus
isloud,buoyant.Musicisplayingfromatleastthreedirections.Theclamorofplatesandglassesiseverywhere.

AllofthisisthesameaswhenIwasstuckwithTomatthePaintedPonySaloon,andyetherewithWillthefloordoesn’t
looksomuchbeer-stainedasrichlyvintagedwiththewearofahundredthousandfriendsgatheringovertheyears.Thesound
isn’tthrobbinglyloudsomuchasvibrantandalive.Eventheclusterbesidemedoesn’tlooksomuchbrazenlydrunkasjust
very,veryfriendly.

Well,exceptforthatguywhojuststumbledoffhisstool.Alittlemoreawkwardthanfriendly.
“Weeachgetthreevetoes.And,ofcourse,wewillkeepthisonaprofessionallevel.”
Professional.Ofcourse.
“Sobasicallyliketheicebreaker‘gettoknowyou’gameYossitriedtogetustoplayduringourlastretreat.”
“Butwithfries,”headds,raisingafinger.“I’llbeagoodbossandthrowinabasketoffries.”
Ifrown.“Yossitriedthattactic,too,butwithdoughnuts.”
Butdespitemyself,Ican’thelpcrackingasmileasheheadsforthebar.
Afewminuteslater,hereturnswithabasketinhand.“Ladiesfirst,”hesays.
Istandattheline.“I’mbeginningtofeellikeI’vegottenswindledintoworkingonaweekend,”Imumble,gazingattheboard.
Ithrowmyfirstthreeandcometoatotalof32.
Hethrowshis,andthetotalcomesto40.
“So,”hesays,pullingthedartsofftheboard.“Whydoyouwantexecutivevotingpoweratpubboardnextweek?What’syour
angle?”

“Noangle.It’sjust…”Ishrug.“RobisgoingtopushfortheWeaverproposal,andGiselleisgoingtoswaythegroup
towardthatinfluencersinginggroup,andthey’rebothbadcalls.”

“BecauseyouwantSmith,”Willsaysmatter-of-factly.
“No,I’verereadhisproposalanddonealittlemoredigging,andI’mlosingmyenthusiasmforhim.I’llstilltakehimto
themeeting,butbetweenyouandme,I’mnotsold.”

Willgivesanotheroneofthoserarelaughsandthrowsadart.Thenanother.“That’squitethecandidstatement.”
IsmilealittleasIwatchhimthrowhisthird.“Well…”Ishrug,warminguptotherealizationthatIdoalwayssay
toomuchtohim.Andheneverseemstomind.“I’llstilldomybesttosellhiminthere,butlet’sjustsayifIendupconvincing
youall,I’llhavealsoconvincedmyself.”

“Thenwhat’swrongwiththeWeaverprojectorthesinginggroup?Ifyouaren’tgunningforyourownauthor,what’syouropinion
onthem?”

“Well,RobmaythinkWeaverhasallthepotentialintheworld,butI’mnearlypositivehissocialmediaplatformisbolsteredbypaidbotsonhisInstagram.”IpauseasImoveintopositionbeforetheboard,thencastalookback.“Imean,honestly,Will.Hisareaistaxidermy.Wherearethesetwohundredthousandpassionatefollowersoftaxidermy?Where?Andasforthesinginggroup…”Ishrug.“Theymaytechnicallybecelebrities,butthey’restillprettylowonthetotempole.Mostly,though,theissueisthemanuscript.Itlacksoriginality,passion,andpurpose.Theyneverhaveaclearlydefinedgoal,theynevercapturedmyinterest,andfrankly,they’renotfamousenoughtohaveusassumepeoplewillbuyitbasedofftheirbrandalone.They’renotahouseholdname,whichmeanssaleswouldhavetoactuallyrelyongoodcontent.Whichitdoesn’thave.”

Ithrowadart,anditlandsonabeige15.
“Wow.Aspitfireresponsefromsuchafairface,”hesays.
Mycheekstingleatthecompliment.Right?Wasthatsincere?“Well,it’sthetruth.AndIdon’tgetpaidtogivefluff.”
“Andcanyoutakeitlikeyougiveit?”
There’saplayfulnessinthequestion,butevenso,I’mslightlystilled.Itdoessoundquitecritical,doesn’tit?Inever
hadthoughtofmyselfasharshbefore,butisn’tthisjustthewaymymysteryeditorwouldsayittoo?Butthen,there’sthe
difference.Iwouldneversayanyofthisdirectlytothoseauthors.I’dpackitdeep,deepwithinathicklayerofcompliments.

“No,”Iadmit.“Igetwoundedeasily.It’saflaw,really.OneshotandIactlikeawoundeddoe,limpingaroundforaweek.
Anyway,”Isay,throwinganotherdart,“weweretalkingabouttheproposedprojects.”

“Soyoudon’ttrustGiselle’sjudgment?”hesays,crossinghisarmsashewaitsforhisturn.“Shedoeshaveseveralstellar
clients.”

“Sure,”Isay,takingaimandputtingtheboardinmylineofsight.“Becauseshealwaysdumpstheworstauthorsonusandtakesthebestforherself.LastyearIdiscoveredtwoauthorsfromtheslushpile,wooedthem,gotthemthroughpubboard,andthesecondeveryonegotonboardsheslidhernameintothecontractsandbumpedmeout.”
It’snotuntilafterIthrowmythird,watchitlandonthetripletwenty,andturnwithagleefulgrinthatIrealizeWill
isnolongerlookingasrelaxedasIam.No.He’sfrowningnow,suddenlylookingquiteabittaller,shouldersbroader,as
hegazesatmewitharmsstillcrossedoverhischest.Infact,hedoesn’tseemtolooklikehesawmywinningshotatall.

“Whichcontracts?”hesays.
Istiffen.
Buthisgazeispenetrating,andI’velearnedenoughinthelasttwoweeksnevertodancearoundareply.“DuttonandSeuss.”
Ican’tbesure,butIfeellikethelightingmusthaveshifted.It’stheonlywaytoexplainhowhiseyesarestartingto
takeonthaticeberg-bluefire.“WhataboutHarrySullivan?Surelyhewould’veputastoptothat.Hewasherboss.”

Iclenchmyjaw.“Well…ifyouhaven’tnoticed,Giselleisfairlyintimidating.”
AndthenIrealize.Hereallyhasn’tnoticed.He’ssoscaryhimself,hehasn’thadaclue.

“Doesmymotherknowaboutthis?”hesays.
“Yourmom?”Ican’thelpbutreply.“Yourmomisherbiggestfan.Nobodywoulddaretellonher.”
Exceptme,apparently,Ithink,bitingmylip.Theonewhojustrevealedthisinformationohsocandidlytoherson
“Themismanagementofthiscompanyisoverwhelming,”hesays,spittingoutthewordsmoretohimselfthantome.
ForamomentIfeelaswellofpityforhim.Cominghomewithnootheroptions,discoveringhismother’sempireshebuiltfromthesweatofherbrowundernotjustfinancialcrisisbutintensemanagementduress.Beinghitwithwavesofnewproblemseveryday,someofwhichhisownmotheristoblamefor,whilealsodealingwiththeconfusionoftheirmingledprofessionalandpersonalrelationship.Itcertainlywouldbeashock.
“Well,it’snotallthatbad,”Isay.“We’vemadeitthisfar,afterall.”
“Bytheskinofourteeth,”hesayswithoutemotion.
Helookssofrustrated,Ipityhim.
“Andthepeoplewhodoremainare—forthemostpart—loyalandtalented.WemaynotbeSterling,ofcourse,butthepeople
atPenningtondolovetheirjobs.We’reeven,inourownoddsortofway,likeafamily.”Ismilegood-humoredly.“Evenwith
Gisellebeingtheclassicwickedstepsister.We’regoingtocomeoutofthis.You’llsee.”

HisexpressionshiftsasItalk—anexpressionthatforsomereasonmakesmyspinestarttotingle.Thefuryinhiseyesisn’t
totallydissipated;it’smorelikeembersnow,glowinginthebackground.They’reclearlygoingtobeburningforalongtime.
Butthere’snowasortofthoughtfulnessinhiseyes,too,ashegazesintomyown.

Somewhereinthedistance“BigGreenTractor”startstoplay.OutofthecornerofmyeyeIseeacoupleofpeopleshuffling
closer,eyeingthedartboardenviously.

“Well,”Isayafteralongpause.“Ithinkwemayneedanewgame.”
There’sanotherlongpause,andwebothjustlookateachother,tryingtosortouthowthenextmomentwillgo.Itseemslikewe’restandingonascale,tryingtodecideinthemiddleofamillisecondournextmove.Ontheonehandsomethingfeelsdecidedlyoff—mechattingwiththeboss,sharingsecrets.Talkingtoomuch.Butontheotherhand…themoretemptinghand…it’snicehere.Cozy.
Webothhearaphoneringingfromhispocket,andaftersomehesitation,Willpullsitout.Helooksatthenameonthescreen
foramoment,thenatme.“Iprobablyshouldgetgoing,”hesays.

“Metoo,”Iagree—alltooreadily.Igathermythings.
Aswemovebackontothestreet,Ifeeltheambienceshifting,theeveningfestivitiescomingtoaclosedespitethecontinued
partyaroundus.Willshovesbothhandsintohispockets.

Almostlikewe’reinhighschoolandhe’swalkingmehome.
Butwhy?
Thethoughtscontinue,pesteringmeasweheadbacktothePolarStar.WhatexactlymadeWillcomeheretonight,alone?Who
exactlycalledhim,tellinghimitwastimetoleave?

ThebuzzingonhisphonewastherealitycheckthathehasalifebehindadoorIhaven’tbeenwelcomedthroughyet.Perhaps
willneverbe.

Thethoughtdisappointsme,sillyasitis,andIscrabbletoignoreit.
“So,”Isay,notevensurewheretherestofmysentenceisgoingtogo.“Inevergottoaskyouanyquestions.”
“Isupposeyoudidn’t,”hereplies,noddingtothemenoneithersideofthedooraswebrandishourIDs.
ApartofmefeelsmyspiritsliftasIrealizehe’scominginbehindme.He’scominginside,notpartingwaysatthesidewalkanddriftingoffintothestreamoftraffic
Upthenarrowstairstotherestaurant’smainfloor.He’snotleaving.Yet
Andforthefirstmomentofouracquaintance,Iadmittomyself,justalittle,howawareIamofWillPennington.He’sscary,sure.Terriblyintimidatingwhenhestandsatthepodium,lookingoverthegroupofuswithasortofintensewearinessthatsays,WhatamIgoingtodowiththislot?But…he’splayfultoo.Spontaneous.Fun.Heclearlydoesn’tjustliveforworkallthetime.

Hecan’tbebutafewyearsolderthanme,buthe’slikeagrownup,arealgrownupwhodressesthepart,actsthepart,isthepart.Unlikeme,whorentsaroomfrommyyoungersister,chasesafteroutlandishandunpredictabledreamslikewriting,
andhasarealfearthatsomeonewilldiscoverIstillhavenocluehowtaxeswork.I’mjustakidplayinginanadult’sbody.

Will,ontheotherhand…
Iglanceback,seethewayhiswavyhairliftscarelesslytooneside.Atouchofhairproductonit.Justenoughtostyle,
notenoughtooverwhelm.

He’struly…aman.
“So,”Icontinue,holdingtherailingasImoveupthestairs.“Doyoulikecountrymusic?”
It’stheworst,thelamest,questioninalltheworld,butit’sallIcanthinkofasIreachthetopstep.
“Hateit.”
“Thereyouare!”
Ihalt.Becausethere,standingrightinfrontofus,isGiselle.Chapter12
“Oh.Savannah.”Giselle’slipspuckerintoathoughtful,quiteexpensive-lookingfrown.“Ididn’tknowyouwerecomingto
thislittlesoiree.”

Soiree,asamatteroffact,wasmyWordoftheDaythreeweeksago.Soireesarereservedforintimategatherings.Upscaleparties.
Specialget-togethers.She’susedthetermperfectly.

Idon’thavetheheartorwillpowertoglanceoveratWill.Imean,Ijustsaidthosethingsabouther.Ijustrattedherout.IfeellikeIjustdiscoveredWillwasplayingontheoppositeteamallthistime.Allthattimeinthebar
nextdooritfeltlikehewasanuntakenplayer,someonewhohadn’tbeenpickedupyetfortheteamoneitherside.Thered
team:fullofexecutiveswithallthepower.Ortheblueteam:therestofusatPennington.Theunderdogs.Thecommonman.

Buthe’sthepublisherofPenningtonPen.He’sMs.Pennington’sownsonOfcoursehe’soneofthem.

AndGiselle,todrivethenailinthecoffin,looksdazzling.HershortplatinumhairlookssosilkysmoothshecouldbeinaPantenecommercial,andthesilverytopbeneathasharpwhiteblazershimmersinthelighttogivejusttherightplayfultouchtothisbusinessaffair.
Me,ontheotherhand…Ifeelmyfacewincingdespitemyself.Iactuallyspenttwentyminutesinfrontofthemirror
thiseveningworkingtomakemybunlookliketheproductofanoverworkedgeniusofanagentwhodidn’tcareawitabout
theworldaroundher.

Quickly,Irunmyhandoverthesideofmybun.
“Oh,”Isay,ascasuallyasIcanmuster.“No,wejustbumpedintoeachother.”
“Ah.”WhatlittleinterestshehadinmeshiftsbacktoWill.“Well,Will,wewerestartingtoworry.Iwasjustaboutto
getSamtochecktherestroomstomakesureyouhadn’thityourheadandweren’tstrandedsomewhere.”Shegivesalittlelaugh
justasSampopsupbesideher,andmymiseryiscomplete.

EvidentlyIwasshieldedfromviewbyGiselle,becausethesecondSam’seyesmovefromWilltome,hegivesanalmostimperceptible
startle.“Savannah.Hello.”

“Hi.”There’ssomethingextraamissinhistone.It’salmostthestiltedremember-that-first-terrible-dategreetingheusuallyhas.Almost.Butno,atthis
momentthere’snomistakingit’ssomethingmore.Extracautious.Extranervous.Thewayhishandsshiftuncomfortablytoward
hispockets.NowhisgazemovespointedlytoWill,almostasthoughhe’sguiltyaboutsomething.Hidingsomething
JustlikehewasoutsidetheARCroom
Andagainmythoughtsgiveaflourishing,Sam?Couldhereallybemymysteryman?

“Ourfoodishere,”Sammurmurs,inatonethatevenforSamisoverthetop.Ofcourse,heisthepassiveoneintheon-offrelationshipthatisGiselle-and-Sam.Imean,he’dhavetobe.IfthereweretwopeopleasaggressiveasGiselleintherelationship,they’dkilleachother.So,whileI’musedtoseeingthetail-between-his-legsattitudewheneverthetwoaretogether,it’ssurprisingseeingitevenworsenow.
“Finally,”Gisellesays.“Itoldyouallweshouldn’thavecomehere.Thisplacenotonlylooksliketwotinsofcondemnedvealbut
isjustasslowasitisplug-ugly.Let’sgosit.”

Butasshetrotsoff,Samfollowinglikeapuppy,Willdoesn’tmove.
Whentheworldapparentlyshakesbecausesomebodyhasn’tblindlyfollowedherdirections,shestops.
Turns.
“I’llberightthere,”Willsays,notmoving.
Sheplastersonabrightsmile.“Great.”
Butthenshedoesn’tmoveeither.
Thetwoofthemsmileexpectantlyateachotherforalong,uncomfortablemomentuntil,whenitcan’tbeanymoreevident
thatheisnotgoingtowalkwithhertotheboothnomatterhowlongshesilentlygrinsathim,Giselleliftsherchin.“We’ll
justtelleveryoneyou’recoming…then.”

“Goodplan.”Willgivesashortnod,andwhenit’squiteclearshe’sgone,helooksdownatme.“Well.Savannah.Thankyou
fortheinterruptionthisevening.Itwasamostwelcomeone.”

Iwanttosay,You,sir,weretheonewhooriginallyinterruptedme,remember?Butitseemstrivialtopointitout.

“Enjoyyour…meeting,”Isay.
Ialsowanttoadd,Andplease,pleasedon’trepeatwhatItoldyouaboutGiselletothatgroup.Butthatseemsdesperate,andwon’tmakeanydifferenceanyway.IfhewantstosharewiththemwhatIsaid,he’llshare.
So,withverylittlepoweroverthesituation,IsmileasmerrilyasIcanandgivealittlewave,tryingveryhardnotto
looklikethegirlwhodidn’tmakethesoftballteam.“SeeyouMonday.”

Henods,buthiseyesarealreadystartingtocloudasheturnstowardthebooththatliesahead.
***
Gisellehasbeendemoted.
IcanhardlybelievemyearsMondaymorningasIstandonthetiledmarblefloorunderthevast,quakingchandelierofthe
foyer.Wordhasbuzzedthroughthebuildingsoquicklythewholeplaceseemstohum.

Giselle.TheGiselle.Theonewho’sshownherglossyfaceherefortenyears.Theonewhohashadhereyessetonthepublisherposition
thepasttwo.OneofMs.Pennington’sfavoritepets(becauseGiselleismoreskilledthananyoneelsehereintheartofcounterfeiting
literaryintelligence).

NumblyItakeinthenewssurroundedbyadozenhushed—andinsomecasesgiddy—conversations.
ThesecondIturntheknobonmyofficedoor,I’mgreetedwithanexplosionofenergyfromLyla.“Didyouhear?”shesays,
practicallyjumpingfromherchairandrushingatmelikeapuppywhosemasterhascomehomeattheendofalongday.“Can
youbelieveit?”

“Hardly,”Isay,bewildered.
Lylashutsthedoorbehindme.Infact,allthedoorsonthehallareshuttoday.Thetypical,unspokenruleistohavethemopen,allowingMs.Penningtontokeepaneyeonuswhenevershespontaneously,muchlikeawarden,walksthehalls.Buttodayeveryoneonourhallistalkingaboutthelatestnews.
GiselletheGianthasfallen.
Andsurely…surely?…notbecauseofme.

“Isawherthismorningcarryingaboxfromherdeskdownstairs.Tothefirstfloor.”Lyla’seyesarepositivelymirthful.“Honestly,I’msurprisedshedidn’tjustquit.Youknowhowsheis.She’dprobably
ratherbeunemployedthanloseherdignitybybeingdemotedtothefirstfloor.Isayshe’llfindsomewhereelseandquitwithintheweek.”

“Wheredidshego?”
“Trophy.Tobeanassistant.Ijustcan’tbelieveit.HarryIcouldbelieve.Clyvemadesense;hisworkwasalwayssubpar.ButGiselle?Imean,shewas
outwiththebigwigsjusttwonightsago!Isawthem!”

Andasifoncue,there’saknockonthedoor.Webothjump,andinthenextmomentwe’reflyingtowardourdesksandjabbing
bothofourcomputermousestomakethescreenscometolife.

“Comein,”IcalloutasnonchalantlyasIcan.
Tomysurprise,it’sWill.
Theeaseinhiseyesisgone.Allremnantemotionsfromtwonightsago,infact,aregone,leavingonlythatsamehard,exacting
expressionhewearsfromeighttosix.Evenhisclotheslooktighterandmoreuncomfortablewiththeirperfectlypressedand
sharpangles.

“Savannah.Iwashopingforaquickword.”
“Oh.Ofcourse,”Isay.
Lyla’seyespracticallybecomesaucersasshewatchesmefollowbehindhimintothehall.Afterall,whywouldn’tthey?Thosehavebeenthewordsofdoomthepasttwelvemonths.Anyonereceivingthemgottheinevitableboot.
Whoknows?Maybeit’smyturn.
ItrailbehindWilltotheendofthehall,whereasingledoorlooms.Twopeoplewalkingdownfromtheoppositesidestop
aswepass,practicallyflatteningthemselvesagainstthewallpaperwithmoregiant-saucereyestoletusby.Goodgrief.
Ihavenodoubtthatrumorsarealreadyspreading.Peopleareprobablyrightnowcallingdibsformydeskspace.

Westepinsidehisoffice,andaswedoso,Ihearthedoorclickshutbehindme.
I’veonlybeeninthisroomahandfuloftimes.
“Pleasegrabaseat.”Hemotionsatoneofthetwomodern-lookingleatherchairsontheothersideofhisdesk.
AsItakeaseat,Iglancearound.Thedeskisthesameauspiciouslylarge,weariedpineaseveryotherdeskinthebuilding
boughtinthe1970s,buteverythingelseabouttheroomisnew.TheredPersianrugpeekingoutfrombeneaththedeskand
stretchingacrosshalfthelengthoftheroom.Theblack-walnutbookcasetooneside,spillingoutbooksbothnewandold.
ThewallbehindWill,coveredwithtwowindowsfacingalargemapleanditsspindlywinterlimbs.Oneithersideofthewindows
thereusedtobeframes.Dozensofframes,highlightingalifespentinpublishing,documentingnearlyeveryaccomplishment
fortheworld,andHarryhimself,toadmire.

ButtherearenoframesnowbehindWill’shead.Justafreshcoatofcoldgraypaint,tintingtowardblueinthemorninglight.
Willtakesabreath.“I’msureyoumust’veheard.”
Hedoesn’telaborate.Afterall,hehasgrownupinsidethesewalls;hemustknowhowfastwordtravels.
“Idid,”Isayatlast.“Imustadmit,I’msurprised.”
Henods,notseemingtowant,orneed,toknowmore.“IjustwantedyoutoknowthatIappreciateyouspeakingwithmeso
candidlyFridayevening.ThemoreIcanunderstandthemyriadproblemsgoingoninthiscompany,theeasieritwillbeon
everyoneinthelongrun.”

Sothat’swhatitwas,then.Myfears—no,Iwon’tevenletmyselfadmitthatinthoughtalone.Mysuspicionsconfirmed.Hepulledmeofftochatmoreaboutthecompany.Thatevenexplainstheso-called“bet”tomakethingsmoreinteresting:
playagameofdartsandgetallthedirthecanonwhat’sreallygoingoninthecompany.AndIwasjustsowillingtoshareeverysinglethoughtinmyhead.

“I’mgladtohearit.”Mywordsareuplifting,andyetmytoneisdistant,polite.AspoliteasmyrigidpostureasIsit
inthischairtryingwithallitsmighttoforcemetoleanback.

“Tellme,whatdoyouthinkofYossi?”
“Yossi?”Myantennarises.Yossihasbeenwiththecompanyfortenyears,andyes,whilehemayboremetopieceseverysinglemeeting,he’sagoodman.LoyaltoPennington.Loverofbooks.Worthyofonlygoodthings.“Yossiisgreat.”

“Ishereally,though?”Willraisesaneyebrow—theexactsamewayhedidwhenhequestionedmydartskillstheothernight.
Onlythistime,itdoesn’tevokequitethesameemotion.Thistime,Istiffen.“He’sbeenlatetoworkthreetimes.”

Sure,hehasaproblemgettingtoworkontime,butthat’sbecausethemanissoeco-conscioushebikestowork.Sometimeshefallspreytothepuddles.Andsometimeshestaysupallnightreading,rivetedbysomenewinspirationorother,andsleepsthroughhisalarm.It’satruebooklover’sdilemma.Butwe’reinapublishinghouse.Thesearetheknown,andsurelyaccepted,consequencesofhiringtrue-to-the-corereadersforthejob.
“AndI’venoticedhe’snotquiteasonboardassomeotherswhenitcomestoworkingasateam.”
Well,canyoublamehim?HewasunderGiselle’swing,andeverytimesheendedupgettingherhandsonhismanuscripts,she
inevitablyscrewedsomethingup,blameditonhim,orwatchedthemanuscriptreceivepraiseandtookcreditthatreallybelonged
tohim.

“Yossihasbeennothingbutatreasuretothiscompany.He’strulyoneofakind.Honestly,youshouldfiremebeforeyou
firehim.”

There.Isaidit.Itoldhimthetruth,andindoingsomayhaveputmyselfontheline.
“Yes,butisheconfident?”hecontinueswithoutswerving.“Canhecommandagroup?”
WhendidIbecomethePenningtonsnitch?WhendidIbecometheratwhoskirtedaroundthedarkestcornerswiththehigher-ups,
whisperingsecretsthatdeterminedthelivesofothers?EverysingletimeI’vemetwithWillnow,somebodyhasbeenfired
ordemotedormovedtoanotherposition.Sure,I’dbelyingifIdidn’tsayIappreciatedit,butnowYossi?

AskingmefordirtonYossi?
Ican’tdothis.Ican’tbethecompanysnitchwhogetsthereputationforwhisperinglittleinjuriesintheboss’searwhenever
I’mfrustrated.

Iraisemychin.“IthinkthesequestionsarebetterlefttoYossihimself.I’msorry,Ihavequiteabitofworktodo.My
expensereportsareduetoday.IthinkI’dbetterseemyselfout.”

Will,who’sbeensointenselyaskingmequestionsthathe’sbeenleaningforward,hiselbowsonthedesk,sitsupinsurprise.Theintensityinhisgazelifts,asthoughhe’sseeingmeforthefirsttime.
“Yes,”hesaysafteralengthypause.Hestandsup,thepolitedistancebackinhisposture.“Yes,thosereportsareduetoday.
Goodthinking.”

There’sawedgebetweenusnow.Ifeelit,andthewayhemovestowardthedoortoushermeout,there’snodoubthefeels
ittoo.

AsIturnatthedoor,Iseeanewexpressioncloudinghisface,andforamomentIwaver.Perhapsit’smyimagination,but
helooksalmost…hurt.Likesomehowintherehewasfinallybeingvulnerable,too,eagertohavesomebodyelsewithwhom
tosharehisconcerns.Itmustbelonelyatthetop.

Still.
Ipausejustbeforeheopensthedoorand,riskingseveralthingsatonce,putahandonthecuffofhisbutton-upshirt.
“Yossiisagoodmanandanasset,”Isayquietly.“Whathelacksinpunctualityhemakesupinloyalty,goodwill,andapassion
forthejobthathasalreadystoodthetestoftime.”

He’squiet,hisexpressionunreadable,andIcontinue.
“Ijusthopeyoutakesometimetoreallygettoknowtheemployeesunderyourwingbeforemakinghastydecisions.”
Aslightcreaseformsonhisbrow,andIdon’tknowwhathe’sthinking,butIcertainlyknowmyownthoughts.WillPennington
hasbeenheretwoweeks,andinthatspanoftimehasfiredClyve,changedTom’seditor,anddemotedGiselle.Andnow,here,
he’sconsideringmakingagravemistakewithYossi.Maybesomeofthathasbeencalledfor,buttherealityishe’scharged
intoPenningtonlikeabullinachinashop.

“YouthinkImadethewrongdecisionwithGiselle?”
“No.”Slowly,Ishakemyhead.“IandthewholePenteamthankyouforthat,truly.Ijust…don’tfeelcomfortablebeing
theonetohaveinfluencedyouinyourdecision.I’mjustalowlyeditor.YouarethehotshotfromNewYorkwho’sboss.I’d
hatetoleadyouastraybyspeakingoutofturn.”

Hisvoiceislow,quiet,asheresponds.“Idon’taskformanypeople’sopinions,Savannah.ButwhenIdo,it’sbecauseI
respectthemandthelensthroughwhichtheyseetheworld.Youmaybe,asyousay,alowlyeditor,butyoualsohaveinsights
intothiscompanythatIfindadmirable,andtrue.”ForalongmomentWilllooksatme,butwhenIdon’tbudge,hegivesa
politesmileandturnstheknob.“Atanyrate,IaskedforyouropiniononYossi.Iappreciateyougivingit.”

Heopensthedoor.
***
IswingthroughtheARCroomduringlunchtimetwoweekslaterand,tomysurprise,openthedoortoawholenewworld.It’s
aland—awholefairyland—oflights.Itreallydoesfeellikeafairylandtoo.Iwasexpectingnothingfancyoutofthistypical
gloomyFebruaryday,withthecloudsachalkygrayandtheforecastnothingbutsleetandfreezingrain.Andthen,ta-da.Insteadofadark,shadowyroomlitbyonehangingbulb,Ifindninehundredlightstwinklinginglory.Theroomglows.

AndasIpickthemanuscriptoffthestackofbookslingeringbesidethebeanbagchair,Ican’thelpbutfeelmyheartglowing
aswell.

Mymysteryeditoraddedlights.Forus.
Us.
Thatincludesme.
AsIgooverhisnewestadditions,myeyescan’thelpnearlyshimmeringwithtearsofmirthasIread,thenreread,theexpansive
storywrittenalldownthepage.Maybeit’sthehumiliatingstoryaboutmymysteryeditor’sworstblinddatethatdoesit.
Maybeit’stheballoftensionthat’sstartingtoreleaseinthepitofmystomachsinceIpassedthehalfwaymarkonthe
manuscript.Ormaybeit’sthenewstringlightssurroundingthelittleroom,makingthewholeplaceglow.

Ormaybeallthree.
Itakemypenandfinishofftheconversationwe’vehadgoingbackandforthforthepastfourdaysatthebottomofthepage.
Okay,okay,Igetit.I’lltakeouttheblind-datescene.Butgeez,that’sprettyembarrassing,MysteryE.
ThenItrustyoucankeepthatlittlesecretbetweenyouandme.
Oruseitinmynextmanuscript..
Youwouldn’tdare.
Wouldn’tI?
NotifI’meditingit.
Doesthatmeanyou’reuptothejob?MysteryE.henceforthandforevermore?ThisisgettingalittlePhantomoftheOpera–esque
Ialwaysthoughthegotabadrap.HebuiltChristineDaaé’scareer.
Youliketheshow?
Oneofmyfavorites.
Fine,then.Thisbookgetscontracted,andI’mtakingyoutotheshow.Mytreat.
MakeitonBroadwayandyouhaveadeal
Broadwayitis.
IsmiletomyselfasmyfingerslidestothebottomofthepageandIadd:Bytheway,theselightsarebeautiful.ThenIturnthepageandlaughathisownnote:Theselightsaretheambiencethisroomneeded.
Agreed!Ireply,thenmoveondownthepage.

I’vespentmoreandmoretimeuphereintheARCroomlately,andwhileIcanjustifyingoodconsciencerepeatedlyleaving
thesecondfloorbecauseI’vebeendevotingsomanyhourstothejobatnight,therealtrickhasbeenmanagingtosneakaway
somuchwithoutsuspicion.Thankfully,witheveryoneatPenningtonhavingsuchatangleofmeetingswithonepersonoranother
throughouttheday,everyoneseemstohaveassumedI’mofftotalkwithsomeoneaboutsomething.Asitturnsout,aslong
asyou’returninginquality-levelworkontime,there’sasurprisinglackofaccountabilityforPenningtoneditors.Andwith
Lylaandthewayshefallssodeeplyintonewprojectsyoucouldpracticallyeatfromadinnerplateonherheadwithouther
noticing,it’sbeenremarkablyeasytoescapeandcomebackwithoutnotice.

There’sanotherlongparagraphatthebottom,andIpause.It’samomentwheremyleadladyhasmessedthingsupyetagain
andthebestfriend—theperfect,polishedbestfriend—comesintofixthingsupandsavetheday.Myleadingladyisn’tperfect.
Actually,tobeperfectlyhonest,myleadingladyisn’tperfectatall.She’samess,really.Incomplete.Untalented.Trulymediocre.Sheisneithertheglossygirllivingwithaperpetualcanlightspotlightinghereverymovenortheuglyducklinginthebackoftheroomwhoturnsouttobeawitty,suddenly-knockout-gorgeous-when-she-washes-her-hairtypeoffemale.No,she’sjustCecilia.Fifteenpoundsheavierthanshewasincollege,andyetthechocolatemuffinsmattermoretoherthanherweight.Funny,butnevercommandingaroomwithherwit.EnjoysmoviesandmusicandTVbutcouldn’treadmusicifherlifedependedonit.Intelligentenoughtogetbybutnotintelligentenoughtowinawardsorgetpromotedtoanythingbig.She’sjust…Cecilia.
She’salso,I’mrealizing,just…me.
I’veheardotherauthorssaytheywritetoexploretheirownproblems.Theywritetoworkthroughwhatthey’regoingthrough.
It’sasortoftherapy.

Andhere,lookingatmyownworkthroughfresheyes,Isee.I’vedoneittoo.
Theproblemis,whathaschanged?Nothing.Mylifehasn’tchanged.Ihaven’tfinishedthisbookwithaeurekamomentandgrown.
I’velearnednolessons.

I’mstilljustme.
Where’smydarneureka?
IreadthroughtherestofMysteryE.’sentries,defendingmyactionsonsome,takingpicturesandmakingnotestoadjust
thingsonothers.Thepositivenotesarepoppingupmoreandmore,I’venoticed,especiallyasI’veprintedoutnewcopies
ofmyeditedscenestostackontopofthemanuscriptforhimtosee.Helikesthewaythingsareturningout.And,withgrowing
certainty,Idotoo.

Honestly,I’mstartingtobothmarvelatthisnewmanuscriptandfeelapinchofterrorwheneverIthinkoftheconditionofthemanuscriptIsenttoClairebefore.Thisissomuchbetter.Somuchsothatit’shumiliatingtothinkaboutwhatIsentbefore.

Ireachthelastofhisnotesandcheckthetime.Theroomisluminous.Thegraycloudsswirloutsidethepurple-andgreen-tinted
glasspanes.ThisplacefeelssocozyIwishIcouldstayallday.

Butit’stimeforourmonthlypubmeeting.Timetotapoutfrommyturninthemagicalroom.Timetogo.
JustbeforeIdo,though,Itakeoutmypenandwriteanoteinthemarginofchapter15.
So,MysteryEditor.Whyareyouhelpingme?
Thequestionissimple,butstill,IfeelmyheartraceasIwriteit.I’vewonderedsomanytimesasI’vereadhisnotes
throughthepages,buthaveneversummonedupthebraverytoask.

Partofmehasfearedhewouldreadmyinquiryandthink,Youknow?WhyamIhelpingher?Andthenhe’ddropmeandleavemetomyhopelessfate.Butthelongerwe’vegonealong,givingit100percentoverthehours,
overthedays,themoreIfeellikeI’mnotsoalonewhiledoingthis.Weareateam.Somehow,remarkablyenough,Isense
hewantsthismanuscripttosucceedjustasmuchasIdo.

Itdoesn’tmakesense.ButIreallyfeelit.
Fifteenminuteslater,I’msittingintheMagnoliaRoomattheovaltableastheroomslowlyfills.MyfeetaretappingthefloorasIreviewthelastofmynotes,atickOliviahastrulyhelpedcreate.I’matfourthousandstepsfortheday,thankstoonedrizzlywalktowork,butforthethirdtimethisweek,I’mstilllaggingbehind.
SomenewgirlissittinginGiselle’soldseat,lookingquietanduncertainofherselfasshesitsbesideBrittney,Ms.Pennington’s
PA.Thenewboss,nodoubt.Although…that’sabitquick,isn’tit?Certainlyit’dtakemorethanacoupleofweeksto
findanytrulyworthwhilereplacementforherjob.Andwhycouldn’tWillhavehiredfrominsidethepublishinghouse?These
arealljustissuesstackedontopofexistingissuesinaloadthat’sbuildingagainsthim.

Hisdemeanorhasgrownharsheroverthepastfewdays.Peoplehavebeencallinghimachipofftheoldblock—which,toeveryone
exceptMs.Penningtonherself,istheoppositeofacompliment.Inthespanofthreedays,Willhasdroppedthenightjanitor—poor
Robbyofovertwenty-sixyears—downtoparttimeandgivenallofusmorecleaningresponsibilities,takenawaythreepeople’s
companycreditcards(thatIknowof),andcutthecordonthenewespressomachine,replacingthestationwithgrocerystore–brand
coffee.

Andtobehonest,Idon’tknowhowIfeelaboutitall.
Idon’tblamepeopleforgettingtheirfeathersruffled;InoddedvigorouslywhenMaggiedeclaredduringonelengthytirade,
“Ifwe’regoingtobelivingin1984conditions,you’dthinktheycouldatleastletuskeepourcoffee!”AndIcertainlyfoughtonYossi’sbehalf.Butatthesametime,wheneverIseeWill’sexhaustedfaceasIpasshiminthe
hallorgopasthisdoor—alwayscrackedopen,alwayswiththelightonnomatterhowlateintheday—Ican’thelpfeeling
forhim.He’sthebossmakingthecallsandyethelooksmoremiserablethanthepeoplehe’slettinggo.Onthebrightside,
atleastYossiisstillheretoday.

MaybeImadeanimpactafterall,Ithink.Maybepartofthereasonhe’sstillsittingheretodayisbecauseofwhatIsaidtoWill.Andnoonewilleverknow.
Lylascurriestomysideandbendstowardmyear.“Ijustgotacall!”

“Rob,closethedoor,please,”Willsays,andthefeeloftheroomshiftsasthemeetingbegins.
Evenfromthisdistance,IcanseeWill’stensefaceasMs.Penningtonstandsjustashehimselfstartstorise.Shemoves
afoottothelefttocommandtheheadofthetable.“Okay,everyone,”shesays,hervoicehigherthanusual.“Let’sbegin.”

Ms.Penningtonislikethat.Alwayswantingtobeinthemiddleofthings,knowingeverythingthatisgoingon.Micromanaging.AndwhilethatmayhaveworkedtoadegreewithHarry,thelastpublisherofthePendivision,
whoalwaysactedlesslikeabossandmorelikeamicrophoneforMs.Pennington’swill,it’sclearlyapointoftensionnow
thatWillisrunningPen.Asweallfeelandsee.Everyday.

“Fromwhom?”ImanagetowhispertoLyla.
“FrankStennetiEntertainment!FSE!”Lylawhispersbackasthoughitshouldhavebeenobvious.It’sbeenfourteendayssince
sheplayedatthePolarStar,andsincethenwe’vehadadozenmeetings,oneissuewiththewarehouseforshipments,onelivid
agentconversation,threeblaséagentconversations,andtwosuck-up-to-agentconversations.Thatnightisaboutasfarfrom
mymindastheloadofwetlaundryforgotteninmywasherthepastthreedays.

“Quitdawdling,everyone,”Ms.Penningtoncontinues.
“Nooneisdawdling,”Willsaysquietly.“Everyone’sclearlyseatedandready.”
BothLyla’sandmyattentionsnapstoWill.Ihavetheurgetopressmylipstogethertokeepfromsaying,“Ooooooh,”likekidsdowhenwatchingafightforminginthehalls.
NowthatIlookathim,hedoeslookevenmoretautthanusualtoday,likehe’sonthebackendofareallylongargument
thatdidn’tgowell.Whoknows?Maybethey’vealreadybeengoingatitbehindcloseddoors.

Ms.Pennington,lookingsharpinherredsuit,pretendsnottohearhim.
“Yossi,”shesays,“Ihaven’tseenanupdatedproposal.Iwasexpectingthatinmyin-boxtwodaysago.”
“AsI’llremindyoufromourpreviousconversation,”saysWillbeforeYossicanspeak,“youhaven’treceiveditbecausehe
sentittome—hispublisher—andIrejectedit.Theproposalwasn’tworthpursuing.”

Atthis,IseeMs.Pennington’sjawclench.There’sanireinhericyblueeyesasshemeetshismatchingones.“Theconcept
wasriveting.”

“Itwasoutdated.Thepublic’sattentionisnotonthegreatharmonicaplayersofthenineteenthcentury.”

“Thenwedrawtheirattentiontothetopic.Thatisourduty.Wecreateaculture.Weenrichsociety.”

“Yes,buthowwellhasthatworkedthepastfiscalyear?”
TheonlysoundintheroomisBrittney’spenscrapingfuriouslyonthepaperasshewritesdowntheconversation.Noneof
usdarebreathe.

Finally,afterseverallongmomentshavepassed,Ms.Penningtontiltsherchin.“I’vejustrememberedanurgentemailIneed
toattendto.I’llleaveyoualltothingshereandwillbelookingforareportfromMr.Penningtonthisevening.”

Andinonesmoothmove,Ms.Penningtonsomehowmanagestoslidethroughthecrowdedgroupsurroundingthetableandstandingagainstthewalls,Brittneywithpenandpadfollowingcloselybehind.
AllofoureyesnowshifttoWill,waitingforwhatcomesnext.
Willstands.Hisfaceisemotionless,asthoughinhismindtheconversationwasprudentlyhandledandit’stimetomoveon
tothenextlineitemonthedocket.InsteadoflookinglikehisthoughtsarechurningwithshoutsofIcan’tbelieveIjustspoketomymotherlikethat!Imustamendmyselfimmediately!likeIwould,he’scalm.Eerilycalm.

“Hello,everyone.Thankyou,especiallythesalesteam,forcominginandjoiningustodayfromyourtravels.Weappreciate
you.”

Themenandwomenliningthewallsgivefrozensmiles.
“Now,firstoff,you’llnoticewehaveanewfaceheretoday.AllowmetointroduceMoira.”Hegesturesatthenewwomanat
thetable.“Ournewestintern.”

New.Intern.
Anew,unpaidintern.
Oh.
“She’sjustbegunspringtermofherjunioryearatBelmont,soshewillbejoiningusmostlyintheafternoonsandusing
mostofhertimefillingintomeettheneedsoftheeditorialstaff.ButIalsowanttoseethatshegetsherfeetwetwith
allthedepartmentssothatshecanlearnabouttheworkingsofthepublishing
HegivesMoiraanod.Moira,thepoorgirl,lookslikeapopsiclestickwithasmileyface.Whatafirstdayonthejob.
“Second,IwanttobethefirsttoinformyouallofYossi’spromotiontoeditorialdirector.”
Atthis,Inearlyknockovermycoffee.
“Yossi,asyouallareaware,”continuesWill,“hasbeenanassettoPenningtonPublishingsincethebeginning.Whathelacks,
Ihear,in…punctuality”—atthis,Willatlastletsawrysmileslipontohisface,andafewchucklesgoaroundthe
room—“hemakesupforinloyalty,goodwill,andapassionforthejobthathasalreadystoodthetestoftime.”

IfeelmybreathhaltasWill’seyesmeetmine.
Hewasn’tplanningtofirehim.
Hewaslisteningtomyadvice.Infact,he’susingmyexactwordsthatIsaidtohim.How?isthequestionrunningthroughmymind.HowisitpossiblethatWillPennington,sonoftheCEOofPenningtonPublishing,
caresenoughaboutmywordstoleanonthemforhisdecisions?

WhoamI?Nothingbutalowlyassistantacquisitionseditoratthebottomrunginacompanyfullofexperts.Iwasn’toffended
whenIwasn’tincludedinthatupper-levelmeetingatthePolarStar.Infact,thethoughtnevercrossedmymind.Why?Because
IamSavannahCade.Notmymother,LaurieCade,notmygrandmother,HazelCade,notevenmygreat-grandfather,GeoffreyCade,
caughtoutofhishospitalbedafterhavinghisarmamputatedinthefirstworldwarfixingthecreakybed.Just…me.

Sowhatisitheseesinmethathefindsworthtrusting?
I’mnotsure,butwhatIseeinhiseyesnow,thetelepathicmessageIfeelsentthroughtheairwavestomeatthisverymoment,tellsmeonething:hedoes.Forwhateverodd,crazyreason,herespectsmyopinion.Respectsme.
Theshockoftherealizationlingerswithmethroughtherestofthemeeting,theafterglowoftheraresensationmakinga
homeinsidemychest.I’veneverbeenrespectedbefore.Notreally.Notwithmyfamily.NotwithFerris.NotwithGiselle.
Maybe,justmaybe,this’llbethestartofsomethinggood.

Themeetinggoesmoresmoothlythanever.Surprisingly,itisn’tthesalesteamthatturnsdownmyproposedauthorbutWill
himselfhalfwaythroughasheinterruptstosay,“I’munconvinced.Let’smoveon.”It’scrisp.Toothersitlooksmostcertainly
cutting.ButgivenItoldhimasmuchmyselfthatnightduringdarts,Idon’ttakeitpersonally.

Istandatthecoffeemakerinthecornerafterthemeetingisover.It’slate,themeetinghavinggoneonmuchlongerthan
usual,andafeelingofeuphoriaisfadingoutoftheroomasIpourmyselfacupofcoffee.Itwasararemomentofteam
bondingbackthere.Yossicertainlysurprisedusallwiththatpeptalkaboutthepowerofwordsandourwork,andtheruddiness
isstillonmyfaceasthesteamingliquidfillsmycup.

Itakeasip,andthefactthatittasteslikeburntcheapgroundscan’tevendampenmymood.
“Howisit?”Willsidlesuptomeandreachesforapapercupoffthestack.Helooksgood.Certainlylessstressedthanthe
personwesawtwohoursagogoingtoetotoewithhisCEO…andmother.

“Doyouwanthonesty?”Isay,turningtoleanagainstthecounterofthestationwithasmallgrin.
“Ifthat’sokaywithyou.Yes.”
Icatchthewayhe’slookingatmeashespeaksandtakeinthewords.He’ssilentlyaskingforsomethingelse.ReferringbacktoourconversationinhisofficewhenIsubtlyaskedtostepaway.Hewantstoknow,itseems,ifI’mokaywithsteppingbackin.
Mysmiledeepens,givingtheanswerinfullbyexpressionalone.Butjusttobeclear,Isay,“That’sperfectlyokaywith
me.”Ipause,thenadd,“Yourcoffeesucks.”

Hiseyesmomentarilywiden,andthenhepicksupthecoffeepot.“Isthatso?I’llhaveyouknowthesearethefinestcoffee
groundsthree-fiftyabagcanbuy.”

Iwatchwithamusementashetakesasip,thenholdsthecoffeeinhismouthbeforetakinganinordinatelylongperiodof
timetoswallow.

“Missingthatespressomachinenow,aren’twe?”Itease.
Hedropshiscupintothetrashcan,andthecoffeesplashesalongtheplasticliningonthewaydown.“Fine.Iconcede.I’ll
bringbacktheespressomachine.NoabsurdlypricedespressobeansfromFazatti’s,though.Andnosyrupstation.”

“BulkespressobeansfromtheBeanStation,”Icounter,“andwe’llcontributeourownsyrupstoshareamongthegroup.”
Willeyesmeforalongmoment,thenputsouthishand.“Youdriveahardbargain.”
“Happytorepresentthegroup,”Ireply,shakingfirmly.
“ThePenningtonspokesperson,”Willsays,smilingashishandholdsmine.“Youknow,Imayjusttakeyouuponthatoffer.”
“I’msurewe’llhaveplentytotalkabout,”Ireply.Andinmorewaysthanone,Imeanit.Theideasendselectricitythrough
myveins,allthewaydownthepalmofmyhandsittingwarmlyinhis.

It’sfunny.Youneverquiterealizethatyouhaveexpectationsforhowsomeone’shandwillfeel.It’snotlikeIhadconsciouslyeverwonderedbefore.Ijustexpectedittobesmooth,probablybecauseapartofmealsoexpectsthathislifeupnorthwasfullofgrippingportfoliosandopeningsleektaxicabsinsteadofoperatingheavymachinery.Whywouldhishandbecalloused,themusclesbeneathhispalmstrong,whenhislifeisoneoffactsandnumbers?Andyet…Ibitetheinsidebottomofmylip,forcingmyselftostopthinkingaboutit.Idon’tactuallyhavethehearttoletgo,butIatleastforcemyselftostoplookingathisstronghandallbutenvelopingmine.
“So,howdidthingsturnoutforLylatheotherevening?”Willsays,breakinghisgripatlast.
Itakeabreath.Putmyhandquicklyatmyside.
“Prettygood.Shegotacallfromthatagentafterall.”There’sapause,andIaddquickly,“Notthatshe’splanningtoleave
Pennington.Shelovesithere.”

“Yes,soI’vegathered,”hesays,hiseyesmovingpointedlytowhereLylastandsinaclusterofcoworkers,lookingbored
outofhermind.HerAirPodspeekoutclearlyfromherears.

Whenheseesmywideeyesheadds,“Don’tworry.I’vealreadycometorealizeshe’saneccentricbestlefttoherowndevices.”
Hepauses.“Well,mostofthetime.Wemayneedtotakeawayherphoneprivileges.”

Ilaugh.“You’vebeengettingcomplaintsabouther?”
“Halfofmycallsareabouther.”Heshrugs.“Butshe’sthemosttalentedpersoninthispublishinghouse,andI’mincluding
myselfinthatstatement.I’mnotgoingtoloseheroveratemper.Besides,everythingshesaysisdeadon,andifI’mhonest,
partofmelikestoseehertellittothemlikeittrulyis.”

Mygrinwidens.“That’snotverypublisherofyou,WillPennington.”
Hiseyestwinkle.“ThenItrustyoucankeepthatlittlesecretbetweenyouandme.”
***
AndIdotuckthatlittlesecretaway
Deepawayinmythoughtsallthewayonmyfreezingwalkhome.
Allthewayupthethreeflightsofstairs.
Allthewaytomydoor.
Thethought—thewholeconversation,infact—takesupresidencefulltime,settingoutaloveseatinthelivingroomofmy
mind.WillPenningtonsidlinguptome,notanyoneelse,afterthemeetingadjourns.WillPennington’splayfulsmile.Will
Pennington’sresilient,authoritativeairwhenhemakesdecisionsforthegreatergood.WillPennington’sbanter.

Andhiswords.
Iwalkthroughthelivingroominarosyhaze,laptopbagovermyshoulder,feelinglightasafeatherdespitetheblocks
andblocksoftrudgingthroughfreezingrain.IleavedampfootprintsasIstepalongthehallwaytowardmyroom,andIhear
FerrisandOliviatalkinginfaint,disagreeabletonesastheysitatthekitchentable,poringoversomeweddingdocument.

Everythingfeelsokay.Betterthanokay.
Why?Becausewithasenseofgrowingcertainty,IsitonmybedandslipoutthemanuscriptIgatheredintomylaptopbagjustbeforethedoorslockedfortheevening.AsIflipthroughthepages,Istoponpage149andseethewords.ThesamewordsIrememberedthemomentWillspoketomeafterthemeeting:ThenItrustyoucankeepthatlittlesecretbetweenyouandme.
Hereinboldblackink.
Ithastobehim.WillPennington.
Ithastobe.Chapter13
It’snothim.
IhardlybelievemyeyesasIwalkintotheARCroomtwodayslater.
IthasbeentwodayssinceWillleft.
Andhere,inoursecretroom,Idiscoveracandlesittinginthemiddleofthefloor.
Andworse,lit.
Thecandlegivesoffastrongsmellofgardenia.Iinhaledeeply,andwhileIshouldbesmiling,whilepartofmewantsto
bethrilled,theemotiondoesn’tcome.Thestringlightsareon,givingtheroomaromanticglow.AndyetIknowforafact
WillPenningtonisapproximately885milesawaythisveryminuteonyetanotherbusinesstriptotheCity.

So.It’snothim.
It’snothim.
Ittakesawhiletodigestthatthought.
WillPenningtonisnotthemysteryeditor.
Whichmeanssomebodyelseismymysteryeditor.
Whohasaddedabeautifularrayofstringlightsaroundtheroom.
Andlitacandle.
AndgonetogreatlengthstosupportmeasIpursuethisproject.
Andiswittyandcharmingandstrongand…wonderful
AndmaybeSam.
Sam.
Ichewonthatthoughtuntilagustofwindclatterstheoldsparrowglassandbringsmeback.
Sam.
Samisn’tsobad.Ididlikehimenoughthatfirstweektogoonadatewithhim.Andsure,thatdatedidn’tgowellenough
topursueanotherone,butthatcouldbeforanynumberofreasons.

Maybehe’stooshytoshowwhohereallyis.TorevealonafirstdatethemanI’vebeenseeingonthepagesthesepastfew
weeks.Whoknows?MaybeGiselleterrifiedhimsomuchhegotusedtorepressingwhohereallyisinfavorofkeepingthepeace,
andhasgottenstuckthere,talkingaboutweatherandgroceriesandnothingofactualsubstance.Nothingwithpassion
ButthisSam,Ithink,flippingoverthenextpageofthemanuscriptandskimmingthewords.ThisSamisatreasure.ThisSam,ifit
trulyisSam,issomeoneIshouldcertainlywanttoknowmore.

Iseeanewcommentandpause.ThequestionIleftforhimtheotherday,theoneI’vecheckedforaresponsetoadozentimes,
finallyhasone.

Beneathmyquestion,Whyareyouhelpingme?arethewords:BecauseIbelieveinthisstory.IbelieveinCecilia.Ceciliaisreal.Flawed.Humanandyet,still,oneofakind.Youhavewrittenastorythatgivesreadershopethatthey,too,despitealltheirownblemishes,canandshouldbevaluedthesameway.Thisisastorytheworldneedstohear.
Ireadandrereadtheparagraphadozentimes.
Helovesmystory.HebelievesinCecilia.Likesher.Getsher.
AndifhevaluesCecilia,hevalues
No.Ican’tmakeassumptions.
Istandup,andwithit,myresolutionisclear.
Samornot,Iamfallingformymysteryman.Chapter14
Thereareflowersonmydesk.
Big,floppypinkflowersspiralingoutinadozendirections,supportedbybright-greenleavesandbaby’sbreath.Theroom
smellslikeI’vewalkedintoaBath&BodyWorks.

It’sjustbeforelunch,andI’mreturningtomydeskafterdroppingbyYossi’sofficetotalkaboutCharlesHenry,thenew
acquisitionIgainedafterGiselle’sdeparturetothefirstfloor(whereshestillfileshernailsduringworkhours).The
flowersweren’therethirtyminutesago.Andyetheretheyarenow.Waitingpatientlyforme.

OnValentine’sDay.
Itakeatentativesteptowardthemwhiletryingtomanagemyexpectations.Ihavenoboyfriend.Mymotherandfather,for
alltheirmerits,aretoobusyhandlingacateringeventatthenonprofitdowntowntodaytosendmeapitybouquetgivenmy
singlestatusandmysister’sloomingweddingdate.Sothatleaves…

Idarenotthinkit.
Ijustreachforthecard.
Iopenthegold-sheenenvelopeand,withnearlyshakingfingers,pulloutthecard.Themessageistypedbeneaththeheader
ofEnchantedFlorist,andreads:AndtonightI’llfallasleepwithyouinmyheart.
Istareatthewords.
Sohonest.Soraw.
He’sjustcomeoutandsaidit.Takentheleap.
AndIrealizewe’rejumpingaheadtoanewlevelinallthis.Thelevelwherewe’reopenlyputtingasidethegamesandbravely
askingthequestion:Whatdoyouthink—notaboutscenesandcharactersandsettings…butaboutus?

IfeelmyfaceflushingandwishwithallmyheartinthismomentLylawasheretotalkthisoverwithinsteadoftakingthe
dayofftoworkaneventattheDollyParton–inspiredrooftopbarforValentine’sDay.

Butasshe’snot,IguessI’dhavetosay…yes.
I’mreadytotakeastepforward.
AlthoughIchattedaroundandfoundoutSamandGisellebrokeitoffacoupleofmonthsago,thereisstillriskinvolved.
ToopenlyacceptadatewithSamagainwouldbeconsideredmutiny.Gisellemightnotbemybossanymore,butsheisstill
scary.

Cleverscarywhenshewantstobe.
Theworstkind.
Thepoisons-your-yogurt-in-the-community-kitchenworstkind.
I’mjustsittingatmydesk,spinningthecardinmyhandasIthinkthroughallthewaysshecouldmakemylifeanywhere
fromunpleasanttonolongerexistent,whenaknockattheopendoorstartlesme.

Iturn.
“Ferris.Hi,”Isay,sweepingthecardintoadrawerandshuttingit.
“Hello,”hesays,smilingbroadly.Hestepsinsideashiseyesmoveovertheflowersonmydesk.“So…HappyValentine’s
Day.”

“Youtoo,”Ireplyquickly,standingsothatI’minfrontoftheflowers.Idon’tknowwhy,butIfeeltheneedtoconceal
themfromhim,togetthemoutoftheforefrontofconversationasmuchaspossible.Foronething,Ihavenodesiretoexplain
mymysterysituation.Foranother…Why,exactly?

“Savannah.Ah.”Willhaltsinthedoorway,astackofpapersinhishands.Hepauses,givesFerrisapolitesmile.“Hello
again.”

“Hello.”Ferrisgivesapolitesmileback.
There’sapregnantpause,FerrislookingatWill,WillfrowningslightlyatFerris.Mestandinginfrontoftheflowersthat,
fornovalidreason,Ifeelcompelledtohide.

Atlast,whenitseemsclearWillisn’tgoingtomove,Ferristurnstome.“So,Savvy.Iwasjust…goingtosee…”—his
eyesmomentarilydarttoWill—“ifyoumightbeavailableforlunch.”

“Oh,”Isayinsurprise.“IthoughtyouweregoingcouchshoppingwithOliviatoday.”
“Yes…Yes,Iwas…Butshehastowork.Iwashopingyoucouldhelpmeinstead.”
Couchshopping.Well,it’snotonthetopofmylistasfarasfunValentine’sDayactivitiesgo,butitwouldbeawelcome
substituteformysoggychickensaladsandwichwaitingformeinthebreakroom.

I’mjustopeningmymouthwhenWilljumpsin.“Actually,Savannah”—hesaysmyfullfirstnamewithabitofemphasis—“Ihavetogodowntothecourthousejustnowtogetsomepaperworknotarized.Iwashopingyou’dcomewithme.SeeingasyouarenowtheofficialspokespersonforthePenningtonpeople.”
Thesmallesttwitchofasmileliftshischeeksashespeaks,andFerrislooksuncertainlyfrommetohim.“Oh,official,
isit?”Isay.“Ididn’trealizeithadbeenapproved.”

IturntoFerris,realizingabitbelatedlythatI’veabandonedmypostattheflowersandamshruggingonmycoat.“Sorry,
Ferris,”Isay,thoughIdon’tquitesoundsorryatall.“I’mgoingtohavetoraincheck.ButyouknowhowOliviais.Just
makeitasfunctionalandgrayaspossible,andyou’vegotyourselfawinner.”

“Right.Sure.”Hestuffshishandsinhispockets,lookingsostartledand,quitefrankly,rejectedthatforamomentIwonder
ifIshouldchangeplans.ButtogoonacarridewithWill…TotalkoverplansaboutwaystohelpthecompanywithWill…Well,
it’stoogoodofanopportunitytopassup.Nottomention,whoknowswhatinterestingthingsI’lllearnabouthim?He’sstill
somewhatofanofficeenigma.Jumpingintoourlivesoutoftheblue.Jumpingoutjustasquietlyonhismysterioustrips.
Neverrevealingmuchofhispersonallife.WhoknowswhatI’lllearnonacarridewithhim?

SuchasthelittlegoldennuggetI’mstandingherelearningfiveminuteslater,forexample.
ThatthisisWill’scar.

I’mquitesureIneveractuallytookthetimetothinkofwhatexactlyIexpectedhewoulddrive,butIknowforafactI
neverwould’vecomeupwiththis.

WillpullsopenthedooroftheoldredChevyforme.Itgivesadefiantcreak.
“Thankyou,”Isay,takenabacknotonlybytheformalmannersbutalsobythetruckingeneral.Itlookslikeit’sfromtheeighties.There’sasizabledentonthefrontrightcornerofthehood.Andthebeigeclothinteriorlookslikeit’sbeenstompedonabouttwentythousandtimes.Butasidefromallthewearandtear,thecabinteriorisspotless,notacrumborloosepapertobeseen.Itsmellsfaintlyofcedarandgrease.It’scozy,likeoneofthoseAlaskancabinsinthewoods.
Heshutshisdoorandturnstheignition.
“Igottasay,”Icommentthesecondtheenginestartstorumble.“Ididn’texpectyoutodriveacarlikethis.”
“ThoughtIwasmoreofaLexusman,didyou?”hesays,soundingunsurprised.
“Well,yes.Afterall,lookatyou.Youdon’texactlydresslikealumberjack.”
“Myjobdoesn’taffordmetheopportunitytodresslikealumberjack.”Hegrinsandturnsontothemainroad.There’sapause
beforeheadds,“Thistruckwasmyfather’s.”

There’ssomethinginthewayhesaysit.Was.Notis
“Iinheriteditlastyear,”hecontinues.
Ah.Andthereitis.
“I’msosorry,”Isay,andfeelit.Truly.
“Thankyou.”Willnods,hiseyesfixedontheroad.
IknowlittleofMs.Pennington’spersonallifeexceptthatshedivorcedherhusbandtwentyyearsagoandhasbeenaloneever
since.Iknewnothingaboutthemanshehadoncebeenmarriedto,justthatshe’dhadonehusbandinthecourseofherlife
andoneson—somebigshotnamedWilliamwhoworkedinthepublishingindustryinthebigcity.

“Anyway,helovedhistruck.Andwasalwayspracticalabouthisneeds.IliketothinkIwillkeeponlearningthatfromhim.”
Iglanceovertothedash.TheRPMgaugeontheleft-handsideiscoveredbyaPolaroidthatlooksthirtyyearsold.Apoorly
exposedpictureofaninfantperchedonawoodenhighchairinfrontofalittleroundbirthdaycake,handsandcheekscovered
inicingashisbigblueeyeslookintothecamera.There’sanumberonthecake,ababy-blue1,andamanwithatoothygrinhasonearmdrapedovertheboyashestandsononeside,awoman—noquestion,fromthestriking
blueeyes,ayoungerMs.Pennington—ontheother.

“Washeverydifferentfrom…yourmom?”Itfeelsawkwardaskingyourbossabouthispersonallife,especiallyinatruck
likethis.MaybeifIwereridingalonginsomesleek,personality-lessBMWI’dfeeldifferent.We’dchatmildlyaboutsales
numbersandtheweather.Butinthis?Sittingonwell-wornfabricwiththescentofcedarandnostalgiaallaround?Itfeels
impossible.ItfeelsaspersonalandunavoidableasifI’vewalkedintohisownbedroom
“Inmanyways,yes.Inotherways,notreally.Momis…old-fashioned.Sheclingstotheyesteryearslikeit’sherduty,
regardlessofthesituationathand.Dadwaslikethattoo.Hadmoreoldantiquefarmtoolsinhisbarnthanhe—orI,now—knew
whattodowith.”

“Sowherearetheynow?”
“Atthemoment?Stillatthefarm.AlongwitheveryotherpieceofjunkIinherited.”Hesmileslightly.“Ihavefourcoffeepots
tochoosefromforthemorningcommute.Becauseclearlythat’swhateverypersonneedsonhiscountertop.”

Ipause.“Soyou’vemovedintohishouse?Fullofhisthings?”
“Fornow,yes.”
Ilookoutthewindow,surprisedathisanswer.NeverinmylifewouldIhaveimaginedWillPenningtontobethekindofmanwhowentfromposhNYClivingtosomefarmhouseoutinthecountry.Infact,morethanonceonmydowntownwalks,I’velookedupatsomehigh-risecondobuildingfullofglasswindowsandexposedbrickandglitteringchandeliersandwonderedifitwashis.Idon’tknowwhy,exactly.Ijustassumed.
“So,letmegetthisstraight,”Isay.“Youdon’tliveinanapartmentdowntown.”
AnamusedquestionformsinhiseyesasIask,butheshakeshishead.
“Youdon’thavesomesortofwaiterhangingoutinthelobbyreadytotakeyourclothestothedrycleaners.”
Hisgrinsslightlyasheagainshakeshishead.“They’reconcierges.Andno.”
“WhydidIthinkyouwould?”Isayaloud,honestlyabitpuzzled.
“BecauseyouthinkI’melitist,fromthesoundofit,”hesays,stiflingachuckleashemakesaturn.
“No,becauseyoucamefromtheCity,”Isay,resolved.“Inmymind,everyonewhoworksinpublishingintheCitymustbethe
mostglamorouspersonalive.Eatssushieverynight.”

“Well,weareasushi-lovingpeople,”heconcedes.
“Goestothenewestposhjazzclubtodrinkfifteen-dollarmargaritas.”
“Oxfordcommas,actually,”hecorrects.“Andthey’remoreliketwenty-threewithtip.”
“See?Glamorous.”
Wesitinsilenceatthelightforafewmoments,flurriesdustingthewindshield.
“Actually,Ilikethechange.IlovetheCity,butmyheartwasalwayshere.Besides,Momneededme.”
Iraiseabrow.“Yourmother?But…didn’tthey…”
Heseemstohaveexpectedmyfollow-upquestion.“Theybrokethingsoffyearsagobutthen…nevertrulyfollowedthrough.”
Myincredulousbrowrisesfarther.“Youmeanthey…what?Haddifferenthousesbutstayedtogether?”
Willshrugs.“Iguesstheyjustneverreallyletgo.”
Isitbackinmyseat,picturingit.Thecouplewhoweresodifferentonpaper—hewithhismultiplyingcoffeepots,shewith
herloveofoldbooksanddictator-likedemandforobedience—unabletoeverfullycrosstheotheroffthelist.Unableto
fullyandtrulytaketheother’snameofftheelectricbill.Toblotthemfromtheiraddressbook.Andinsteadtofindthemselves
intheeveningssuddenlyinthedrivewayoftheother’shome.

Itwassweet,initsownway.Sweetandsad.
Willtakesanotherturn.“Shedoesn’tleton,butDad’sdeathhasbeenhardonher.”
Ismilesoftly.Sohe’salsohereforhismother.Tobewithherinhertimeofgrieving.“I’mgladyoucanbethereforher.”
“Metoo.”
Thelightturns,andthecarsstartmoving.Willhitsthegas,andwecontinuetochugalong.
“So,”Isay,moretorelieveusofthequietthanfromactualinterestintheconversationtopic.“Ibelieveyouwantedto
talkaboutideasforthecompany.”

“Doyoumindmyasking,whywasFerrisreallyherethismorning?”
Ferris?What?
ForamomentI’mtoostunnedtoreply.
“Togocouchshopping,”Isayeventually,asthoughtheanswerisobvious.
“Yes,sohesaid.Butdidhestatehisactualreasonforcoming?”
Iwrinklemybrow.Iamintelligentenoughtogatherhisinsinuation,andIdon’tlikewherethepathofthisconversation
isleading.“He’smarryingmysisterinfourweeks.Theywantacouchfortheirnewlivingroom.”

There’salongsilence—solong,infact,Ispotthecourthousecomingintoviewthroughtheflurry-dappledwindshield.
“Savannah.I’dliketoaskyouafewquestions,notasyouremployer,butas…”Hehesitates.“Asyourfriend.Youare
welcometosayno,ofcourse.Butifyoudon’tmindindulgingmeforamoment,I’dappreciateit.”

Hesoundssosincere,withsuchgoodintention,thatIcan’thelpgivingin
“Ofcourseyoucan,”Isay.“Askaway.”
Hejumpsrightin.“Howlongexactlydidthetwoofyoudate?”
“About…eightyears.”
Hegivessuchastartledlook,Iamendwith,“Onandoff.Sometimesoffforyears.”
“Areyouserious?Thatmandatedyouforeightyears.Andnowisengaged…”Helookslikehecan’tevenbringhimself
tofinishthesentence,soIdoitforhim.

“Tomysister.Yes.”
“Andhowlongdidhedateyoursisterbeforetheygotengaged?”
“Threemonths,”Ireply,wellawareofhowthissounds.“Nowengagedfornine.”
ThereissuchalengthysilencethistimethatIgoaheadandcuttothechase.“Iknowhowitmustlookfromtheoutside,buttheyareinlove,”Iexplain,repeatingthemantrathefamilyhassaidathousandtimes.
“Andheleftyouforher,”hesays,hisfacetakingononeofthoseterriblyintimidatingexpressionshegiveswhenhe’sabout
tofiresomeone,“butcomesbacktoaskyoutogocouchshoppingforhisfuturebride.Yoursister.”

“Iknowhowthissounds.Butthisishowmyfamilyworks.Weareloyaltoeachothertotheend.It’skindofourfamilymission
statement.”

Willpullsintothelast,lonelyemptyparkingspotatthecornerofthecourthouse.HeputsthegearshiftinPark,hesitates
fortheblinkofaneye,thenturnstofaceme.

“Andthat’swhereIwonderifIshouldcorrectyou,Savannah.Youmaybeloyal,butitdoesn’tsoundasiftherestofyour
familyisloyaltoyou.”

Hesoundssoharsh,asifeditingmylife.
Butdespitehiswords,andthewayheisfrankinamannerthatnoone—notevenLyla—haseverbeen,Ifeelmyselfcracka
littlebeneaththem
Thestrengthandconvictioninthem.Theunwaveringsupportofmyside.It’sbeensolongnowthatI’vebeentrainedtoignore
thosewordsandbeliefsmyselfthatI’veforgottentheemotionsarestillthere.ThewordsbringupsuchareactionthatI
knowImuststillbehurt,soveryhurt,byallthat’shappened.NotjustthelossofFerris.Perhapsnoteventhelossof
Ferrisatall.Butthesenseofloneliness.Betrayal.Andtherequirementtoputonabravefaceandrepeatmyrehearsedlines
throughitall.

Always.
Iopenmymouthtosaymyusual“Youknowhowitgoes.‘Theheartwantswhatitwants.’”ButthenIfeelmybreathstall.
It’dbepointlessanyway.Hewouldn’tbelieveit.

“Well,Idoharborasecrethopeitrainsontheirweddingday.”Isaythewordsandthenclapmyhandovermymouth.
Willlooksunsurprised.Infact,hesmilesalittle.“Andthevenuegetssoaked?”
“Floods,”IcontinuewithasmirkasIdropmyhand.“Floodssohardthattheguestscan’tmakeitoverthetiny,ornatebridge
totheweddingvenue.Andeveryphotographissofoggyyoucan’tseethepeople.AndallthecurlsfallfromOlivia’shair.
Andallthosestupid,stupidflowersthefamilyhastalkedaboutnonstopthepastninemonthsgetcarriedoffintothewind.”

Wegrinateachother.
“But…,”Isay,sobering.
“Yes?”
“ButthebetterpartofmehopesthatafterallthatmiserytheydogettheirprivatemomenttosaytheirI-do’sandgoon
tohaveanicelifetogether.Ireallydo.”

Histemplecreaseswithasmile.“Iknowyoudo.Forwhatit’sworth,youareagoodsisterandaremarkablythoughtfulhuman
being.Youdeservethesamekindofhappinessyouwishtobestowonthem.”

Ifeelmyselfwarmathiswords,fromthetipsofmytoestothetipsofmyears.
“Evenso,”headds,“Idon’tthinkthey’llmakeittothealtar.”
Mysmilefalls.“What?”
Helevelshisgaze.“Savannah.Themantriestotakeyoucouchshopping.Hepicksyouuptogogiveblood.HebringsyouflowersonValentine’sDay.Doyoureallythinkthatistypicalbrother-in-lawbehavior?”

Heopenshisdoor,lettingtheconversationtransitiontoanaturalend,neitherneedingnorwantingaresponse.Buthe’s
notright,IwanttosayasIsitthereinthecabofthesuddenlysilenttruck.Thoseflowersweren’tfromhimatall.They
werefromSam.Butthen…Idon’twanttosharethatfacteither.

“That’snotfair,”Irespond,throwingopenmydoor,refusingtogiveup.“HowdoyouknowIdon’thaveaboyfriend?”
“Doyouhaveaboyfriend?”hesaysfromacrossthebedofthetruck,although,inasking,heactsasthoughhealreadyknows
theanswerisno
Whatisthis?
DoIlooklikeagirlwhojustcan’thaveaboyfriend?Istherereallysomethingsoobviousaboutmethatwouldleadhimtobelieve,
SavannahCade.Ah,yes.Sheneverdates
“Well,no,”Isayabitbegrudgingly.Ishutthedoor,anditslamswithsurprisingforce.
Wewalkinthroughthebacksideofthebuildingandstopattheelevatorhalfwaydownthehall.Theblack-and-whitetile
floorlooksscuffedfromanendlessflowoftraffic,theoldhallsstillcarryingthatever-presentscentofbleachwater
andbills.Isthecourthousealwaysthiscrowded?AnumberofpeopleInoticearestoppingtoreadthemapofthebuilding
alongonewall,andwejoinaclusterofatleasttenpeoplebesidetheelevator.

“Anyway,”Isay,tiltingmychinupwardaswesqueezeinwiththegroupandWillhitsthebuttonforthesecondfloor,“I
haveasuggestionforstaffmeetings.”

“Yes?”heprompts,holdinghisbinderofpapersinfrontofhim.Besidehim,ahandsycouplestartgoingtotown.Myeyeswiden,andIquicklyavertmygaze.
Butthey’renotalone,Irealize.Awomantomyleftgrabsabaldmanbyhisruddycheeksandpullshimin.Whatonearth
isgoingon?

Ican’thelpit.IcatchWill’sface,whichlooksasuncomfortableandsurprisedasmyown,andletoutanoiselessgiggle.
Thecouplebesidehimchangepositionswiththeirhands,andthewoman’selbowknocksintothebackofWill’shead.
“So,”Willsays,squeezinghisarmsasclosetohischestaspossibletoavoidtouchingthecouple.“Staffmeetings.”
“Right,”Isay,myeyesmirthful.“So.Everyoneonsalary”—Ispotarovingelbowanddodgeitbeforeitramsmyface—“needs
togetFridayafternoons”—ohdear,thecouplebesidehimhasstartedslowdancing—“offinthesummer.”

Thenumbertwolightsup,andthedoorsopen.
Wespillintothehall.
Onlythisfloorisjustascrowded.Paperheartsarestrungacrosstheceilingallthewaydownthehall.Musicisplaying
throughspeakers.Andthereisastringofcouplesleadingallthewaytooneparticulardoorattheendofthehall.

Arethoserosepetalsonthefloor?
“Asyouweresaying…,”Willsays,clearlytryingtopretendhehasnotwalkedusintothismadness.
“Yes,”Icontinue,movingasidetoletawomanandthelongwhitetrainofherweddingdresspass.“AsIwassaying…everybody
elseintheindustrydoesit.Weshouldtoo.Denyingusthechoicejustmakesusfeellikeababycompanyclearlynotupto
parwiththepublishersinthebigleagues.It’llboostourself-respect.”

“AndgiveeveryonethechancetocatchFridaymatinees,”hecounters,clearlyunamusedashepushesastringheartfromhisface.WhenIjustreplywithalook,headds,“I’veneverunderstoodthatindustrynorm.It’sjustanexcuseforNewYorkerstobeatthetrafficontheirweekendsoutoftown.”
“Well,whethertherulewasmadeforvacationingintheHamptonsornot,wedeserveit.Wearejustasqualified,justas
hardworking,andaftertheyearwe’veallhad,Ican’tthinkofabetterpropositiontolifteveryone’sspirits.”

Icanseehe’smullingitover.
“Youdon’tthinkproductivitywouldbeaffected?”
Ismile,sensingavictoryahead.“Iguaranteeitwon’t.”
Wetakethreemorestepsforwardinline.Thenanothertwo,beforehefinallyputsoutahand.“If—andthat’sabigif—everyonecandothesameloadofworkinfour-and-a-half-dayweeks,thenI’llagreetoafternoonsofffromJune1tothe
finalweekinAugust.ButI’mgoingtomonitorproduction,andIwon’thesitatetopullbackifthecompanystartstosuffer.”

Igrabhishandandshakesoswiftlyitstartleshim.“Deal.”
Amanseparatesmomentarilyfromaratherfirmsqueezehisfiancéeisgivinghimandpointsatourhandshake.“See,Delilah?
That’sallweneedtodo.Shakehandsonitandbedone.”

Thewoman,presumablyDelilah,shakesherheadfromherperchbyhisside,herarmswrappedaroundhimlikeakoalagripping
itstree.“No,Danny.Forthethousandthtime,wemakethisofficialorI’mout.AndtakingtheTV.”

Ah.Truelove.
IgooverafewmoreitemswithWill,andwhilenoneoftheothersgarnersuchquickagreement,Imakefairheadwayregardinglimitedparkingspots,theweirdsmellinthewomen’sbathroom,theillogicalandpotentiallyharmfulnatureofcreatingARCspinesthatdon’treflectthesamecolorandnatureofthefinalproduct—particularlygiventhat95percentofthetimethebooksarespineoutinthebookstores—andthethermostatthatisperpetuallyfivedegreestoolow.
Finally,afteratleastonedozenbrideshaveleftthecountyclerk’sofficeclingingtotheirnewlybetrothed—or,inone
case,watchingonewomanstalkoutalone,dumpingherbouquetinthehalltrashcanasherwould-bespousechasesafterher—we
arriveatroom206.Atlast.

“ShouldI…?”Ihesitate,feelingsuddenlyuncomfortableaboutgoingin.Butbetweenstandinginthebackoftheroom
watchinghimgetpapersnotarizedandstandingoutinthemarriagemadhousesubjectedtoanincredibleoverexposureofpublic
affectionandtulle,mypreferenceiswrittenacrossmyface.

“Sure,”hesays,“Thisshouldjusttakeaminute.”
So,together,westepinside.
It’sanunassumingoffice.Asinglewindowwithdustyblindsslitopentorevealarowofwindowsonthebacksideofanother
building.Butwheretherewerescatteredpetaldroppingsinthehalloutside,inhereitlookslikeafloristexplodedin
thedeadofnight.Rosepetalscoverthewalkwaybetweenthedoorwayandtheman’sdesklikearedsea.Bouquetsoffakeroses
sitoneveryavailabletablespace.Theclerkacrossfromuswearsasinglecarnationcorsageonthefrontofhisoldbeige
button-up.

Heregistersuscominginandstands,notreallylookingatusdirectlybutatthestackofpapersonhisdesk.“Standhere,
please.”

“Uh,right,”Willsaysandshufflesuncertainlyforward,raisinghispapers.Beingalwaysthesqueaky-cleankidIam,Ifollowwithoutquestion.“So—”
“Holdyourquestionstotheend.”Themanclearshisthroat.ThenwithonebonyfingerhehitsthePlaybuttononanancient
cassetteplayeronthetable.Suddenly,anorganbooms“TheWeddingMarch”throughthespeaker.

Ifeelinstanthysteriarisinginmychest,sortoflikeacidrefluxthatsizzlesagainsttheribcage.Ipressmylipstightly
togetherasIglanceoveratWill.Onelook,however,onlymakesitworse.Hisusualcoolpersonahasinstantlycollapsed,
andhisneckabovehistrim-fittingsuitcoatlookslikeit’sbeenoutinthesunfortwelvehourswithoutsunscreen.InBermuda.

“Dearlybeloved,”theclerksays,readingfromapaperonhisdesk,“atthistimeof”—hecheckshiswatch—“1:14p.m.onTuesday,
February14,2021,wearepleasedtogatherthisfinegentleman…”HeraiseshiseyesandgivesWillameaningfullook.

“Uh,WilliamPennington,butIthinkwehaveamisunderstanding.Thisistheclerk’soffice,yes?”
“That’scorrect.Togatherthisgentleman,WilliamPennington,withthisyounglady…”Hepausesandthistimeturnsto
lookatmeproperlyforthefirsttime.

BythistimeI’vegottwobrightspotsonmycheeks.
I’mjustopeningmymouth,mymindundecidedonwhethertogivemynameandlettherusegoonalittlelonger,whenWill
throwsanarmout.“Sir,I’mheretogetthesenotarized.”

“Wewillnotarizeyourmarriagecertificateattheend.Please,ifyouhaven’tnoticed,therearequiteafewcoupleswehave
togetthrough.Soifyoudon’tmindtojustfollowmydirections—”

“Wearenotheretogetmarried!”Willbooms.Andasthoughheneedstoemphasizethepoint,hetakesagiganticstepawayfromme.
AtthispointIcan’thelpbutthrowmyhandsovermylipstokeepfromgoingintohystericsovertheentiresituation.The
clerkswivelshisgazetomeand,clearlymisunderstandingmypostureasbeingonthecuspofcollapsingintotears,swallows
hard.

Heblinks,andhisexpressionshiftstooneofcompassion.
Heclearshisthroat.Opensadrawerandpullsoutapamphlet.“Actually,wehavearoomtodayfortheselittle‘moments.’
Ifyoucouldjustgodownto212,you’llfindasafespacetotalkitover,andthen”—heslantsameaningfullookatme—“depending
onhowthingsgo,youmaygetbackinlineifyouwish.Werecommendperusingthispacketaswell,”headds,pushingitinto
myhands.Ilookdowntoanenormousstockphotoofatickingclock,withthewordsabove:WHYWAIT?
Pressingmylipsvery,veryhardtogethersoasnottodisrespecthimbylaughingathiskindoffer,Ipullmyfaceintothemostrespectablypeaceful
expressionIcanmanageandnodingratitude.

“I’lljustwaitinthehall,”Imanagetoallbutwhisper,mycheststartingtoburnwithpent-uplaughter.
WhichIletoutthesecondIshutthedoorandambackinthehall.
AndforanotherseveralminutesIstandthereoutsidethedoor,amidthelovestruckhorde,grinningasIreplayWill’sface
inmymind.Atlast,Willopensthedoor,papersinhand.

Themomenthedoes,hisblueeyeslockonmine.
Andwestarttolaugh.
Couplesallaroundusbreakfromtheirlittleromanticholdsononeanothertoeyeuscuriously,afewevengivingaheartyclap.
“Ican’t…even…,”Willbeginsafterourlaughtersettlesintomutualgrins.Heshakeshishead.“Idon’tevenknow
whattosay.Ijust…apologize.I’msosorryforthat.”

“Forwhat?”Isay,grinningdeepertoimpressuponhimhowunoffendedIam.“Lessonlearned:Nevervisitthecourthouseon
Valentine’sDay.Ever.”

“Unlessonewantstogetmarried.”
“Naturally.”
HesmilesatmeasthoughgratefulI’mnotmakingthisintoasituation.Inthedistanceabelldings,andheglancesdown
thehallwayastheelevatoropensandmorecouplesspillout.Helooksbackdownatme.“Whatdoyousaywegooutthefront?
Avoidanymoreelevatorsituations?”

“Goodidea,”Isay,thenwatchhimfromthecornerofmyeye.“So…justtobeclearbeforewemoveon,I’dliketoraise
thepointthatyoutookaTitanic-sizestepawayfrommeinhopesofdisassociatingyourselfbackthere.Now,anobjection?Sure.Atinysteptomakeyour
point?Fair.Butreally,wasthatgiantleapnecessary?Ididn’tthinkIwasthatawfulofanoptionasfarasclerk-officeweddingsgo.”

“Notyou,”Willrespondsasheglancesatacouplepassingus,ofwhomthewomanseemstobelieveweddingdressesshouldbe
madeentirelyofblackleather.“Justchalkituptoaparticularlybadexperience.”

“What—didyouaccidentallygetmarriedinVegas?”
“MakeitapriestataPresbyterianchurchandverynearly.”
Inod.“Ah.Soyouhavealittlewedding-altarPTSD.Interesting.”
“Shewasjustthewrongdecisionattherighttime.”
Iraisemybrowbutdon’tpressaswemovedownoneflightofstairs,takingustothefrontdoors.AlreadyIfeelIhave
walkedintoatreasuretroveofinformationIhadn’tbeenexpecting.Itfeelsimprudenttoaskforanymore.“Well,I’lltake
carenottoteaseyouanymorewiththesightoftulle.”

“Ordoves,”headds,smilingashepushesopenoneofthedoubledoors.“Istrugglewiththesightofdoves.”
“Fine.Anddoves,”Isay.“Although,isthisanissueofjustdovesorbirdsaltogether,becauseIimagineitwouldbequite
difficulttowalkaround…”

Mywordstrailoffaswestepontothetopofthewideconcretestepsdescendingfromthefrontoftheoldbuilding.Theclouds
haveatlastjoinedtogetheranddecidedtocollectivelydumpalltheprecipitationtheyhaveinonegrandandgloriousevent.
Thewindhasstilledfortheevent,leavingthethickest,clumpiestflurriesIhaveeverseentodivetowardtheground.Covering
lampposts.Andbicyclestands.Andblanketingthegroundasfarastheeyecansee.

Igrinandraisemychintowardthesky,becausetruly,inamomentlikethisyoucan’tnotgrin.
ThicksnowflakesgripmylashesanddotmyfaceasIlookbackdown.AndwhenIopenmyeyes,blinkingfuriouslyandwiping
myeyes,IseeWill’sface.He’snotlookingupatthesky.Norishelookingatthesnow-coveredground.He’slooking…at
thepeople.

Thecurious…people.
Downthecenterofthestairsjustbelowus,thereisatunnelwithamassofpeopleoneitherside.Severalareshakingposterboardswithheartsonthem.Othersarethrowingriceatacouple—whoareclaspinghandsandrunningthrough.Everyonecheers.
Asthecoupleaheadofusreachtheconcretesidewalk,themassturnstheirexpectant,jubilantfacesonus.
Willpauses.Looksatthenotarizedpaperthat,Inowrealize,looksverymuchlikeamarriagecertificate.
Thenatme.
Hisblueeyesholdamirthfulquestion.
Inresponse,Ismile.“Well,atleasttherearenodoves.”
Andwithoutwaitingasecondlonger,heclaspsmyhandandliftshispapervictoriouslyintotheair.Aswedescendthesteps,
someonewhoclearlylovesloveshakesherposterwithahigh-pitchedwhoop.Ricepeltsourfacesalongsideflurries,somuchIwinceandclosemyeyes
halfthetime.

It’seuphoric.
AndIcan’thelpnoticing,despitethechaosallaround,Will’shandasitclaspsmine.
Suddenly,itmakessense,thetoughnessofhishand.Suddenly,Icanimaginehiminthatoldyellowed-linoleumkitchen,reaching
foroneofhisfourcoffeepotseachmorning.Lookingoutatthesnowinhischildhoodbackyard.Musingabouthishardworking
father,perhapswithsomeregrets,perhapswithsomefondmemories,aboutlifeanddeathandtheirinterwovenpath.About
mistakes,badandgood,thatleadusonward.

Heholdsmyhandallthewayuntilwereachthesidewalk,andatlast,afterwepassabuildingandmoveoutofview,helets
go.

Heexhales.Grinsdownatme.
“Theywerejustsohopeful,”hesaysapologetically.
“Agreed,”Ireply,smilingupathim.“Wecouldn’tletthemdown.”
He’squiteclosetomejustnow,Irealize.Severalinchescloserthantheamountofspacetheaverageconversationalsituation
callsfor.CloseenoughthatIfaintlysmellthecedarandgreasecomingoffhisperson,notjusthistruck.

Myhandfeelsinstantlycoldwithouthis,andIlongforthewarmthandcompanionshipofhisgriptoreturn.
There’ssomethinginhiseyesastheflakesfallbetweenus.Afaintquestion.Athoughtbubblehoveringoverhishead.But
whateveritisabout,itdoesn’tpopandhedoesn’tspeak.

Instead,hegrinsagainandshiftsonhisheeltowardtheparkinglot.
MeanwhileI,tryingveryhardtoignorethedisappointment,stuffmyhandinmycoat.
Andasthedustofthepreviousthirtyminutessettles,wewalkalongthesnow-coveredsidewalk,stampingfootprintsonto
thefreshlylaidpath.Bothquiet.Imean,whatdoesonesayafterpretendingtomarryherboss?

Atthetruck,heopensthesqueaky,creakingdoorforme,andforamomentIcan’thelpwishingheisthemanbehindthemanuscript.
ThatheistheoneI’mtoosuckedintonowtoevenentertainanyoneelse.IlikeWill.

Imayaswelladmititopenly,evenifit’sjusttomyself.
ButIcan’tdenythattherealpersonIspendmydaysandnightsthinkingof,theonewhoseconversationsconstantlyrunthroughmyhead,theonewho’sgottentoknowmefromtheinsideout,whohassupportedme,criticizedme,foughttounderstandme,heardmystories—goodandbad—andgivenhisowninreturn,whoistheoneIwakeupeverymorningexcitedtotalktoandgotobedeverynightwishingformorefrom,ismymysteryman.Andnothing,notevenclaspingmyhandandrunningthroughatunneloflove-addictedfans,canchangethat.
It’stimetofacemyeditor.Chapter15
Thisis,withoutadoubt,theworstkissinthehistoryofmankind.Haveyoueveractuallykissedsomeonebefore?
Iprickleandwritehotlybeneathhiswordsfrommybeanbagchair.
I’llhaveyouknowI’vekissedplentyofpeople.PLENTY.Ilivewithmistletoeovermyhead.
Okay,thatisn’tquitetrue.Unlesswe’recountingmyparents,whostillkissmeonthecheekmoreoftenthanisculturallyappropriate.

Still,thisistheclimacticscene.It’sthekiss.Thekissinaromancethatendswithahappily-ever-afterkiss.

TosayIstruggledthroughwritingthegrand-finalekisssceneislikesayingtheneurologistisafinedoctorexceptforthatmomenthedoesanyactualsurgery.Infrustration,Igiveupandheadbacktomyoffice.
Anhourlater,Ireturntofindanewnote.
Thesepeopleareactinglikethey’remadeofcardboard.Wherearetheirhands?Theyareattheirsideslikeeighthgraders
atamiddleschooldance.

He’sneverunderlinedbefore.Usedexclamationpoints,sure.Plenty.Acoupleofall-capwords,mostdefinitely.Buthere,
thereisnotonebutthreeunderlinesbeneaththewords.Icanpracticallyseehiminmymindslashingawaywithhispenbeneath
theglowofstringlightsandthesmellofgardenia.We’vegivenupblowingoutthecandlethesedays.Wecomeheresooften,
it’sbasicallysupervisedalldaylong.

Ibristleandscribblebeneathhisnote.SoIforgottheirhands.Youcanuseyourimagination.Readersdothat,youknow.Fillintheblanksthemselves.
Hisreturncomespromptlybeforelunch.
Thereaderisn’tgoingtobeusingtheirimaginationherebecausethey’llbesoannoyedthatshesomehowdrawsinonesecond
andthenstepsawayinthenext.Youspenteightsentencesdescribingthetreetheystandunderandgiveabsolutelynodescription
totheiractualkiss.Theyareactingliketheyhateeachother.Theyactliketheyhatekissing.

Ithrowmyhandsupintheairandwritethefirstwordsthatcometomind.Thetruth.
Well,fine.Iadmitit.Ihatekissing.It’sdisgusting.It’sunhygienic.It’sabizarreculturalphenomenon.Doyoueven
knowhowmanygermsareinsomeone’smouth?Sixbillion.SIX.BILLION.Andhowexactly,whilewe’reatit,amIsupposedto
describetonguesplayinghockeywitheachotherinamassofsaliva?Isthatreallywhatyouwant?IfIweretobecompletely
honest,I’dsaythewholeworldshouldgiveuponitaltogether.Weshouldalljustgivejollysofthugstooneanother.That
actuallymakessense.Andkeepsyoufromspreadingmono.

Ireturnfromlunchtofindhisanswer.
Holly.Iknowthisisreallyyourpenname,butIfeeltheneedtopressthepointbycallingyoubyname.Beitanyname
atall.So,Holly.Haveyoureallychosentowriteromancewhenyoudon’tactuallybelieveinoneofitsbiggesttenets?The
attractionbetweentwopeopleisimperative.Ifthisishowyoufeel,youshouldconsideranewgenre.

Ihesitate,thenrespond.
TheyAREattractedtoeachother!Theyjust…preferholdinghands.Andanyway,romanceisn’tjustaboutattraction.It’saboutcompanionship.Youdon’tseeoldmarriedcoupleswho’vebeenthroughtwoworldwarsandfivebabiestogethermakingoutonabenchwhenthey’reninetyandthinktoyourself,NowTHAT’Swhatit’sallabout
Youseethewaytheyholdhands,thewaytheyserveeachotherscrambledeggsonplatestheygotontheirweddingday,the
waytheyshufflethroughthepaperinthemorningstogetherwithoutneedingtofillthespacewithemptyconversation.Because
theyarehappy.Justhappy.Together.ThatiswhyIwanttowriteromance.I’veseenenoughinsta-meetromancesatconferences
andinsupermarkets.Booksthatpresumeinstantattractionmagicallyleadstoalifetimeofhappiness.ButIknowwhatreally
happensafterthelastpage.

MychesttightensbutIkeepon.
Iknowwhatit’sliketobeleftbecauseamangetscaptivatedbysomeoneprettier,someonemoregraceful,someonewhodazzles
theroom.Soplease,don’ttrytoconvincemetochangegenresbecauseIcan’tcaptureakiss.WhatIwanttoseeinallthis,
whatIwanttoshare,isastoryabouttwonormalpeople,withbothhiccupsandhighlights,whosharealifetimeofcompanionship
overeggsandweddingplates.

Whenmypenfinallystops,Ileanbackinthebeanbagandstareatmywords.Isoundtoopassionate.Tooemotional.
Too…unhinged.
Andwhat’sthisallabout,really?
Ascene.Justalittlescene.AndforalongminuteIthinkaboutcrumplingthewholepageup,throwingitinthetrash,and
neverbringingupthesceneagain.ButIdon’t.

Ileaveit.
Because…well…it’stherealme.
Andifthere’sanyhopeofanythinghappeningforusbeyondthemarginsofmymanuscript,Ineedhimtoseetherealme,flaws
andall.

Idropmypenand,forcingmyselftostopthinking,tostophesitating,walkoutthedoor.
WhenIreturnthatafternoon,hehasn’tresponded.
ButwhenIreturnattheendoftheday,Ifindhiswords.Chapter16
I’msorry.Iwasspeakingtongueincheek,butmyremarksdidn’ttranslatewellonthepage.Forwhatit’sworth,youhave
metyourgoalsinthisstory,andalreadyexceededthem.I’mproudofyou.

Asforthescene,though,andtostayonpoint,ifyouaregoingtohaveakissingscene,youneedthemtokisslikenormal
humanbeings.Haveyoueverconsideredthat…youdon’tliketowriteaboutakissbecauseyou’veneveractuallyexperienced
agoodkiss?

Istare.Themantookmyardentlyfeltmonologue,gaveitapolitepatonthehead,andtoldittogoplaywhiletheadults
stayedontask.Andthetaskismypatheticabilitytowriteakissingscene.Whichhasturnedintoanoddlysensitivepersonal
subjectonmyhistoryandabilitytokiss.

Fine,Iwrite.Sincetodayisallaboutmyromanticventures,apparently,no.Myformerboyfriendwasmyfirst,andlast,kiss,andtobe
completelyhonesthere,Ialwaysthoughtdoinglaundrywouldbeabetterwaytospendtime.Sothere.Perhaps,sinceyou’re
so“good”atit,youshouldjustwritethesceneforme.
Itaptheperiodsohardwithmypenitsplotchesanddropthemanuscriptonthestackofbooksbesidethechair.Roughly
Iblowoutthecandle.Turnoffthestringlights.Andmakemywayforthedoor.

So.Samhashadwonderfulmake-outsessionswithglossyGiselle.That’sfine.Thatactuallymakessense,really,givenIcan’timagineanyotherreasonhewould’vestayedwithheronandoffallthese
years.Giselle.Passionatewithherwords,passionatekisser.

Isn’t.That.Just.Great.
Mymoodfollowsmeallthewayhome.Somewhereinthebackofmymind,thereminderthatI’mfinallyatthefinaleofmymanuscripttriestopushitswaytotheforefrontandcheermeup,butdespitehowharditrallies,the
encouragementonlylastsamomentbeforeanotherbroodingthoughtforms.

SamhaskissedGiselle.Probablyathousandtimes.
Ifumblewithmykeystothefrontdoor.
Oh,butremember!You’regoingtomakeyourdeadlineafterall!
He’sprobablyaddictedtohersiren-likeways.Can’thelphimselffallingforheroverandoveragainforthisveryreason.Maybethat’showshedoesit,infact.Ontheiroffseasons,shecornershiminsomeveryunsuspectingwayandgrabshimbythecollar,makinghimyieldtoherwithhersilkylocksthatfallperfectlyoveroneeyeandraspberrylipgloss.
Justthreemoredaysuntilyousenditin!You’vedoneit!
Andnomatterwhathappensbetweenus,she’llalwaysbelurkinginthecorners,readytostealhimback.
“Savvy,youokay?”
IlookuptofindI’vebeenstandinginthemiddleofthelivingroom,adisgustedexpressioncreepingovermyface.
“Youlooklikeyoumightbeill.”Olivia,perusual,cyclesonherPeloton,herfingerholdingapageinplace.
“Fine,”Isay,rearrangingmyfaceintoaneasysmile.“Fine.Just…thinkingaboutaconversationatwork.”
“Oh,good,”shesays,lookinggenuinelyrelieved.“Icouldn’thaveyoumissingoutonthefundraisingbanquet.”
Inanothercontext,onecouldconstruethewordsasasinceresentiment.Likeasistersaying,Oh,I’msorelievedyoufeelwell.Afterall,youaremysisterandbestfriend,andI’dhatetogotoanyfuneventwithout
you.ButIknowbetter.Iknowwhatshe’sreallythinking.

TheSteps-4-LifefundraisingbanquethappensattheendofeveryFebruary.ItservesasbothamotivationalmomentforOlivia
tosteponstageandrallyeveryoneintofinishingtheirstep-a-thonchallengestrongand—withlittlesilverbowlssetatthe
centerofeachtable—aplaceforthewealthyandfittogivebacktothecommunityandkeeptheprogramgoing.Myjobiskind
oflikethesenator’sfamily’sjob.Westandbehindherduringherspeech,smilingandlookingpretty.

“Anddon’tforgetwe’rewearingwarriorblue,”sheadds.
Ifrown.“Itoldyou,Olivia.Idon’thaveanythingin‘warriorblue.’AndIdon’thavetime”—ormoney,Ithinktomyself—“togoshopping.Can’tIjustwearthereddressyouhadmegetlastyear?I’veonlywornthatoneonce.”Lastyear.Forthissamedullevent.
Olivia’sfrowndeepensintooneofdisgust.“Redisn’tinthepalette,Savvy.Thethemecolorsarewarriorblueandvictory
white.Andwehavetomatch.You’llbeonstageforpictures.Don’tyouwanttolookniceinthepictures?”

Shecyclesfaster,concernsoverthecolorofmyfabricrevvingherup.“AndI’dbehappytoletyouborrowoneofmydresses.It’sjust…”

Shetrailsoff,andIfinishforher.“Iknow.You’reasize2,andI’manelephant.”Iturntowardthehallway
“Youwouldn’thavetofeelthatwayifyoujustletmehelpyou!”shecriesoutfrombehindme,overherownspeeding,spider-weblegs.

FortherestoftheeveningIfinishupsomeeditsforoneofmyauthorsandthenworkthroughmyownmanuscriptonmycomputer,
readingandrereadingwiththemostcriticaleyeI’veeverhadonit.Andyet,bythetimeIclickoffthelampandcrawl
intobed,Ifeelcertain.Finallycertain.

Mymanuscriptisready.

Allexceptthefinalscene.
***
Thenextmorning,IdropbytheARCroombeforethecoffeeisevenbrewinginthebreakroom,andthehallsarefreshandpolished
withthelemonyscentofPine-Sol.Idon’tknowifIamactuallyexpectinganythingmiraculoustohavehappenedovernight,
butstill,thedesiretoknowifmymysteryeditorhasrespondedistoostrongtoletmewait.

Iwon’twritethesceneforyou.But…maybeIcanhelp.
I’mprettysureatthatmomentIlooklikeaprayingmantis.Aprayingmantiswithenormouseyesbuggedoutofherhead.
Hecan…help.
Me.
Towriteakissingscene.
It’snotthewordsexactlythatI’msofocusedonbutthethreeperiodsinthemiddle.ButdotdotdotmaybeIcanhelp.
Mycheeksbegintogrowhot.Myforefingerandthumbgetabitslipperyastheyholdthepage.
Andhow…exactly…doeshewanttohelp?
Surelyhedoesn’tmean…
There’snoway…
Absolutelynot.
Iputthetipofmypentomylip.Hesitateoverhowexactlytowordmyresponse.
Yes,I’dlovethat!
IscratchoutthewordsasquicklyasIwritethem.Noneedtosounddesperate.Also,whodoesthat?It’slikescreaming,
Kissme!Iwantyoutokissme!insomeone’sfacejustbeforetheykissyou.Awful.

So…whatdoyoumean?Like…youwanttokissme?Likewe’reinsecondgrade?
Ah!ThemomentIwritemyattemptatlightheartedsarcasmIfeelanoverwhelmingsurgeofembarrassmentandcrossitoutsofranticallyIripacornerofthepage.
Finally,aftermuchpacingaroundtheroom,Ifindmyreply.
IcanuseallthehelpIcanget.Whatdoyouhaveinmind?
There.AndbeforeIcanconvincemyselftoblotitoutagain,Ileave.Chapter17
I’dliketotakeyoutodinner.
That’sit.He’sthinkingdinner.IexhaleasIreadtheneatlywrittenwordsonthebottomofthepage,myheadstillprickling.
Ofcoursehewasn’tthinkingkiss-in-a-dark-room-for-educational-purposes
Thatwasanabsurdnotion,Savannah.
Insane.
He’sthinkingdinner.Dinneratanicerestaurantwherewefinallymeetface-to-faceanddiscussscenesforpublishingpurposes.
Likereasonableadults.

ButasIflipthepage,Iseehehaswrittensomethingelse.
Toclarify,adate.I’dliketotakeyouonadate.
Myheartskyrocketsforaboutthreeseconds,andforasolidminuteIdon’tmove.Hewantstotakemeonadate.Afirstdate.Likeoneofthosedateswe’vediscussedallalongthemarginsinreferencetootherpeopleandothersituations.Exceptthistime,it’sme.Hedoesn’twanttotakesomegirlnamedChelseatotheCatbirdSeattotalkabouthowhergluten-freelifestylechangedherlife.Hewantstotalktome.Romantically.Becausehe’dliketodateme.

Ifeelelated,asthoughI’mfloating.
Andyet…theendhascome.Themagicofthislittleroom…abouttoend.He’sreadytoleavethetreehousefull
ofsongsandgamesandembarkontherealthing.He’smovedtothegroundandisbeckoningmetocomedownatlast.

IfeelalittleasthoughPeterPanhasgrownup,andI’mnotquiteready.
Butwe’repartnersinthis.Andthegamecan’tgoonwhenonehalfoftheteamdecidestoquit.Iscribble,Wouldloveto.When?
Andfromthere,theconversationbouncesbackandforththroughouttheafternoon.
Tonight.7pm.
Ican’tat7pm.Ihaveafundraisingbanquetat5.Howabout8…30?8:30?
Deal.Seeyouat8:30.Meethere?
Perfect.
So.I’mmeetingmymysterymanforadinnerdate.
Sam.I’mmeetingSamforadate.
ThethoughtsurroundsmeasIwalkdownthehalltowardameeting,emotionsfillingmetothebrim.
It’snotreallysomuchtheI’m-meeting-my-mystery-man-for-a-dinner-datepartthat’stroublingIlongtomeetthisman.He’sbecomeapartofmythoughtseverywaking(andsometimessleeping)houroftheday.Heisbrilliant.Witty.Blunt,yes,butinawayI’vecometorespect.Andmorethananything,someoneI’vecometowishwasmycompanioneverywhere
EverywhereIgo,everythingIdo,Ifindmyselfwishinghewashere.
WatchingOliviaandFerristhatnighttheytriedtosimultaneouslyjoginplacewhilemakingsoupwhilesealinginvitationstotheirwedding.Oh,he’dthinkitwashilarious.

SittingattheTinCanwithLylaandwatchingthelivebandinthecorner.Didn’tthatguitarplayerlookjustlikeBradPaisley?
Itwasuncanny.

Standinginthecourthousehallway,seeingtheloadsofbridesandgroomsinline.
Well,actually,Ididn’tthinkabouthimthen.Notthatafternoon.
Butotherthanthat,theother95percentofthetime,myeditorisperpetuallyinmythoughts.
TheonlyslightproblemisthatIhaveahardtimeconnectingtheintellectual,witty,companionableeditorwhosodeliciouslykeepsmeon
mytoeswith…Sam.Sam,whosehobbiesincludebeingontheboardoftrusteesattheYMCAandRotaryInternational.Sam,
whotookaweek’svacationlastyeartogotoBranson,Missouri.

Branson,Missouri.
So,forthemostpart,Idon’t.
Ijustpretendtheyaretwocompletelyseparateentities.
Butnow?Now…I’llhavetofacethefacts.Thefactthatheisactuallyanincrediblyfascinatinghumanbeingwhoalso
happenstoenjoyFunnyFarmDinnerFeudshows.AndtalksforlongperiodsoftimeaboutQuickBooks.

I’mthefirstintheroomforatitlingmeeting—quiteearly,infact—andcatchingaglimpseofmywatch,Idumpmystackofpapersandcomputeronthetableandstartpacing.I’monlyat3600fortheday,pitifullylow,andI’dtrytomakeupforsomeofitafterworkonthewayhomeexceptthatthefundraisingbanquetistonight.IdrovesoIcouldleavestraightfromwork,dashhometothrowonatwo-sizes-too-small“warriorblue”dressafterall,andfighttrafficallthewaydowntownforthebanquet.Andiflastyearisasignifierofwhat’stocome,I’llwanttogetinallthestepsIcannowsoOliviadoesn’tpullmeforwardtobeher“livingexample”againofhow“wemayfeellikeallhopeislost,butthetruthiswejustneedtosurroundourselveswithpositiveinfluenceswhocanmotivateustowardbecomingourbetterselves”(akaher).
MypacequickensandthelengthofmystepsshortensuntilIlooklikeawaddlingpenguininahurry.
There’sashufflingnoise,andIlookovertoseeSamjuststeppingthroughthedoorway.
Hehalts.
Thenlookslikehe’swalkedinonmenaked.
“Sam,”Isay,haltingimmediatelyasmyembarrassmentgrows.“Sorry…I’minthemiddleofastep-a-thonraceand…well…”
Itrailoffawkwardly,realizingIdon’tknowhowtofinishmysentence.

Orparagraph.
Orconversationasawhole.
Thisisthefirsttimewe’vereallybeenface-to-face,alone.
Wehavebeenavoidingeachotherthepastfewweeks.Isupposehefeelsjustlikeme,morewillingtoopenuponpaperthan
whensomeoneelseislookingstraightintoyoureyes.Afterall,it’ssoeasytobehonestonpaper,likewhen—

MyfaceblanchesasIremember,lookingintohiseyes.
LikewhenIadmittedtothatlittletoe-fungusissueIhadnotsolongago.Howatthetime,Iwasdefendingthecharacter’s
bathcaddyandshowershoesinthegymandfinishedwiththewords,Andthat’swhyyoualwaysuseshoesintheshower.Youneverknowwhatgermsmaybelurkingabout.
Towhichhehadresponded:Imeantthewholeunnecessaryscene.MuchasIappreciatealessoninpersonalhygiene,thesceneitselfistheproblem.She
runsintohimatthegym.Wedon’tneedtoknowthatafterwardsheshowerswhilegivingherselfalectureaboutathlete’s
foot.
Oh,howembarrassing
Imean,IknowIsharedthesethings,butIassumedIwouldjustmeethimandfeelallrisenaboveit,likeIwouldjustshrug
andlaughabitandfeellikeallofthoseawkwardlittlesecretsandpersonalstorieswouldjustbringuscloser.Now,looking
intohisdartingeyes,Iknow.

Theydidn’t.
“Goodforyou,”hesays,raisingajerkyhandtowavemycommentoff.He’sstillstandinginthedoorway.“Iwasjustspeaking
withNanetteabouttheissueoflimitedmobilityduringworkhours.I’dlovetofindasolutionthatwouldencouragemovement.”

Speakingofmoving,Inoticehestillhasn’t.
AndthenInoticesomethingelse,andmyeyesflickerdowntothebundleofitemsinhisarms.
Twocoffeemugs.Forest-greenones,withgoldcursivewritingacrossthemsaying…Isquint,buthisarmsshiftandthe
fontissuddenlyconcealed.Coffeemugs,plusabagofespresso,and…arehiseyesdartingtowardthecommunity-shared
syrupsinthebackoftheroom?

Isheplanningtostealthecommunitysyrups?

“Anyway,”hecontinues,catchingmyeyesandthentwistinghiswristtoseehiswatch.“IjustrealizedI’veforgottensomething.
You—carryon,”hesays,thengivesmeastiffsmile.

“Thanks.I…will.And…I’llseeyoulater?”Iventure,dippingatoeintothewatersofhonesty.
Henodsvigorously.Immediately.SoquicklyIcouldn’tevenfinishmysentence.“Absolutely.Andgoodluckwiththosesteps.”
“Thanks.”ButI’mtalkingtoanemptyroom,becausehe’salreadygone.
***
Oursecretroomhasgainedacoffeemachine.
IsmellthecoffeebeansthesecondIstepintothespace.
Hot,brewingcoffeegurglinginasmalltwo-personcoffeepotinthecornerontopofastackofbooks.Andtwoforest-green
coffeemugssetneatlyonthefloorbesideit.Thewordsclearnowintheglowofthestringlights.

YouLightsaysthefirstinfloweringgoldscript
UpMyLifefinishesthesecond.

Alittlecoffeestation.Withnosyrup,Ican’thelpnotingwithasmile.
Istepovertothemugsandpickoneup,turningitinmyhand.Hangingillustrativelyonthewordsarestringlights.
Well,it’salittlecliché,butdespiteit,Ican’thelpingfeelingalittleglowinsidemyself.
Sammaynotbethebestface-to-face,butheistrulyoneofakind.I’veneverfeltsopursued.
This…allofthis…I’veneverbeeninvolvedinanythingsoromantic.
ItakethecoffeepotandpourmyselfsomedespitethefactthatI’mmoreofacoffee-and-creamgirlanddespitethefactthat
it’sfiveo’clockandIneedtoleave.

And,wantingtotakealittleofthemomentwithme,andtomakeasymbolicstepforwardforus,Iclaspthemugfirmlyin
myhandasIgo.

Takingthemugwithme.
Intotheworld.
Ittastesabitbitter,Ithink,butIswallowahugemouthfulanywayasIfollowthedeep,swirlingstaircaseoftheold
mansiondownandmeetLylainthefoyer.

Theentrywayiscrowded,abustlinggroupbuttoningcoatsandwrappingscarvesaroundnecks,tryingtoleavefortheday,
andasIslipmycoatoveronearm,IseeSammakinghiswaydownthestairs.

FromacrosstheroomIcatchhiseyeand,inamomentofbravery,raisemymugtohim.Totonight,Ithinkinmyheadandtakeanotheracidicsip.

Hiseyesbulge.Actuallybulge.
Hisfootfaltersonthelaststep,andhestumblesforwarduntilcrashingsquarelyintothebackofWill.
Istiflealaugh,undeterrednowbyhowdifferentthemaninfrontofmeactsfromtherealSamIknowbeneath.Iamdeterminednowtoseethisout,onewayoranother.AndIwillraisemymug,andexpectations,to
thelong-awaitedmeetingahead.Nothingcanstopme.Nothingcandetermefromthisdeterminedfeelingofelationatmeeting
atlonglast.Nothing.

Forbetterorworse,totonight.Chapter18
Unlessthisdevilofadresskillsmefirst.
And,morespecific,thewaythehemofthisdressmakesmythighsbulgeunderthecanlights.
Inabanquethallofseveralhundredpeople.
Ipullattheunrelentingfabricofthe“warriorblue”dressslidingupmythightounreasonablelevels.Thirtyminutesinto
averystubborndispute,Oliviaeventuallygotherwayonhavingmewearthehorrible,cap-sleeveddressfromhercollege
graduation.Iputupafight,butthebattlewaslostafterMomandDad,bothmarchinginplaceonthelivingroomrugin
quakingpearlearringsandjostlingnecktie(supportingOliviaingettingsomeextrastepsinbeforethebanquet),tookher
side.

Momshuffledherchampagne-sequinedhandbagfromonehandtoanother,lookedatme,andsaid,“Honey,youlookbeautiful.
Andreally,what’stheretoworryabout?Nobodywillbelookingatyouonstageanyway.”

SohereIstand,notinaflatteringfloor-lengthdresswithoneshoulderclippedbyabeguilinggoldfeature,likemyredonelastyear.Instead,I’mshowcasingaknee-length,two-sizes-too-smallspandexnumberfromtheninetieswithcapsleevesandmyrearendstickingoutliketwobunsinahotoven.Myskinlookspaleandsicklybeneaththespotlight.
Olivia,ontheotherhand,holdsthemicrophonewithoneincrediblytonedarm,lookinglikeamodelstraightoutofamagazine.
Myparentsstandtomyleft,noddingenthusiasticallywitheachofherwords
Ferrisistomyrightlooking…well…lookingquitegreen.
HiseyesaregluedonOliviaasshespeaks,butinsteadofnoddingatthepartsofthespeechwherewe’veallbeentoldto,
he’sjuststaring.Staring.Andbrooding.Sointentlythere’sadecentchancehedoesn’tevenhearher.

Wow.
I’vehadmyturnwithfirst-timejittersuphere,buthelookslikehe’sabouttoloseit.
“Anyonecansaytheyhaveadream,”Oliviasays,sweepingonearmoverthecrowd.“Peoplefilluptheirin-boxesandheadswithdozens
ofgoalsanddreams.Butyouknowwhatmakesyoudifferentfrommostpeople?”Herhand,inaratherstartlingmove,slams
onthepodiumwitheachofherfollowingwords.“Actually.Doing.Something.Notonlytoreachyourstepgoalsandhealthgoalsbuttostartmakingreal,tangibleachievementsineveryareaofyourlife.
Itallstartshere.Justjoiningustonightissteponeofafantasticjourney.”

Aroundofapplausemovesthroughtheroom,andmymother,father,andIliftourhandsinsupportiveclapping.Therewasactuallyadrillforclapping.Appropriatelyenthusiasticbutnottooattentiongrabbing.
Ferrisdoesn’tclap.
AtthispointIbreak“protocol”andturnmyhead.“Ferris,”Iwhisper.
Hedoesn’tmove.
“Ferris,”Iwhisperagainastheclappingstartstodim.
Inudgehissideandhejoltsasthoughforcedoutofadream.
“Youokay?”Imouth.
Andhiseyes,oncethey’velockedonmine,don’tmove.Hisstareisfixedonmenow.
Igivehimanoverbrightsmile,baringallmyteethasiftosay,See?Thisiswhatwedowhenwehavestagefright.Wejustlookstraightaheadandsmile,andthenturnmyattentionbacktoOlivia.

Buthe’snotdoingit.He’snotchanginghisposition.
It’stimeforanothergroupnod,andIgiveitmybiggestandbrightest.
AndI’mjustsettlingintoanotherroundofnoddingandclappingwhenIfeelatugonmyelbow.Ferrisisholdingontomy
arm.

“Ineedtotalkwithyou,”hesays.
Myeyeswiden.“Now?”Ihiss.“We’realittlebusy.”
“Now,”hesays,andhe’snotevenwhispering!He’sjuststandinghereonstagewithloadsofpeoplewatchingus,holdingontomyelbowandtalkinglikewe’reinthemiddle
ofacoffeeshop.

Oliviahasevennoticed,andhalfwayintoherraise-arm-in-triumphparagraph,hereyesslideovertogiveusanincredulous
What-the-heck-are-you-two-doing?glance.

Iopenmymouth,momentarilystrandedbetweentwobadoptions:turnmygazetowardOliviaandpretendFerrisisnottryingtopullmeoffthestageoracceptitandactuallywalkoffstageinthemiddleofherspeech.

Well,inlightoftheavailablechoices,ItaketheoneI’dratherbedoinganyway.“C’mon,”Iwhisperandshufflewithtiny
sideways,penguin-likestepstowardthevelvetybluecurtainsatthebackofthestage.

ThesecondI’moutofthepubliceye,Iturnaround.OrmaybeFerristurnsmearound.I’mnotquitesurewhich.Eitherway,
I’macutelyawareofhishandsnowgrippingmyelbows.

“I’vemadeaterriblemistake,”hesays,hiswordscominginarush.
Iraisemybrow,althoughwarningflaresarestartingtoshootoffinthecornerofmymind.“Ferris,ifthisisaboutyour
stagefright,don’tworry.Youcanjusttakeastandaboutit—”

“It’snotaboutstagefright.Iwishthiswasaboutsomethingassimpleasstagefright.”Andsuddenlyhe’slettinggoandpullingback,rakingonehanddesperately
throughhishair.Hetakesapacingsteponedirection,thenback.

He’sinrealdistress.Theflaresinmymindaregettingbiggerandbrighter.Ihaven’tseenhimthiswaysince…well…since
thelasttimehecamebacktomeafterwebrokeupincollege.

Ohno.
No,no,no,no,no.
Icrossmyarmsovermychest,thetightbluefabricstretchingtoitslimitbeneathmyribcage.Hecan’tbedoingthis.Heabsolutelycan’t.It’snotpossible.I’mboring,average,underachievingSavannah,andhe’salreadychosenOlivia.

Perfect,shiny,gorgeous,super-successfulOlivia.
Mysister.
Who’splanningtomarryhimintwoweeks.
“Ferris?”MyvoiceismorehighpitchedthanIintended.Brassy.
Whenhestopsandlooksatme,anyshadowofadoubtisgone.
“I’msosorry.”Hiswordsarehusky.Notinasensualway,though.Notlikelasttimewhenhecamecrawlingbacktomydoor.
Backthen,thecome-hithertonewasinescapable.IknewIwasgoingtoforgivehimthesecondIopenedthedoorandsawhissorrowfulpuppydogeyes.
Thewayheleanedagainstthedoorwayasifheownedit.

Buttonight?Tonighthesoundslikeamanontheedgeofapanicattack.“Idon’tknowwhathappened,”hesays,shakinghis
head.“YouandI—wehadjusthadthatstupidargument—Ican’tevenrememberwhatitwasabout—”

“Becausewehadthemallthetime,”Isayquietly.
“Yes.”Ferrisnodshishead.“Yes.Yes,wedid,didn’twe?Wewerepassionate.”

Itstrikesmethathe’ssayingitlikeit’sapositivething.Thatthefrequentargumentswehadwereasignofsomething
good.Butweweren’tlikethosehot-bloodedcouplesinthemovieswhoyellandscreamandthrowplatesandendupkissing
passionatelyontopofbrokenpottery.No,asIremember,ourargumentsonlymademefeelcold,unheard,alone.

He’sdragginghishandsoverhisfacenow,asiftrulyontheedgeofdespair.“Idon’tknowwhattosaytomakeitupto
you.”

He’smumblingmoretohimselfthantome,Irealize,likehe’sbeentryingtoworkthisoutforsometime.
“Don’tsayanything,”Isay.
Andsuddenlyhedropshishandsfromhiseyesandlooksmefullintheface.Hegrabsmywristsand,inthestrongest,mostlevelvoiceI’veeverheardfromhim,says,“Savannah,Idon’tdeserveyou.”
“I’mnot—”Ibegin.
“Please,”hecontinues.“Please,justhearmeout.Please.”

Igivehimonelonglook.NowthatInotice,behindthefinetuxedosuitandtheperfectlygelledhair,Iseehoney-brown
eyesrimmedinredasthoughhehasn’tsleptindays.Iseedesperation.Genuine,heartfeltdesperation.Andittugsatmy
heart.

“Somebodyisgoingtoseeus,”Iwhisper,startingtountwistmyhandsfromhis.
“Letthem,”heanswerswithanunwaveringtone.“Letthem.Idon’tcare.Ican’tplaythesegamesanymore.”
“Icare.”Itugmyhandsfree.“Youaremarryingmysisterintwoweeks.”

“Ican’t.”Atthis,hisvoicecracks,andhisgazeveersofftowardthecurtainandOliviabeyond.“Ican’tmarryher.”
“Butyouaresoperfecttogether,”Iremindhim.“Likeyoualwayssay,‘Cupidshothisarrow.’”

“No,Dolosshothisarrowandsetmeonthepathtomisery,”hesays,hisvoicehard.“Doyouknowwhatit’sliketobewith
her?Doyouhaveanyideawhatit’sreallyliketobewithher,Savannah?”

“Imean,”Isay,takenaback,“shecanbeabitoverbearing—”
“Overbearing?”Ferrislaughs.“Overbearingwasmonthsago.Idreamaboutthedaysofoverbearing.Nowmylifeisnothingbutloggingwhat
Ieat,howmanytasksIgetaccomplishedbeforenoon,howmanystepsItakeHowmanystepsItake!DoyouknowthelasttimeIhadactualfoodinarestaurant?Doyouknowhowlongit’sbeensinceI’veeatensteak?Andthewedding!”Hethrowshisarmsupintheair.“Onandonandonaboutthestupidwedding!DoyouknowhowmanybakeriesI’vebeentointhepastninemonths?”

Hisvoiceisrising,takingonanI’ve-lost-my-mental-stabilitytone.Peoplebackstagearestartingtolook,and,tomysurprise,hereallydoesn’tseemtonoticeorcare.

“Six?”Iventure.
“Thirty-two.Thirty-bloody-two.”

He’slookingatthefloor,butthenhisgazeshootsupasifherememberswherehe’satandtheaimofhismessage.“Butyou.”Hetakesasteptowardme.“Youwereatreasure.Lettingyougo,Savannah,wasthebiggestmistakeofmylife.”

There’ssilence,andthenhemovesincloser,hisvoiceloweringashischintipsdowntowardme.“Let’sgetoutofhere.
Now.Wecangoanywhere.Doanything.Shoot,wecanflyallthewaytoVegasrightnowandgetmarried.Justplease,pleaseforgivemeforwhatI’vedone.AndIpromise…I’llspendtherestofmylifemakingituptoyou.”

Istareathim.VaguelyIhearthehumofactivitybeyondthecurtainandtheclinkingofglasses.ButmostlyI’mlooking
intohiseyes.Hisdesperate,tired,eagereyeslockedontomine.

FerriswantstoleaveOlivia.
Ferrisissorryforleavingme.
Ferriswants…tomarryme.
Rightnow.
Andmyheadfeelslikeashipfullofvariouspackageshasexploded,andI’mtryingtosortthroughthewreckage,discovering
newandoverwhelmingemotionsandmemoriesateachturn
ButasIdoso,onesinglepointdoescometomind.Anditlingers.
Inthismoment,I’mgettingeverythingI’vedreamedof.
Inonesuccinctmoment,allthesecrethopesanddreamsI’veheldoverthepastyeararehappeningallatonce.Oliviais
goingtogetherheartcrushed,justasminewas.Olivia,foronce,hasbeenrejected,despiteherperfectlysculptedjawline,
despiteherunrelentingtenacity,despiteherEnergizerBunnylifestyleandrowofneatlyframedaccomplishments.AndI…could…bebackwithFerris.

Marry…Ferris.

Finallygetmyownhappily-ever-after.

HowlonghaveIdreamed,eveninthequietestway,ofmarryinghim?Athirdofmylifetime.
Andyet.
Morethananythingelse,thebiggestthoughtinmyhead—thestrangestpartofitall—isthewordsofWillPennington.Not
Sam,mymysteryeditor.Will.

Andthewordshesaidwhilehelookedintomyeyesoutsidethecourthouse:“Youdeservethesamekindofhappinessyouwishtobestowonthem.”
Andhe’sright.
Andthatisn’tFerris.Itwas,foralongtime,thedreamofFerris.Thelonged-forideaofwhatwecouldbe.Butitwasneverhim.Nevertruly.

It’sWill.
Thefollow-upthoughtstrikesquickly:Butofcourseitis.Howcouldyouhaveeverthoughtotherwise?
Ithasbeenhimallalong.Forallthatmymysteryeditor—Sam—hasgoingforhim,there’sjustsomethingmissingeverytimeImeethimface-to-facethatcannotbeforcedintobeing.NomatterhowItry,Ican’tforcethesparktoexistwhenit’snotthere.Nomatterhowmuchitpainsmetoacceptthatfact.
Itakeastepbackand,indoingso,seethequestioninFerris’seyes.
HereallydidthinkI’dcomebacktohim,didn’the?Thethoughtmakestheheatriseinmycheeks.
“Ihadnoideayoufeltthisway,Ferris,”Isay,brushingmydressoffasifI’mbrushingofftheconversation.“I’msorry
tohearthis.”

Hiseyeswidenindisbelief.“Ofcourseyoudid,Savvy.Withallthecoffeesandthelittlechats.Withalltheflowers.You
knew—”

“Yes,well,that’stheproblem,then,Ferris.It’salittlehardtotellyou’retryingtohitonmewhenyou’rebringingboth
meandyourfiancéecoffeesinthemorningandflowersonbehalfofthepairofyouatnight.”

Hestops.“They’veneverbeenfromher.They’vealwaysbeenfromme.Justme.”
There’ssomethinginthewayhesays“they”thatstopsme.Ipause.Raiseafinger.“Yousentmemorethanonebouquet?”

“Twice!”heexclaims.“Twice,justinthelastmonth!Iknowitwasabitofarisksneakingthemintoyourroomandoffice,
butIhadtodoit.”Herakesanotherwildhandthroughhishair.“IhadtoshowyouIcare.Thatit’sbeendrivingmeinsanetobewithoutyou—”

Irealizehe’sreachingformyhandsagain.Andasthoughthere’saslowlymovingcopperheadslitheringmyway,Ijumpback.
AsIdo,myeyescatchthesightofaparticularshadeofwarriorbluebehindhim.
Olivia’sfaceishorrorstricken,herlong,slenderfingersatherlips.Hereyesshimmer,anddespiteitall,Ifeelmybig-sisterly
defensesrise.

“I’msorry,Ferris,”Isay,myjawflexing.“Mysisterishere,andIneedtoattendtoher.Iwishyouluckwhereveryour
slimybacksidelands.”

Andwithouthesitatingamomentlonger,Imoveasideandreachformysister,whohas,atlast,brokenhersix-yearhiatus
fromcryinganddissolvedintotears.
Chapter19
You’dthinkitwasimpossibleforsomeonetousesomanyfour-andfive-syllablewordstosaythesamething.
“Yes,”Isay,noddingasIcomeintotheroom.“He’shorrible.”
“Horribledoesn’tcutit,”Oliviasays,rubbingatissuefairlyviolentlybeneathhernose.“He’sthemostsubstandard,abominable,
ignominious,louchemantoeverwalkthisplanet.”

Sheshakesatissuedhandimpatientlyatme,andIhandherapintoficecream.Anotherone.
Istandinthedoorwayandcheckmyphone.Eightthirteenp.m.FortwohoursI’vebeenplyingOliviawithtissues,icecream,
cheese,andboxesofoatmealsquares,dry.IthinkI’vebrokenher.Oneencouragingcommentabouthowshecouldusealittle
“break”fromherdietandthishappened.This.
Buteightthirteenisn’tsobad.IfIcansqueezeoutnow,ImightjusthaveenoughtimetomeetSam.IfIhurry.
Itakeasteptowardthehall.“IthinkI’llruntothestorerealquick.Icanpickupsomethingsforthemorning.Wouldyoulikethat,Olivia?Someofthatniceyogurtyouenjoy?”
Oliviascowlsfromherfloornest,hersilkybluedressinapuddlearoundherfeet.Thebackofthebodiceishalfwayunzipped.
There’salitterofemptycartonsaroundherfeet.Andthelevelofmascarathathasrundownherfaceanddried…Well,
shelookslikeacoverforaneightiesrockCD.Foronceinourlives,ifwewereinalineupataschooldance,I’dbethe
onepicked
Well,Itakethatback.IsupposeIcannowsaytwice.
“WhatdidIdowrong?”Oliviasays,breakingoffablockofcheesewithherteeth.“Howdiditgowrong?”
Igiveasympatheticshrug.“Sometimeswepickthewrongpeople,Olivia.Weliveandlearn.”
“No,”shechokesout,swervingherraccooneyesatme.“Really,Savvy.WhatdidIdowrong?Idon’twantyourempathy.Idon’t
wantfrothy,girls’-sleepover-styleanswers.IwanttoknowwhatIdid.Iwantquantifiabledata.”

“Well,youcanstartwiththat,”Iretortalittletersely.“Youcanstartwithnotbeingsosnappyateveryoneforeverything.
AndyoucanstopcallingmeSavvy,becauseyouknowIdon’tlikeit.”

“That’sgood,”shesays,reachingforthelegalpadonherbedsidetable.Andhereshegoes.Anotherlist.Sheclicksapen
andstartswriting.“Snappy.Icanbelesssnappy.”

Fine.Well,aslongaswe’reonthesubject…
“Andlessdemanding,”Iadd.
Shenodsinstride,asthoughwe’retalkingaboutsomethingasobjectiveandimpersonalasthelateststock-marketnumbersandnotallherpitfalls.Butit’sanenjoyableexperience,tellingherallthewaysshedrivesmecrazyandhavingher,foronce,takeitallin.LikeaflashsalewhereIdecidetoruninandgrabeverythingIcan,IthrowouteveryissuewithherIcanthinkofwhilethedoorsarestillopen.
Andsureenough,shestudiouslywritesitalldown.
Andforseveralminutes,itfeelslikeI’mexperiencingthatimpossiblemomentwhenyouwishonalooseeyelashandthenblow
itaway,andyourwishactuallycomestrue.

Butafterabouttenminutes,theeuphoriastartstowearoff.Shelookssosincereandearnest,Ican’thelpslowingdown.
Itakeasteptowardher.Cautiouslytakethelegalpadfromherwhileshewrites.

Shelooksup.
“Areyouhappy,Olivia?”
Foramomentshegivesmeanincredulouslook.
“Idon’tmeanrightnow.Imean,ingeneral.Areyouhappy?”
Shelooksaroundherroom,lookingtogiveitrealthought.
“BecauseIdon’tknowaboutyou,”Isay,“butI’velivedunderyourroofforawhilenow,andI’veseenthecostofwhatsuccess
reallyis.Itdoesn’tseemsobadatfirst.Fromadistance,whenIlivedwithLyla,allIheardaboutwereyournewpromotions,
yourpublishedpapers,yourmarathons,nonprofitcreations,andadmissionsintodoctorateprograms.Butfromupclose,Isee
howhardyoupushyourselftodoeverything.Notjusteverything,buteverythingatonce.Lungeswhilecookingfortheelderly,whilelisteningtoaudiobooksinFrench.Bikingwhileweddingplanning,whilecalling
ita‘date.’Ferriscouldn’tliveunderthatkindofpressure.Andmaybeyoumightconsiderslowingdownandreallyasking
yourselfifyoucaneither.Ifyoucanhappily.”

“CanI…”IcanseeOlivia’shandisitchingforthelegalpad,andnodoubtbyMondaymorning,ifIdon’tmanagetoreallygetthisacrosstoher,there’llbeastackofself-helpbooksaceilinghighwaitingforherbesideherPeloton.
“You’vetriedtopersuademetotakeupyourlifestyleforawhile,”Icontinue.“Whydon’tyouletmepersuadeyoutolive
mineforalittlebitandseehowitgoes?”

Severalmomentspassinsilence.Asiftheveryideaistoostunningforwords.
“So…ifItriedlivinglikeyou—”

“I’dwatchthatattitude,”Iinterject.
“Then,”shecontinues,shiftingtone,“whatwouldyourecommendIdo?Now?”
“Ithinkyoushouldfinishyouricecreamandthentakeanicelongnap,”Isay.“AndonMondaymorning,firstthing,Ithink
youshouldmakeanappointmentfortheFloatSpot.”

***
Twotubsoficecreamlater,I’vefinallydepositedOliviaintobedanddashedoffforPenningtonPub.I’mlate.Quitelate.
Butgiventhecircumstances,itcouldn’tbehelped.
Andofcoursehewillunderstand.
He’llhaveto.
Anymatureadultwould.
Oratleastthat’swhatI’mchantingtomyself.
We’readults.Lifecomesup.Familyispriority.
Andanyway,Iknowhewillunderstand
Becausewe’readults.Lifecomesup.Familyis…
Onandonthebrokenrecordgoes.AsIdashupthecreakyfrontstepsofPenningtonPublishinginmyheels,Ifumblewithmypurseformykeys.Thefoyerisdarkthroughtheglass.Nolightontobeseenthroughtheentirebuilding.
Butthat’sokay.Thatdoesn’tmeanhe’sleft.
Imovetocheckmywatch,thenremembermywristisnakedafterIconvincedOlivia,inamomentousmoment,totakeoffher
watch.Tolosetrackoftime.Andsteps.Andbefree.

Sheinsistedwedoittogether,thengigglednervouslyatmeasthoughwewereillegallygoingskinnydippinginthefrozen
lakesofMichigan.Whenitcameoff,sheactuallywhooped.

Idon’tneedtoknowthetimeanyway.AllIneedtodoisgetthisdooropen.
Afterabitmorefumbling,thedooropens,andIglideupthestairsbythelightofmyphoneflashlight.Witheverysetof
stepsmyhopelosesabitmoreair.WhenIreachtheARCroom,Ipushthroughthefilingcabinetandintooursecretroom,
andtheairfinallyescapesentirely.

Nothing.
Notevenasetoflightsaglow.
Allthat’sleftisanoteontopofthemanuscript:SorryImissedyou.
AndthenIdropdownontothebeanbag,feelingreallycrummy.Becausehe’snotevengoingtoputanyoftheblameonmehere,
butactasthoughhe’stheonewhomissedme.

Ilookaroundforapen.
Andstartwriting.
I’msosorryIwasn’tabletomeetyoufordinner.Itriedmybest,buttherewasafamilycrisisIhadtoattendto—acrisisthatiseatingallmyicecreamintearsbackattheapartment,infact.Andlongstoryshort,Ihaveasisterwhoisnolongerengagedandanex-boyfriendwho,inthemostunderhandedwayimaginable,proposedtomeinstead.It’sbeenamess.Butwhileit’satemptationtousemyfamilysituationasanexcuseformytardiness,Ican’thelpbutfeeltherewassomethingelseatplay.Andthefactis…Ican’tgoonwithoutlettingyouknowthetruth.
TonightIrealizedIaminterestedinanotherman.
I’msosorry.Ihavelovedourfriendshipthroughthepages.Ijustwishtherelationshipwehadonpagewasthesameaswe
shareface-to-face.

Anyway,whatyou’vedoneformehereissomuchmorethanIcaneverexpressinwords.Iamsogratefultoyouandthetime
you’vespentwithmeonthisproject.Ifyou’dlike,I’dlovetoremainfriends.Andifyouareupforthat,whichIhope
youare,dinnertomorrowisonme.I’mturningthismanuscriptintomorrow.I’dlovetocelebratewithyou.

Waitingwithbatedbreath,
S.
There.Isitbackandlookatthenotescrawleddownthepage.
It’sraw.Andpainful.Andithurtsmejusttoreadit.
Butitmustbesaid.
Becauseintheeventsoftonight,I’velearnedsomething.Somethingaboutmyself.AboutwhatIreallyneedtorememberin
thislife.

Itturnsout,rackingupaccomplishmentsdoesn’tmeananything.Lifeisnotsimplysomegamewherethepersonwiththemostplaqueswins.It’snotaboutaperfectlyorganizedhomeoracquiringdegreesyou’llneveruseorthenumberofinchesaroundyourwaistlineor,mostespecially,countingsteps.Lifeisaboutmovement,andpause.Work,andrest.It’saboutrelationship.Aboutvaluingothersandtrulytakingthetimetoshowthemtheyareprecious.Aboutvaluingyourself,too,andyouruniquelygiven,whispered-into-your-DNAgoalsanddreams.
LifeisaboutmakingdrippypancakesonaSaturdaymorning,andleavingthedishesinthesinktositdownwithLylaatthe
kitchentableandtalkabouthernewagent.It’saboutmakingabathandspendingsomuchtimereadinginitthatthewater
getscoldandmyfingersgopruny.Yes,thereshouldbefundraisersandshoeboxdrivesandhardwork,too,butit’salsoabout
slowingdown.Trulybeingpresent.

It’saboutappreciatingthemiraculousgiftthatisexistence.It’saboutlovingonothersasmuchasyoucan.Andyes,itisalsoaboutappreciatingwhatorganicallymakesyouhappy
and,wherereasonable,findingit.

Whichiswhy,tonight,IhadtowritetoSam.
BecauseIrealizedwhatwouldmakemehappy.
IwantanotherdartgamewithWill.
Iwanttositinhistruckanddrivethroughtown,talkingaboutourpast.
Iwanttorunthroughatunnelofpeoplewithflyingriceandfatsnowflakes,holdinghands.
AndunlikepeoplelikeFerris,Ican’tgoondancingwithotherpartnerswhilereallyonlywantingtherealthingChapter20
MessageSent.
Justtwolittlewords,andhowtheearthquakesbeneathmyfeet.
Message.Sent.
Istareatthewordsinthebubbleinmyin-boxandforalongmomentsitinsilence.
Mymanuscriptisnowinthein-boxofClaireDonovan.Myhopesentirelyinherhands.Itallcomesdowntothis.
Isuckinadeepbreathandlookaroundtheroom.Somethingfeelsdifferentaboutthespace.Thesamelate-afternoonsunshine
makesthefloatingdustspecksglitter;thebooksallaroundstillholdtheirmusty,leatherysmell.Buttheairiscooler,
andtheFebruarychillrattlesatthesparrowglassinasolitarywayunlikebefore.

It’sfunny.Whenallthisfirststarted,Iwasangryatdiscoveringsomeoneelsewasusingmyhaven.Itreasuredtheprivacy
ofmylittlecove.ItreasuredthesolitudeandthetimeIhaditalltomyself.

Now,Ican’thelpfeelingalone.LikeI’monmyowninachilledroominamustyoldatticspacewherethestrandsoflightswaitcoldandlightless.
ForthreedaysI’vekeptthelightsoff,waitingtoseeasignofhisreturn.Holdingoffonsendingthisfinalemailinhopes
thatIcoulddoitafterwe’vehadthattalk.

Butsofar,nothing.Nocoffeebrewing.Nolightsglowing.Nocandlewickflickeringandthescentofgardeniasfillingup
theroom.

Nonotes.
Nothing.
AndwhileIwouldn’ttakebackwhatIsaid,everyrun-inwithSaminthefleshonlyconfirmingourlackofchemistry,Ican’t
helpbutwishhewouldwritetomehere.Again.Ifnotforarelationship,atleastasafriend.

Worstofall,itpainsmetothinkhecould’vefeltItookadvantageofhim
That’sthehardestthoughtofall.
ThatIjusttookallhistimeandenergyformyowngain.ThatIleteagerconversationfillupthemargins.Andthemoment
themanuscriptwasdoneIlefthimwaitinguphere,alone.Ineverintendedthat.Neverinamillionyears.Andeverything
withinmewantstomakesureheknows.

Ithasn’tbeeneasy,though,togetthemessageacross.Samhasavoidedmeliketheplaguethesepastthreedays.Andwhile
I’mtryingtorespecthiswishes,Ican’thelpbutfeellikeitwouldbebestforthebothofustoclearthisup.Iwon’t
keepitlong.Iwon’toverstep.Butheneedstogetaproperthank-youfromme.
Andasforthemanuscriptitself,Ineverdidgetthatfinalkissright.
Ireadthroughadozenclassicscenes,watchedfouriconiceightiesrom-coms,andreadadozenarticlesonthetopic.Andstillthewordsfellalittleflat.Better.Butstill…flat.
AndIwasn’tabouttoaskhimtohelpme.
Anyway,Ithink,snappingmylaptopshutandstanding,what’sdoneisdone.Itmaynotbethebestkissingsceneintheworld,butthestoryasawholeistrulythebestIcouldgive.Kissescanbe
editedintheendifit’sacquired.

AllIcandonowiswaitforheranswer.
***
“You’rewanting…toincludeaphotographofyourson…ridingago-cart…onthecoverofthisbook.”
EvenasIwalkintotheofficeIcanheartheslow,longintakeofbreaththroughLyla’snostrils.WhenIlook,hereyesare
screwedupsofartowardtheceilingherfalselashesarebrushingagainsthernewlywaxedbrows.

“Dr.Shaw.Sweetie.”
MyantennarisesasIhearDr.Shaw’sname.Myauthor,Dr.AnnabelleShaw,reveredprofessorofanthropology,towhomIsentthecoverforhernewrelease,Extraterrestrial:HowTheoriesofLifeBeyondEarthHaveAffectedCulture.(Andyes,aftereditingherbook,Idolookupattheskyalittlemorewarilythesedays.AndIdosometimesgetalittle
nervousasIbrushmyteethwhilelookingbackatmyself,andtheshowercurtainbehindme,inthemirror.)

ThepointhereisLylaistalking.Tomyauthor.Onmyphone.
Lylapinchesthecrownofhernosewithhereyesclosed.“Asadorableasyoursonisinyourfamilyalbums,thisisn’tthevibewe’regoingforwithyourbook.”There’sapause.There’ssilenceasshelistens.ThenLylaopenshereyes.“Becauseit’sabookaboutextraterrestrialtheoriesthroughcultureandhistory.Now,unlessyouwanttoinformmethatyoursonisactuallyanalien,Idon’tknowhowslappingapictureofyoursonacrossthecoverapplies—”

IscoldLylawithmyeyesandholdmyhandoutformyphone.
Sheseesmeandswivelsinherchairtowardhercomputer.“AndIunderstandthatyouarearespectedanthropologistinthe
field.ButIknowmymarket”

Istepforwardandswivelherbacktowardme.Shedigsherheelsinonthefloorsothechairwon’tbudge.
“AndIunderstandthatyoursonisalsoahumanbeing.ButwhatIthinkyoudon’tunderstandhereisthatwhileyoumaythinkyoursonhasthemostendearingsmile,nobodyelseintheworldcares.Nobody—andIcannotemphasizethisenough—isgoingtobuythisbookbecausearandomeight-year-oldwithacheekysmileissitting
insidehisChristmaspresentonthefrontcover.AndcanIbefrank?”

“Lyla!”Ihissandyankatthechair.Grabthelong,twistingcordconnectingthebaseofmyofficelandlinetothephoneclasped
tightlytoherear.

Herbrowwrinklesasshehearssomeclearlydistastefulwordsontheotherline.“No,I’mnotsayingthatbecauseI’mreactingtoamale-centricsocietyandhoardinganti-Y-chromosomethoughts.I’msayingitbecause
thisbookisaboutextraterrestrialtheoryincultureandyoursonhasnothingtodowithit!”

Hervoicehasrisennow,somuchsothatMargeandRobintheofficedirectlyoppositehavelookedupfromtheircomputers.
Andwithnootheroptions,Ilungeforthephone.
Sheclingstoitastightlyasamotherprotectingheryoung.“Stop,”shewhisperssharply,holdingittoherchest.“Shehastoknow!”

“Thatyou’rebatcrazy?”Ishootback,tryingmybesttoyankitfromherchest.

“Thiswomanwantstoputherfamilymembersonthecoverlikesomefamilyalbum!”shebarks.

Iputmyelbowintoitand,centeringsquarelyonherribcage,leveragemyselfwithanotheryank.JustasIdoso,Iregister
herglanceabovemyheadandfeelherfingersreleasingthephone.It’slikeslowmotion:herlong,pinknailslettinggo,
thephonepulledintomystomachbymyownstrength,andthentheforceofmymomentumthrowingmeback.

Back,back,back,untilIbecomefullyawarethatmyfeetareunabletocatchupwithmybodyandtheonlyplaceI’mheaded
istothefloor.

Withathump
Followedshortlybythethumpofthephonebeingyankedoffthedesk,thelineitselfrippedfromthewall.

ForamomentIsitthere,wonderingaboutinternalinjuries.Whennothingbutapainfulthrobbeginsonmybackside,Imove
tostand.AsIdo,Iregistertheshoesbesideme.

Will’sshoes.WillPennington’sblack,shiny,emotionlessoxfords.
Andmyreactionisaconfusingmixofelationandfear.
Professionally:fear.
Butonapersonallevel…Well,obviouslythisisn’tthemostattractivewaytoseehimafterthreedays,butthepoint
ishe’sback.BackfromanothertriptoNYC.

Irushtomyfeet,thephonestillclutchedtomychest.“Will.Hi.”MyvoicecomesoutathousandtimesmorebreathlessandwantingthanIintended.Pullittogether
But,abittomysurprise,thegrin—andtheglancemydirection,forthatmatter—issuchashortflicker,ithardlycounts.
HiseyesmovebacktoLyla,who,withherdramaticredlipsopentorevealanOopssmile,looksasguiltyasever.“Myoffice,”hesays,pointingdownthehall.“Now.”

Iopenmymouth.“It’sgoodtoseeyouagain,”Isay,buttingmyselfintotheconversationasLylastands.“Iwas,um,thinking
throughsomemoreideasforstaffwhileyouweregone.I’dlovetotalkthemoverwithyouandgetyouropinion—”

“Ican’trightnow,Savannah.”
“ButIwasjustthinking—”
Hestopsme.And,forthefirsttime,reallylooksmeintheeye.“Please.Later.”
Ipause,mybrowcreasing.Hiseyesaregrave,serious,asthoughhe’sdoingmeafavorbytakingthebriefestmomentout
ofhisbusydaytocutmyadvancesoffthenandthere.

Hekeepshiseyesonmeuntilheseemssurehe’sgottenhispointacrossandthenturnshisattentionbacktoLyla.Asthey
turntogo,hecallsoverhisshoulder.“Emailmeyourideas.Whenthingsclearup,I’llreadthem.”

Emailhim.
Later.
Don’tmeethim.Don’tsitinhisofficeordrivearoundtownonhisbusinesserrandsorchatwhileplayingdartsinsomesaloon.
Justwait,likeI’mnothingmoretohimthanhisemployee.
Which,Isuppose,isexactlywhatIam.
Andhecouldn’thavemadeitclearerthatthat’sallhewants.Chapter21
Everyhourofthelasttwoweekshascreptbylikeacreakycarouselonitslastlegs.
WhenIwasunderamonth-longwritingdeadline,thedaysflewby,terrorizingme.Noweveryminutecrawlsby,alsoterrorizing
me.

“Youknow,you’reactingkindofcrazy,”OliviasaysasIhittheRefreshbuttononmyemailforthe4,586,345thtimeofthe
day.

Tohercredit,she’ssittingonthecouch,havingdiscoveredsomethingIintroducedhertothreedaysprior:popcorncovered
inchocolatechips.Andshe’senjoyingherself.

Theresultofthemicrowavepopcornandthoroughdousingofchocolatechipsisasticky,meltychocolateymess—afactthat
normallywouldhaveledtoahalf-hourlectureaboutsalt,sugar,andtheimportanceofeatingatthekitchentable.Buthere
sheis,inactualpajamapantsatteninthemorning,eatingpopcornonthecouch.

Honestly,Ihaveneverbeenprouder.
“Andthat’scomingfromme,”sheadds,givingmealittleeyebrowwigglebeforepoppinganotherpieceofpopcornintohermouth.

Twonightsago,aftershecaughtmecheckingmyemaileveryotherminute,Ifinallyletherinonmylittlesecret.Toldher
thetruthabouthowI’vesecretlylongedtoestablishmyselfinthebookworld,notjustasaneditorbutasanauthor.And
tomysurprise,shedidn’tbalkatit.NotevenwhenItoldhermychosengenre.

“I’vealwayssecretlywantedtogointofitness,”shesaidwhenItoldher,diggingherwaythroughabowlofpopcorninher
yogapants.

“Fitness?”Iexclaimed.“Like…asajob?”
Shelookedatmeandshrugged.“Iknowit’snotthemostuniqueideaoutthere,orprofitable,butIloveworkingout.Iloveeverythingaboutit,really.Thesmellofanewlyunrolledmat.
ThelookofthoselargeglassdoorsIwalkthroughwhenIenterthegym.ThesweatrollingdownmyarmsasIpushtonewlimits.
Iloveit.I’vealwayswonderedwhatitwouldbeliketoownmyown.”

Istaredather.Itwasthefirsttimeinmylifeshehadeversaidanything,anything,aboutanythingoutsidefinance,andyet…itmadesense.Infact,assoonasshesaidit,Icouldn’timagineherdoinganythingelse.

“Youshoulddoit.Youshouldownagym.”
Shegaveanincredulouslaugh.“Yeah,right.Whyworkontwodegreeswhenyoucouldbeworkingontwodegreeswhileopening
yourownbusiness?Yousoundlikeme.”

“No.Imean,dropoutofschool.You’veonlygotsomanyhoursinthislife.Youmayaswellspendthemdoingsomethingyou’repassionateabout.”
Sheraisedabrow.“You’restealingfrommyspeechnow.”
Igrinned.“I’veheardthemsomuch,thewordsjustpopoutofmymouthsometimes.I’mlikeawalkingmotivationalposter.”
“Yeah?Thenhere’sanotheronethatyoushouldconsider,”shesaidandglancedatthephoneinmyhand.“Waitingimpatiently
forsomethingthatwillinevitablyhappeneitherwayisawasteoftime.Enjoythejourney,notjustthedestination.”

AndbegrudginglyIputmyphoneawaythateveningandsatbesideherforthemovie.
Itwasamoviewe’dseenseveraltimesbeforebutthat,asIcouldhearitforoncewithoutthePelotonwhizzinginthebackground
andthedistractionofcaptionsinFrench,feltlikethefirsttime.

Butthefactisnow,despiteallthepositivemessagesaboutenjoyingandlivingforeachmoment,Ican’tescapethereality
thatithasbeenfourteendayswithnoemailfromClaire
Fourteen.
AndregardlessofhowmuchbetteroffI’dbeembracingthemildSaturdaymorningwithoutcheckingthescreen,thefactis
Ineedtoknow.

Ineedtoseewhatshethinksthesecondtheemailarrives.

Ineedtofinallyhavethistorturouswaitingend.

Onewayoranother,even,Ineedto—

Istop.
Becausethere,asifwilledintoexistencebymylonging,thenewemailblipsontothescreen.
Alittleheart-stoppingdinggoesoff.

Alittlenumber1popsupbesidethewordIn-box
1
1newemail.

FromClaireDonovan.
EvenOliviahasheardthedingandnoticed,probablybymypetrifiedface,somethingisup.“Isither?”shesays.

Ican’tsayanything.Ijustnod.
Myarmsfeelallprickly.
AndIjuststareattheboldsubjectline:RE:Manuscript
Thisisit.
Inregardtomymanuscript.FromClaire.
“Well?”Oliviasays.
Myfingerhoversoverthemouse,butithastroubleclicking.
BecauseallofasuddenIamacutelyawarethatI’mstandingontheprecipiceofknowingandnotknowing.
Andreally,thenot-knowinglandwasnotsuchanimposinglandtoliveinafterall,whenyouthinkofit.Innot-knowinglandtherewasstillhope.Therewasstillachancethatthingswouldworkoutforme.Inknowingland,though—ifIstepintotheLandoftheKnow—I’mgoingtoknowwithoutquestion.Andiftheanswerisn’twhatIwant,
Ican’tstraphopebackontomybackforsafekeeping.No,hopeisforthosewhostayintheLandoftheNotKnow
Vaguely,IrealizeOliviaisnowhoveringovermyshoulder.
“It’sgoingtobeokayeitherway,Sav,”Ihearhersayquietlyandfeelasqueezeonmyshoulders.“C’mon.”
Ipressmylipstogether.“Youknow,Idooftentellauthorsthatthelongerittakesformetoreply,thebettertheodds
areintheirfavor.IttakesmeasecondtosendarejectionwhenIknowsomethingwon’twork.Butworkingthroughamanuscript
withrealpotential…There’salottoit.Ittakesalotoftime.”
Olivianodsencouragingly.“Andshe’salreadysaidhowmuchpotentialyourbookhas,”sheadds.“Waybeforeyoumadethoserevisions.”
Inod,slowlygarneringcouragetopressthebutton.“That’strue.”
“Ireadsomemyself.Ithookedmefromthestart.”
“Mmm,”Imurmur,althoughIcan’thelpbeingawareofthefactthatifthatwereentirelytrue,she’dhavefinishedittwo
daysagowhenIgaveittoher.

“I’mallthewaytopage86!”sheexclaimsasthoughthatreallysayssomething.
Andtobefair,she’sneverbeenabigreader.Atleast,notofmaterialthattalksaboutanythingfun.Inherworld,thatprobablyreallydoesmeansomething.

“C’mon,”sheurgesandliftsherfaceintoagrin.“I’lltakeyououttocelebratetonight.Justforopeningit.Eitherway.”
Theexcitementinhereyesisthepennythattipsthescales,andwithafinalnod,Iturntofacethecomputer.Andclick.
From:ClaireDonovan
Received:10:03AM
To:SavannahCade
Subject:RE:Manuscript
DearSavannah,
ItiswithdeepregretthatImusttellyouthatBairdBookswillnotbemovingforwardwithyourmanuscript.AlthoughIwasgreatlyimpressedbythefinalproductyousent,myownopinionseemstovaryfromtheteamasawhole,andIhavebeenunsuccessfulinmyeffortstoswaythem.Theseareharddays,asI’msureyouknow.Thecompetitionisquitefierce.Nevertheless,Ihavenodoubtyouwillfindawonderfulhomeforyourstory.Youtrulydohavemuchtobeproudof.
Bestwishes,
ClaireDonovan
ChiefEditor,Romance
BairdBooksPublishing
Foralongminute,neitherofusspeak.
Ireadtheemailagain.Andagain.Quitesolemn.Quitestill.
Mybookisrejected.
Mydream…crushed.
Aftermyfourthreread,IrealizeOliviaisnolongerstandingbehindmebutisinthecornerofthelivingroom,aphone
pressedtoherear.

“Yes,I’dliketoorderfordelivery,please.Whatareyourspecials?”Shepauses,listening.“Yes,that’llbefine.Bring
itall.Yes.Allofit…All.”
Chapter22
Thenextweekgoesbyinablur.
Itrytobepositive.ItrytoholdtighttothewordsOliviahasbestowedonmethroughatleastadozenrandomlyplaced
Post-Itnotesand,ifIlether,longmonologuesoverbreakfast.Itrytorememberthatthereare“otherfishinthesea”
andthat“BairdBooksisn’ttheonlypublisheroutthere”and“Isn’titjustgoodtoknowshelovedit?Isn’tthatjustagreatnewstepworthappreciatinginthisjourney?”Butattheendofitalltherestilllies
thefactofthematter:mydreampublisherturnedmedown.AndIhavenocontract.Andnopotentialcontractinsight.

Becausethat’swhatwasalsosoamazinginitall.
Idon’thavealiteraryagent.Ihaven’tspentyearsdraftingproposalsandqueryingagentsandbuildingupacompetitive
socialplatform.Idon’thavethousandsofpeopleonmynewsletterlist,itchingtohearfrommeeveryweekandtobuymy
booktheinstantit’sout.Ihavenothing.Nothing
Exceptamanuscript.
AndnobodyisgoingtowantmelikeIamnow.
BairdBookswasthegolden-ticketmomentbecauseImetClaireinperson,anopportunitythatbarelyeverhappens.Aspiringauthorspaythousandsofdollarsforafifteen-minute
pitchsessionwithaneditoratawriters’conference,andI—fortunateoffortunates—hadbeengivenanhour.

Andshelikedme.Andthehookofmystory.Andwasjustpowerfulenoughtopotentiallytakeonmyprojectwithoutallthat
otherstuff,becauseshewaswithBairdBooks.Theycouldmakeanythingsell,evenhermitauthorswithnosocialmediaaccountsandnopreviouslyknownname
Butme?SavannahCade,nowhavingtotakealong,hardlookatwhatitwillreallytaketogetmymanuscriptinfrontofreputable
literaryagentsandeditorsandhaveanyonetakemeseriously?It’lltakeyears.Ifnotdecades.

Evenso,I’mtryingtoswallowtheideabitbybit.LikeOliviakeepstellingme,“Howdoyoueatanelephant?Onespoonful
atatime.”

Ihatetheimagery.I’vealwayshatedtheimagery.Butthepointistrue.Andattheendoftheday,Idofeeljoyinthe
writing.

Writingiswhatmakesmehappy.Writing,even,ishowIfeelIcontributetotheworld.Remindingpeopleofwhat’simportant.
Lettingthemescapetheharshpartsoflife,evenifjustforafewhours.Helpingthemfeelhappinessthroughwatchinghappily-ever-afters
unfold.Rememberingtruths.Recallingtheirself-worth.Lovingothers.Livingwell.Learning.

Iwanttodothat.
So,Iwillpresson.Eveniftheroadaheadisharshandthejourneylong,Iwillkeepon.
Seeingtheclockstrikenoon,Ipushawayfrommydesk.AsIslipmylaptopintomycomputerbag,anotherPost-ItnoteslipsoutandIbendtoretrieveit.
It’sadoodleofastickfigure,smilingwhileholdingaspoonnexttoahalf-eatenelephant.
It’sdisturbing,particularlyasthestickfigureseemssohappyaboutit.
Igrin.
“WannacomegrabsomeThaiwithme?”Lylasays,movingforthedoor.“I’mmeetingwithRyan.Youcouldjoinus.”
WhenIlookupIseethegenuineconcerninhereyes.
“No,that’sokay,”Isay,smilingslightlyatthePost-Itbeforegivingitaspotnexttothegrowingcollectiononmydesk.
“Besthedoesn’tremembermeandyouhavetoexplainyourself,”Isay,imagininghermanagerseeingmestrollupwithher
tothetable.

“Oh,he’djustturnitintosomecomplimentaboutmyingenuityorother,”shesays,wavingahandatthethought.“Andbesides,
he’sboundtorunintoyouwithmesometime.”

“Howaboutwhenyou’reofficiallyontour.”Becausetobehonest,themomentshesignedwithRyan,thingshavestartedto
happenprettyquickly.She’salreadyhadfourbookings.Locally,butstill.Four.Withrealmoney.Andluncheswithbubble
teaonhim.“Thenwecanrevealthebigsurprise.”

“Fine,”shesays,clearlygrinningattheideaofbeingontour.“ButI’mcomingbackwitheggrolls.”
Pickingupmyhalf-drunk,lukewarmcoffeeinthegreenmug,Imovetowardthehall,laptopbagovermyshoulder.Inolonger
expectSamtoshowupintheARCroom’shiddenchamber.He’savoidedmesofar;I’vecometorealizenothingisgoingtochange.

Ishuffledownthehallway,givingfriendlysmilestoeverybodyheadingoffinseparatedirectionsforlunchasIdo.
Will’sofficeattheendofthehallisopen,araresight.He’sbeengonealotthepasttwoweeks,moreoftenthanusual,
alwaysleavingwithnowarningandnoinformationabouthisreturn.Sendingemailstoeveryonejustasmuchashewouldin
office,keepingusallonourtoes.Maybethat’sjusthowit’sgoingtobewithhim.He’sgoingtobeoutoftheoffice,corresponding
throughclippedemailsforever.

Myfoothesitatesatthebottomstep,andIbraveaglancethroughhisdoor.
He’stypingawayathiscomputer,hiseyesfocusedandintenseashestaresatthecomputerthroughhisrectangularglasses.
AndforamomentIfeelthattwingeoflosthopeandlonging.

Butthenhiseyesflicker,andhespotsme.
Andforonelongmoment,aspeoplepassby,oureyeslockoneachother.
Aghostofasmilepassesmylips.
Sureenough,helookslikehe’sabouttostand,tocomeover.Hisphonerings.Heignoresit,andforawonderfulsecondI
feelmyhopesrise.Butthenhiseyesdarttothenumber.And,withanexhaleandanapologeticallybleaksmilemyway,he
turnsandtakesthecall.

Ihesitateamomentlonger,butashiswordsstringonandonwithoutanyhintofending,Imoveupthestairs.
AndwhileIwouldnormallyletthatthoughtlingerthroughtheday,Ican’thelpnoticing,asmyfeetpadpastbookshelves
amongbookshelves,thelittleglowattheendoftheroom.Forthefirsttimethefilingcabinetiswideopen,revealingthe
littlecoveinside.

Hurrying,protectivelyeven,Istepintotheroom,mythoughtspressingmeon.
Didsomeoneelsediscoverit?
Whyisitunprotected?
ButasIquicklyassesstheemptyroomandshutthedoorbehindmeandfeelmypulsestarttoslow,Inoticethenoteinthe
centerofthefloor.Imovetotherug,pickupthepieceofpaper.Allitsaysis:Didyougetanofferonthemanuscript?
Iflipitover,butnothing.
Hastily,Iscribbleananswer.No.Theyturneditdown.Butevenso,Ican’ttellyouhowmuchyourhelphasmeanttome.Thankyouagain.Truly.And…welcome
back
ForhalfaminuteIthinkaboutleavingmore,writingmore,askinghowhe’sfeelingabouteverythingandtryingtoopenup
theconversationagain.ButthenIstillmyself.Remindmyselfofthefirstrulehemade:sticktothepoint.

AndsoIdo.
Ihopemyresponseisemotionlessenough,andasfarawayfromthetopicofourrelationshipenough,tobeghimfartherinto
thestartofanewconversation.Thoughwherethisconversationwouldgo,Idon’tknow.Butdoesitmatter?Notreally.I’m
justgladhe’sback.

Eventheroomlooksgladhe’sback.
There’sapotofbrewedcoffeeinthecorner,fullofsweet,darkcaffeine,andIrefillmymug.Takeasip.Grabthelighter
andlightthecandle.

Standbackandadmireitsglow.
Noteverythingisrightrightnow.
Infact,alotiswrong.
Butevenso,Ican’thelpbutfeelalittleglowasIsitonmybeanbagandgettoworkonthelong,longtrekthathasonlybegunofwritingmyownbookproposal.Allthewhile,theroomglowsaroundme.
Andinthatmoment,Ipausetolookaround,appreciatingthejourney.Chapter23
Asitturnsout,everyone—meincluded—inthepublishingindustryisevil.
Iopenyetanotherautomatedrejectionemailfromthetwelfthliteraryagentthisweek,andwitheverythingIhaveleftresist
bangingmyheadonthetable.

Dothesepeoplerealizehowmuchworkgoesintoaproposal?Muchlessamanuscript?Honestly,IthinkofallthetimesI’veflippantlywrittenrejection
letterstohopefulwritersandtheirrespectiveagents,andIcringe.

I’mhorrible.Ahorrible,horribleperson,andIneverevenknewit.
Forgetaboutthemanuscript.Justtheamountoftimeittakestofigureouthowtomakeawebsite,getawebsitehost,findandbuyadomainname,createanewslettermailinglist,createanewslettermailing-listtemplate,andfigureouthowto“createabrand”whenyoudon’tyethaveanythingtosell…It’senoughtomakeyourbrainexplode.I’mhalfwayintothe“BecomeanInfluencerinThirtyDays!”classledbysomepeppyseventeen-year-oldgirlwhowearsalotofshinypinklipstickandtalksexcessivelywithherhands,andI’mstilllost.
Andthequestionrunningthroughmymindinallofthisis,HowonearthamIsupposedtobeabletomanageawebsite,runabimonthlynewsletter,talkdailyonInstagram,Facebook,TikTok,YouTube,
andTwitter,andstillhavetimetoactuallywritebooks?Whataretheseinsaneexpectations?

Iblameitonthoserejectionletters
Now,mindyou,99percentoftherejectionsarejustautomatedemails.Buttherareones,theoneswheretheagenthasactually
takenthetimetoleaveasentenceortwoastowhyyouarebeingrejected…Well,thosesaythesamething.Nicestoryherebutneedtohaveamorestablesocialplatformforconsideration.
So,Itooktheadviceandtriedafewthings.
Butforgoodness’sake,it’slikegettingacollegedegreejusttofigureouthowtogetanyonetofollowyouonsocialmedia.FortwoweeksI’vegivenitallI’vegot,andsofarIhaveonehomemade-lookingwebsitewith
brokenlinks,oneTwitteraccountwithzeropostsbecauseIalwaysgetlostonthehomepage,andthirty-twofollowerson
myInstagrampage.Andfortherecord,beforeallofthisIhadthirty-four.Ihaveactuallylosttwofamilymembersinthe
process.

Andworse,it’sbeenradiosilenceintheARCroom.Thatbriefspotofbrightnessfromhispresence—gone.
So,I’veforgedonalone.Workinglateintotheevenings,takingbreaksduringlunchtotrytofigureoutsomeothermind-numbing
technologicalskillforwhichI’millequippedbutthatI’mapparentlysupposedtohavetobeanauthorinthecurrentindustry
Idon’tseeWillmuch.Asisusualnow,he’sgonehalfthetime,andwhenhe’sbackhealwaysseemsbusy,mysteriousconversationsgoingonbehindhiscloseddoor.Sometimesonthephone.Sometimeswhentheaccountantstepsin.Sometimes—andthat’swhenthingsgetloud—withhismother.
Iyearntoseehim,totalktohim,butwhateverglimpseofhopeIhadbackonthestaircasewasablip,andhe’snomore
interestedinmakingsomethinghappenwithmethanSamisinpatchingthingsup.

SeemsIwasquiteoffwithbothofmyinterpretationsofthesituationthatday.
Still,IhaveOliviaback,inanewwayIhaven’tfeltsinceweweregirls.Sheevenwentoutofherwaytodragmetoour
parents’housethepreviousweek,allbutholdingtheantitheticalversionofaninterventiontodeclareshewasvery,verysorryforallthewaysshehurtmethepastfewyears—particularlywithFerris—andallbutinsistingMomandDadapologize
too.Itwasdomineering,inherusualway.Butalso…touching.Sweet.

SoIhaveherandapositivelifestyleshiftwithmyfamily.AndLyla.
Andtheyallhavebeenabalmtomysoulthesedays.
Ihavemuchtobethankfulfor.
Iseethetimeandclickoutofmyin-box.
“Readytogo?”Isay,standingfrommychair.
Lyla,deepinsidethatgeniusmindofhers,isdrawingalineonanewdesignshe’sworkingon.She’sworkingsointently
shedoesn’tseemtohearme.

Isteptowardher.Tapherontheshoulder.
Shejolts.Liftsherhead.Pullstheearbudoutofherear.
“Timeforthemeeting,”Isay.
“Can’t,”shechirps.“I’mstillonprobation.”
EvidentlyafterLylahaditoutwithDr.Shaw,Willputheron“probation”fortheforeseeablefuturefromallmeetings,allphonecalls,andallemailswithanyhumanbeingatall.She’sbasicallyinworkjail,spendinghernine-to-fivetimedesigningwithzerocommunicationwithhumanbeings(asidefrommyselfandWill,whoisevidentlyactingasheremailliaison),andI’veneverseenherhappier.
“Oh,right.Okay…then.I’moff,”Isayandmoveforthedoor.
“Havefun,”sherepliesvaguely,hereyesbackonhercomputer.
Imovedownthestairs.Thisisn’tanordinarymeeting.Ms.Pennington’sassistant,Brittney,sentoutthememojustyesterday,
informingeveryoneofanall-staffmeetingthefollowingmorning.Allappointmentswereexpectedtobecanceled.Anytraveling
plansforthedaytobeputonhold.Whateverannouncementtocomemustbeimportant,andeveryone(barringprobation-Lyla
happilysketchingawayupstairs)isexpectedtobethere.

IwalkintotheMagnoliaRoomandfaintlyrecall,asItakemyplaceintheback,howIstoodherethedayWillwasfirst
introducedtothecompany.HowItrippedonthisverycarpet,andWillpickedupmymanuscriptpage.Handeditbackwithout
aword.

Ithoughthewasterriblyintimidatingthatday,thefirsttimeIstoodupanddiscoveredmyselfstaringintothechestof
themanwhowastobemyboss.Dauntingwithhisintense,icicle-blueeyes.Hisperfectlytailoredsuit.

Butnow…
WillPenningtontakesthepodium,lookingexactlyashedidthatfirstday.Tailoredsuit.Intenseexpression.Allhintsof
cheerfulnessfar,faraway.

Theroomstillsashelooksaroundatthestaffmembersgatheredwithin.
“Thankyou,everyone,formeetingonsuchshortnotice.Mymother”—hegivesthebriefestnodtoMs.Pennington,whositsupright
inthefrontrow,herlegstightlycrossedattheanklesandabegrudginglyapprovingsmileonherlips—“andIhavecalled
youheretodaytodiscussthesituationwithPenningtonPublishinganditsfuture.”

Arippleofmurmurspassesthroughtheroom,nodoubtledbyfear.
“Itisnosecretthatthepublishingindustryeverywherehasbeenimpactedbytherecenteconomicstruggle,andsmallerhouses
likeourshavebeenhitevenmoreso.ButwhilePenningtonhastighteneditsbudgetandevenitsstaffoverthecourseof
thelastyear,itstillhasn’tbeenenough.”Willlooksdownathispaperandcontinuesreading.“Bymyforecasts,alongwith
thoseofbothourin-houseaccountantsandlegalexpertiseontheoutside,PenningtonPublishing,ifcontinuinginthemanner
ithasbeenthispastyear,willgounderwithinthreemonths.”

Thistimethemurmuringgrowsintoawaveofworriedconversation,somuchsothatWillputshishandsouttotrytocalm
everybodydown.“Please.”

Helooksaroundtheroom,waitinguntilit’ssoquietasingledropletofraincouldlandontheroofandstillbeheard.
“WhenIleftSterlingafewmonthsago,Ididn’tcomeonafool’serrand.IcamebecauseIbelieveinthiscompany.Ibelieve
initsgoals.Ibelieveinitspeople.AndIcamewithaplan.”

Willleft?

Willwasn’tletgo?
“Aplan,andanewventureforthecompany,thatwillnotonlyallowPenningtontokeepitsrootsastheplacetolooktoforqualityliteraryfictionandnonfictionbutalloweverysingleemployeeheretodaytonotonlystaybuthopefullythrive.AsofApril1,PenningtonPublishingwillbesoldtoArcher.”
“Archer?”EvenIcan’thelpmutteringinshock.ButArcheris…

“Yes,”hesays,noddingasthevolumeintheroomgoesuponceagain.“Archerisacompanyspecializingincommercialfiction.
Andtherewillcertainlybesomeadjustments.Someofyouwillbeaffordedtheopportunitytoturnyourspecialtiestomore
commercialworks,likewesterns,cozymysteries,andromance.Others—particularlythoseofyouwhoarepassionateaboutyour
chosenfieldsandpossessthegreatestexperience—willsticktoyourcurrentexpertise.Formanyofyou,though,thiswill
meanagenreshift.”

Heletsthatsettlein,andabittomysurprise,nottoomanypeoplearescowlingattheidea.Infact…quiteafew
facesarebrighteningup.There’sevensomeelbowrubbingwithneighbors.IsevenYossigrinning?

“So…we’llhavetobuildawholenewdirectoryofplacestopushourpressreleases?”Margeraiseshervoiceandasks.
Willnods.“Forthoseofyouinpublicitywhoareswitchingfields,yes.You’llhavetobuildawholenewsetofrelationships.”
“Andifwemoveover,”Tawnyachimesin,“we’llbeeditingcompletelynewfiction.WorksfrompeoplelikeDebbieMacomber.
FrancineRivers.”

“Yes.Ifyouarecalledtomoveover,yes.”
Andtomysurprise,Tawnyabreaksoutintoahugegrin,almostasifshe’swonthelottery.
Willobservesher.“Doesthismakeyou…happy,Tawnya?”
“Doesit?”shesaysandpullsthreesmall,thickpaperbacksfromherbag,lovestruckcouplesoneachcoverofpeppybluesandpinksandgreens.
Andforthefirsttime—inalongtime,really—IseeWillcrackasmile.Forthefirsttime,hisshouldersstarttoease.“I’m
gladtohearthat.AndI’dliketothankyouforthatnicesegueintomynextpoint.Inadditiontothesechanges,theArcherPennington
divisionherewillbestartingasecondbrand-newlineofcommercialfiction.Alinedevotedtopublishingsweet,uplifting
romances.It’sgoingtobecalledArcherHeart.”

Myheartalmoststops.
Anewline.A…romanceline.
“I’vebeenworkingwithyourCEOandmymotherforsometimeregardingitsdevelopment.Andwhilemymother,asmanyofyou
know,mayhavesomequibbleswithentertainmentfictionasawhole,shehascometoseethevalueinstoriesthatareenjoyable
forthemassestoreadbutalsooffersomeofthefundamentalmessagesourliterarygreatshavesharedintheirowntime.
Messagesofunity.Ofovercomingevilwithgood.Ofloveconqueringall.AndIcanthinkofnoonebettertorepresentthis
lineasanexampleofwhattheworldatlargecanexpectfromArcherHeart…thananauthorI’vebeenprivilegedtoknow
forsometime.HollyRay.”

Nowmyheartreallydoesstop.
Igrabthechairinfrontofmeforsupport.
“HollyRay?Haveyouheardofher?”Ihearfromsomeoneacrosstheroom.
“Ohyes,Ireadherforabookclub.Quitegood,”saysanother.
“Ohhhh.HollyRayyyy,”whispersanother,asthoughshejustmentionedsomeonewho’sbeenafavoriteofhersfordecades.

Willcatchesmyeyethen.There’sanunmistakableupturnofhislipspeekingfromhisprofessionalpostureashecontinues,holdingthepaper,shiftinghisgazebacktotheaudience.
“Ihavereadandvettedthismanuscriptpersonally,andaftermultiplediscussionswithfriendsandcolleaguesinthemass
markets,IsentthenoveltoMaggieSamson”—hepausestogiveanodherway—“whowillbeheadinguptheArcherHeartimprint.
Inshort,shelovedit.”Hepausesagain,andhisgringrows.“AndIampleasedtoannounceonherbehalfthatsheandher
teamintendtopulltogetheracompetitivecontractofferforathree-bookdeal.NowallweneedtohopeisthatHollytakes
it.”

Anappreciativechucklemovesaroundtheroom.
MeanwhileIcan’tbreathe.Can’tmove.
Willatlastsetsdownthepaperinhishand.Putshisspeechasideasheaddressestheroom.“So,expectthingstostart
shufflingaroundprettysoon.It’llbeabearworkingoutournewpositions.AndIhavenodoubttherewillbetensionsat
times.Butoverall,mymotherandIareverypleasedwiththisdecisionandhope
Andwhilethemeetingmovesontoother,morelogisticalmatters,Ican’thearanyofit.Becausetheworldaroundmehas
quakedsoheavilywholecolumnsthatwereholdingupmypreviousbeliefshavecrumbled,leavingmeunabletodoanythingbut
stareatthecrushedpiecesatmyfeet.Mymysteryeditorwasn’tSam.ItwasneverSam.

ItwasWill.Allthosenotes,allthosemessages,wereforhim.Fromhim.
It’sbeenhimallalong.
Theenergyintheaircracklesasthemeetingcomestoanend.Peopleallaroundaretalkingexcitedlytooneanother,abuzzofquestionsincluding,“Whoisgoingtotakeovereachdivision,then?”And“Doesthatmeanwegettopickwhichgenrewe’dliketospecializein?”Andeven“He’snotgoingtomakemereadthrillers,ishe?BecauseIwon’t,Gertrude.Iwon’t.”

Asforme,Imayaswellhavemyshoesnailedtothecarpet,becauseIdon’tthinkIcanwalk.
NearlyeveryonehastrickledoutbythetimeWillreachesme.
Myheadiswhirring,mybrainstilltryingtocomputeeverythingthathasjusthappenedandbeenconfirmed,andfailing.
Ashewalksuptome,hisstepsarewary.He’sgrinning,butdespitethat,there’ssomeuncertaintyinhiseyes.
“Letmegetthisstraight,”Isayashestopsinfrontofme.“You’reofferingmeacontract.”
Heshakeshishead.“Iamnotofferingyouacontract.Maggieisofferingyouacontract.”
“Yes,right.Maggie.”Inod,thengiveaboutsixextranodstomyselfwhileglancingMaggie’sway.“Doessheknowit’sme?”
Againheshakeshishead.“I’llleavethatuptoyourdiscretion.”
“Sure.”Inodagain,lettingthissettlein.SoMaggiechosemymanuscript.Notbecausewesharedayogurtinthebreakroom
onetime.NotbecauseIpurposefullywentwithpumpkinsyrupinmycoffeeoncebecauseIknewshewantedthelastofthevanilla.
Notoutofworkplace-sistersolidarity.Butbecauseshelikedmybook.Shelikedmybook.
Andthen,becauseIamapparentlyincapableoflettingagoodthinglie,alittlerain-cloudthoughtforms,andInarrowmy
eyes.“Sobasicallyyouhandedherthemanuscript,andshelikeditbecauseshehadto.You’reherboss.”

Atthishechuckles,almostasthoughheexpectedasmuchfromme.“Actually,Savannah,Ipurposefullysentheradozenproposals.Particularlyforthatreason.Shechoseyours.”
Ican’thelpit.Theideathatsheactuallychosemineoverothersiselating,andIcan’thelpgrinning.“Andwhere,exactly,
didyougetadozenproposals?”

“Why,fromClaireDonovan,”hereplies.“Anoldfriend.Ofcourse.”
WhenIstareathim,hecontinues.“Iwasn’tmakingitupwhenIsaidinthatmeetingthatClaireisafriend,andonewhom
Iintendedtomeetwithbeforeherretirement.Ididgetthatmeetingtodiscussapotentialproject—which,asyouknow,was
thisone—andshehappilyofferedupseveralrejectedproposalsshethoughthadpromisebutthatshe’dbeenunable,forone
reasonoranother,totakeon.”

“Andofthestackofproposals…”
“Maggiedecidedtopursuethree,yoursbeingthemostpromising.”
Andherehistemplescrinklewithhissmileashewatchesmybewilderedface,andhisvoicesoftens.“Whichisn’tsurprising.
BecauseImeantitwhenIsaidyourstoryisagoodone.Andthatitdeservestobeheard.”

“Eventhough…”Ican’thelppressingthepoint.Ican’thelpwantingtobeabsolutelysureherealizeswhathe’ssaying.
“ItwasturneddownbyBairdBooks.”

“Theirloss,”heparries,undeterredintheslightest.“Savannah,IhavehadadecadeatSterlinginthebookbusiness.Beyond
that,Iwasquiteliterallybornintothisbookbusiness.Iknowtheindustry.AndIknowthatifyouletusgiveyourbook
achance,wecansellittotheworld.”

IfIlethim.If.Hehastoknowthere’snoquestion.Doesn’the?

“Imusttellyou,I’mreallyawfulatTikTok,”Isayafteralengthypause.“I’vebeenatittwoweeksandhavefivefollowers.AndI’mnotsureanyofthemarerealpeople.”
He’spressinghislipstogether,tryingtosmotherhissmile.“Ithinkwewillbeabletosucceeddespitethatsetback.”
“AndIcreatedanewsletter.Butrightnowtheonlysubscribersaremysisterandparents.”
“I’msureyouhaveterrificopen-and-clickrates,then,”heresponds.“Andforthatmatter,I’llletyougoaheadandsubscribe
metothatlist.”

He’sserious.
Hetrulybelievesinmybook,despiteallthoseotherthings.Thereistrulyacontractonthetable.
AndforalongsecondIcan’tthinkofanythingelsetosay.AllIcandoistrymybesttogatherupthethreadsofthis
conversationinabigheapinmyarmsandholdtighttothemasthetangletheyareuntilIcanslipawayandtakethetime
tounravelitall.Andtakeasnapshotinmymindofthismoment.SoIcanremembereverythingaboutthewayhe’slooking
atmenow.

Hiscrinklysmilelessens,andhisexpressionshiftsasthebanterfallsaway.“Iwantyoutoknowthatnoneofthisisbecause
ofmyfeelingsforyou.Youtrulyhavewrittenawonderfulbook,anddespitehowthingshaveshapedupforuspersonally,
onaprofessionallevelIhavenothingbutrespectandadmirationforyourteachablespiritandcreativeideas.Ireallydo
believethatunderMaggie’sexpertiseyoucansucceedhere,and—”

Iliftahand.“I’msorry.Ithinkweneedtobackuptoacriticalpieceofthispuzzle.”
AndjustthenIseeBrittneycomeupbehindWillandtaphisshoulder.Samisstandingbyherside,lookinganxiousanduncomfortable.
Willturns.
“MayIhavethatback,please?”shesays,lookingpointedlyatthemuginWill’shand.“Ithassentimentalvalue.”
“It’sfine,Brittney,”Samsays,chucklinguncertainly.“Theyjustwanttoborrowthem.”
“Sam.Forthefifteenthtime,itisn’tborrowingifsomeonetakesitwithoutaskingandkeepsitforweeksonend.”Sheturns
hergazebackonuswithasweetsmile.

I’lladmit,Idon’tthinkI’veeverheardBrittneytalkoutloudsinceshejoinedthecompanyasMs.Pennington’spersonal
assistant.AllI’veseenherdoisrunafterMs.Pennington,scribblingfuriouslywithherpenandpad.It’sfunny.Hervoice
doesn’tsoundanythinglikeIwould’veimagined.Muchless…delicate.

WillandIdropoureyestothemuginhishands.
“So…thisisn’tyours?”hesays,lookingatme.“Youdidn’taddthistotheroom?”
“Ididn’t,”Isayimmediately,puttingmyhandonmychest.“Ithoughtitwasyou.”Ilaugh.“Imean,Ididthinkitwasprettycheesyofyoutoaddthem,nowthatIthinkofit,but—”

“Hey,now,”Brittneysays,frowningassheholdsoutherhand.
Willpromptlyhandsherthemug.
Slowly,newquestionsform.Ifthemugsaretheirs…
“So…whataboutthelights?”Isay.
“Me,”Brittneysays.
Myeyeswiden.“Candle?”
“Alsome,”Brittneysays,startingtosoundproud.“Ithoughttheplaceneededalittleglow.”
“Ilikedit,”Isayquickly.“Itwasaverynicetouch.”
Brittneygivesalittle-girlishsmileandraiseshereyebrowsatSamasiftosay,“See?Itoldyouitwasbetter.”
MyeyesflickerovertoSam.“So…thetwoofyouareacouple,then.WhofoundtheARCroomtoo.”
Brittneygrinsandsaysasloudlyasever,“Yes,wedid.IfounditlastJunewhenrunninganerrandforMs.P.Thedoorwas
open—”

Ican’thelpbutwince,vaguelyrememberingsecond-guessingmyselfonedaylastsummerwiththequestionofifIhadactually
shutitornot.

“—andIwasjustaboutbowledoverwhenIdiscoveredwhatwasinside.ButIneverreallyhadareasontouseit—”
Areason?Whatdoesshemean,“neverreallyhadareason”?It’sahiddenroom!
“—untilSamandIstarteddating,”shecontinues.“Andyes,wearedating.Didn’twanttoannounceituntilGisellewasgone.
Butnowthatshe’smovedonto…”

“HostessingatthePaintedPonySaloon,”Isay,fillingintheblanksforher.
“Right.”Shenods.“Nowthatshe’satthePaintedPony,wearehappytomakethenewsofficial.”ShereachesforSam’shand
andholdstightforgoodmeasure.“Goingtothatlittleroomeveryonceinawhilewasjustourwaytohavesomenicelittle
meet-and-greetsinsecretuntilwecouldshare.”

“Notthatourworkhassuffered,”Samaddssuddenly,lookingdirectlyatWill.“Wemadeverysureofthat.Justlikeyouall
did,too,I’msure.”

AtthatpointWillandIglanceateachother.
“Ofcourse,”webothsayatonce.
“Right,”Willadds.
“Andforthatmatter,youwereobviouslydoingworkinthere,asInowunderstand,”Samsays,looseningupabitnowthathe’sbeenopenlycleared.Helooksatme.“Isn’t
thatright…Holly?”

Hiseyestwinkleohsoslightlywiththename.
“Don’tworry,”hecontinues,nodoubtseeingmycheeksflush.“I’malawyerbytrade.I’musedtoconfidentiality.Thesecret’s
safewithus.”

“WecouldbelikeARCbuddies,”Brittneyadds,hercheeksglowingwiththesuddeninspiration.“Itcouldbelikeourownsecret
fraternity.”

InodonandonastheconversationturnsenthusiasticallytowardhomemadeT-shirtswithoursecretclublogostampedonthe
front,grouphandshakes,anddoubledates.Itstopsonthequestionofdoubledates,andmyeyesshifttoWill.

His,too,lookuncertainlybackatme
“Brittney,howaboutwegogetthatcoffeemugfromSavannah’sroomandhaveagoatthem?”Samsays,clearlyseeingthesituation
athand.

Andastheymoveoutoftheroom,it’sjustWillandme.
“IthoughtitwasSam,”Iconfessimmediatelyandrubbothhandsupmytemples.“Oh,thisisallsoconfusing.Ithoughtmy
editorwasSam.”

“Sam?”Willsaysincredulously.Helookslikehe’sbeenslappedintheface.“HowcouldyouthinkIwasSam?”

“Well,Ikeptrunningintohimupthere,justashewascomingandlookingsoguiltyeverytimeIsawhim,and—oh,”Isay,
closingmyeyes.“Itallmakessensenow.So…letmejustrunthisthroughoutloud.You’rehim.”

“I’mhim.”
“Andhe’syou.”Iopenmyeyes.
Willtiltshishead,asthoughclearlyfindingmeamusing.“He’sme.”
“So…what,”Isay,venturingtowardanewthought.“Youknewaboutthesecretroombecauseyou’retheson.Youprobably
knoweverysquareinchofthishouse.Ofcourseyouknew.”

“IknowabouttheroombecauseImadeitmyfirstsummerinmiddleschool,”hesays.“Itwasoriginallyjustanoffshootof
theARCroom.Dadspentalotoftimewithmeovertheyears,teachingcarpentryskills,howtousemyhands.Onedaywhen
Iwascleaningouttheroomforsomeoddjobs,IrealizedthatifIcovereduptheolddoorwiththatcabinetanddidsome
basicmaneuvering,Icouldjustabouterasetheroomfromexistence.Turnitintomyowngetaway.”

“Didmanypeopleknowaboutit?”
“Afew.Mostofthemgonenow.Butmymotherisone.”
Iraiseabrow.“Yourmother?Yourmotherknowsabouttheroom?”
“Whodoyouthinksuppliedtherugandfurniture?”Willgrinsandlowershisvoiceasheleansdown.“Mother’sabitofa
Narniafan.”

Well,I’llbe.Ms.Penningtonlikeshappyfiction.Playful,whimsicalfictionwithoutanydespairingendingoranything.
Ashestepsback,hefrowns.“Soyoureallydidn’tthinkitwasme.Allthistime.Iadmit,I’mhavingahardtimeprocessing
thatrightnow.”

“Iwantedittobeyou.Butno.AndthenIfoundmyselffightingwithmyself,becauseIfoundmyselfso…”Ihesitate.

Hisforeheadcreases.“So?”
Iexhale.Confess.“Soattractedtothepersononthepage,andyetwheneverIwaswithyouface-to-faceIfeltthesameway,anditwasallsoconfusing,believingIhadfeelingsfortwototallydifferentpeopleandhavingtochoose.Andyet…”Ibreakoff.
“Yet?”
“Yethereyouare.Anditturnsout…Idon’thavetochooseatall.”
“Holdon.”Heseemstorecallsomethingandputsupafinger.“Doesthatmean…whenyoutoldmeonpaperyoucaredfor
someoneelse—”

“ThatIwasrejectingyoubecauseIlikedyou?Yes,”Isupply.
Heisquietforamomentandthenlaughs.Ahearty,richlaughthatmakesthecarpetshake.“Youknow,youshouldwritea
bookaboutthat.That’saprettygoodplottwist.”

Igrinandtiltmyhead.“MeetMeintheMargins.Ithasaniceringtoit.”

Andaswestandthere,smilingatoneanother,hiseyestransitionfromholdingmirthtosomethingmore.Asthoughheremembers
something.Something…inviting.Heconsidersme.“So.Didyouevergetthatkissscenesortedout?”

Bitingmybottomliptokeepafeelingofhopefultrepidationfromrising,Ishakemyhead.“IguessthatmeansMaggiecan’t
publishthestoryafterall,doesn’tit?”

“I’mafraidso.Can’tpublisharomancewithoutaproperkissscene.”
AndthenIrealizehe’stouchingmyelbow.
He’stakingasteptowardme.
Icansmelltheoldscentofcedarandgreasearoundmenow.Canalmostfeelthewarmthofhisoldtruckandthemorningroutineofchoosingfromoneofhisfourcoffeepotsashewatchestheflakesfallpasthiswindow.Iwanttobeapartofthatlife.Iwanttobeinit.
“But…,”hecontinuessoftly,gazingdownintomyeyesnow,mereinchesbetweenus,“ifyou’reopentoit,I’dbehappy
togiveyousomesuggestions.”

Ihaveanintakeofbreathashisfingergrazesmychinandgentlyliftsit.Myeyesriseand,withthem,myhope.
“Well,forthesakeofthemanuscript…,”Imanagetoallbutwhisperandliftohsoslightlyonmytoes
Andthen,asthoughhe’sbeenwaitingallhislifeforthosefinal,acquiescentwords,hishandscupmyjawline,andhedraws
mein.

Ifeelhisbreathminglingwithmyownashislipsmeetmine.
Iftherewasanydoubtbefore,anyroomforwondering,Ifeelwithcertaintynowtheanswerinhiskiss.Hewantsme.Has
wantedmeallalong,perhaps.SavannahCade.Thegirlwiththefungal-feetstoriesfromthegym.Thegirlwhothrowssmall
tempertantrumswhenhercharacters’namesareputintoquestion.Thegirlwhoshowsupatbarsimpersonatingbookingagents
onbehalfofherbestfriendandcan’tfitintosize2warrior-bluedressesandlikestorewatchpainfullycornymovieseven
thoughtheyalwaysmakehercry.

Thewayhishandsmovetocradlemyneck,holdingontome,nowsaysheknowsallofthesethingsaboutme,hasknownthese
thingsforalongtime,andtheyonlymakehimwantmemore.

Whichisconvenient,asIfeelthesame.
Atlasthislipsturnplayfulashismouthturnsintoanalmostbashfulsmile.Aswepart,hishandsslipdowntoholdbothofmine.Andwhilehissmileistimid,hiseyesareonfire,asthoughapologizingfordemonstratingsuchsurprisinganduncageddesire,butatthesametimegazingatmenowlikehewoulddoitagaininasecond.
“Well,”hesays.Andleavesitthere.
Mycheekstingle.Thenapeofmyneck,freshlyreleasedfromhisstronghand,ishot.
Foralongmomentwejustlookateachother.Until…
“Yeah…thatwasokay,”Isaynonchalantly,althoughhighlyawareofthefactI’mgrinningeartoear.
Andthatdoesit.Thatbreaksthespell.
“Justokay?”hesaysincredulously.“Just…”There’saquestioninhistone.Thistimehe’sreallyasking.“…okay?”

“Well,Imean…”Itakeonaninstructionaltone.“Wherewereyourhands?I’mprettysuretheyjuststayedthere,clipped
toyoursides”—myeyestwinkle—“likeyouweremadeofcardboard.”

“Theywereholdingyou!”heretorts.“Whatdoyoumean,whereweremyhands?Theywereholdingyou!”

“Werethey?”Isayinnocently,asthoughIcan’tremember—quiteclearly,infact—exactlywherehishandsskimmedthebackofmyarms,tuggedmeclose,cuppedmycheeksandthenmyneckthepastthreeminutes.I
shrug.“Youknow,theimportantthinghere,Ithink,ispractice.Icantellwe’regoingtohavetopracticealot.Indoors.
Outdoors.We’lljusthavetokeeppracticingasmuchaswecanuntilwegetitright.”

There’salongpauseasWillsurveysmywords.
Alongpausefollowed,atlast,byashortnod.“Seemsfair.”
Andashedropsmeoffatmyofficedoorafewminuteslater,surroundedbytheincomingandoutgoingtrafficofpeoplewalking
aroundusinthehall,Ican’thelpbutsmileasheleansagainstthedoorwayandasks,“So.MeetyouintheARCroomattwo?”
Epilogue
TwoYearsLater
“Yes,wedocarrybook-clubkitsforlibrariansonourwebsite,oryoucanfinditon…at…at…”
“HollyRay.com,”Ifinish,smilingserenelyatGabriel.
Gabrielisournewestacquisitionseditor.She’stwenty-two.She’slovely.Andshe’scompletelyterrifiedshe’sgoingtoscrew
up.

“I’mfinehere,Gabriel.Howaboutyoutakeabreakandgetsomecoffee?”Isay,watchingthegirlgiveanentirelyoverwhelmed
lookattheexhaustinglineoflibrariansatourbooth.

Theyareallhereformysigning.Correction:HollyRay’ssigning.
Ofhersecondbookinaseries.
FunnyhowofallpeopleinNashville,I’mtheonewhoendedupwithastagename.
Iwritehalfdaysthesedays,andspendtheotherhalfasacquisitionseditorforthemainstreamArcherPenningtonline.I’veconsidereddroppingmyeditingjobafewtimes,buttheperksaretoogreattoeverletthatbearealpossibility.Forone,IstillshareanofficewithLyla(whoseprobation,barringLOAevents,hasjustbecomethegeneralruleforher).Istilleditbooks,althoughmyclientlisthasshrunknowtoamanageablesix,andIamjustaspassionateabouttheircozymysteries,YA,andspeculativeworksasmyown.
AndIstillhavemylittlegetawayinthehiddenroom,althoughnowWilljoinsme.AndsometimesBrittney.AndsometimesSam—who
hasturnedouttobeatrulylovelymanafterall.

Andweallreallydohaveasecretgrouphandshake.
I’mlisteningtoawomantalkabouthertwogrowndaughtersasIfinishoffmysignatureonmynewbookwhenIhearLyla’s
voiceriseabovethegeneralhum.

“Protectthecastle!Protectthecastleatallcosts!”

IswivelmyheadaroundandseeLylainatug-of-warwiththesamelibrarianfromtwoyearsagowhowassobentonstealing
Oswald’sfoam-boardheadshot.LylastillhasthesameoldDollyPartonhair,whichswingsviolentlyallaroundher.Shealso
hasaprotrudingbellyshowingshe’saboutfiveweeksfromherduedate.Threeweeksintoherfirsttoursherealizedshe
mightnotbecutoutforthecountry-starlifeafterall.Nowshesingsontheweekendshereandthere,andWillandI,along
withGarrett,andevenSamandBrittney,goouttoshowoursupport.

“Excuseme,”Isaypolitelytothewomanbeforemeandhandherthecopy.
IspotYossiandMargeinthecorner,coveredupinconversation.Gabrieljustleftforcoffee.Willisoffatanappointment.
It’suptome.

IjumpupandrushasquicklyandprofessionallyasIcanovertoLyla.Igrabhershouldersandsaycalmly,“Whatdidwejusttalkaboutinthecar,sweetie?”
Lylastiffenswithoutlettinggo.Herlipspurseandhernosewrinkles.
“Whatwasit?”Ipromptagain.Istareather,smiling,untilshegives.
Lyla,aftergloweringatthelibrarian,finallylooksatme.
“Remindourselves,”Lylachantsdully,“thatpeoplehavefeelings.Andtheyaremoreimportantthanthings.”
“Whatthings?”
Lylaraiseshereyestotheceiling.“Books.Pens.Andfoamboards.”
“AndwhatisWillgoingtodoifhecatchesyouchasinganothernicelibrariandowntheaisle?”
Lylaexhales.Letsgoofthefoamboardandfoldsherarmsacrossherchest.“Makemestandinfrontofeveryoneatthenext
meetingandcomplimenteachpersononebyone.”

“That’sright,”Isay,rubbinghershoulderssoothinglyforseveralseconds.Ithenturntothelibrarianandgiveherabroad,
we’re-all-sane-heresmile.“I’msosorry,butthatboardisn’tpartofthemerchandisewearegivingawaytoday.”

Theelderlymiscreant,forherpart,onlywrinklesherbrowdistastefullyatme,withzeroregardthatit’smyownfaceshe’s
currentlystealing.

“I’dbehappytogiveyoumybookinstead.Signedpersonally,”Iadd.
She,holdingthefoamboard,takesastepbackward.
Besideme,IhearLylahiss.
“Youknowwhat?”I’msteppingonLyla’stoes.“HowaboutIjustsignthatforyouandyoucantakeit?I’mhappyto.”
ButasIturntograbmySharpie,thesmallwomanswivelsfasterthanIimaginedwaspossibleandmakesasquirrelyrushforthecrowd.
Well.Sometimesthat’showitgoes.
Ireturntomyseat,andtomeetingwithlibrarians,manyofwhomI’vespecificallycometoknowoverthepasttwenty-four
monthsasthesweetest,mostencouraging,andmostpowerfulcheerleadersformybooks.Andbytheendofthesigning,myaching,
smilingcheeksreflectit.

“Thanks,MissMichelle,”Isay,passingherthebook.“I’llbelookingforwardtoit.”
MissMichelle,akindlibrarianoutinEastTennessee,takesthebookandslipsitintoherbulgingtote,alongwithallthe
otherARCreadsfortheday.“Thanks,Savannah.We’reallreallyexcitedforourchatwithyou.”

“Metoo,”Isayandsmileather,meaningit.Someauthors,likeOswald(whomIendedupretainingdespitethecompanyshakeup,
simplybecausehewassooverwhelmedatthethoughtofaneweditor),findsocialgatheringsaroundtheirbooksterrifying.
Notme.Chattingwithbookclubsisquitepossiblymyfavoritepartofthejob.

Thelibrariandriftsintothestreamoftraffic,andIsitthereonmylittlebarstool,snaggingamomenttotakeitallin.
Thehumofenergy.Theeagerfaces.

Afewmomentslaterthere’sabreakinthestreamofpassingpeople,andIseeWillstandingontheotherside.
He’sjustlookingatme,asthoughhe’sbeenstandingthereforsometime,takingitallinaswell.Aneasysmileplayson
hislips.

Ashesauntersforward,Iseetwohardcoversinonehand.
Recognizingtheboldorangecover,Isuckinabreath.“Isthat…?”
“Green’slatest?Yes.Gotoneforyou.Oneforyourmom.Ihadtobarter,though.Greenwasprettyparticularaboutwhathe
wanted.”

Hegivesawrysmile,andIfeelimpossiblethoughtsforminginmyhead.“Hedidn’t…want…mine?”Isayincredulously
andwithgrowingawe.

“No,”Willsays,clearlyhavingnoproblemdashingmyhopes.“Guessagain.”
Myeyesdancearoundthetablesbesideme,coveredinourtitles.“Jackson’s?”
Willshakeshishead.
Myeyesdancearoundagain.“Hugh’s?”
Willshakeshisheadagain.“Oswald’s,”hesaysatlast,grinningsomuchhiseyescrinkle.“Evidently,Traceishavingsome
sortofvoleproblemandthinksOswald’stheguyforthejob.”

I’mmomentarilystunned,imaginingGreen—whoistrulyonanotherlevel—perusingOswald’sbookunderlamplightfromsomemassive
leatherchairinsomemassivehomelibrary.Butthenanotheridealights.“Getablurbfromhim.Getablurb,andwe’llput
itonOswald’snextcover.”

“Alreadyasked,”hesays,steppingaroundthepodiumtostandbesideme.“Andwhilewe’reonit,Ifinishedyourmanuscript
lastnight.”

Iraiseahopefulbrow.“And?”
“Thetimelinehassomeissues.Thesecondarycharactersareweak.But,I’llgrant,thehookisstrong.”
“Isthatso?”Isayandgivehimaplayfulpunchonthearm.
“Gently,Mrs.Pennington.”Herubshisarmwithagrin.“You’rewearingdiamonds.”
Andit’strue.AsIpullmyhandback,Ican’thelpadmiringthesinglesolitarydiamondtwinklingbeneaththehighfluorescent
lightsoftheconferencebuilding.AgiftfromMs.Pennington—Martha,Iamendmentally,althoughitseemsI’llnevergetused
tocallingherthat.Andthebandfrommyownmother,passeddownfromherown.

Willleansdown,andthere,asI’vecometoexperienceregardlessofambience,regardlessoffluorescentlightingorpark
treesorglowingstringlightsallaround,Iexperiencetheperfectkiss.

Theperfectkiss,becauseit’swiththemanIlove—andwillloveforevermore,overscrambledeggsandweddingchina.DiscussionQuestions
Savannahisinafamilyofchronicmultitaskers.Howdoyouhandlemultitasking?Doyouhaveahealthyorunhealthymental
wayofhandlingallthetasksinyourlife?

Haveyoueverseenaccomplishmentsasabadthing?How,inthebook,washittinganaccomplishmentsometimesdemonstrative
ofabadthing?When,inthebook,washittinganaccomplishmentagoodthing?What’sthedifference?

WhenSavannahlosesherlongtimeboyfriendtohersister,whatdoyouthinkofherfamily’sreaction?
Point-of-viewisapowerfulthing.FromSavannah’sperspective,losingherlongtimeboyfriendovernighttoOliviaand“Cupid’sarrow”wasdevastating,butifthestoryhadbeentoldfromOlivia’spoint-of-view,itcouldhavebeenviewedasdramaticallyromantic.Howhaveyouseenthisworkinyourlife,orperhapswhenyoulistentotwoverydifferentstoriesfromthoseinconflict?
Givenhowsubjectiveeachperson’spoint-of-viewistoanexperience,howshouldyoureactwhenotherpeoplerelaydifferent
experiencesfromyours?

SavannahandWilliamendupinoneofthosechallenging,butunderstandable,workrelationshipswherethebossandemployee
areattractedtooneanother.Whatisyouropinionofsuchrelationshipsandsituations?Haveyoueverseenitbeabador
goodthing?

Justbeforethefinalstaffmeeting,Savannahacceptsthefactthatshe’sgoingtohavetodoalotofworkoverseveralmore
yearsinordertocontinuepursuingherwritingpassion.Shedecidesthatshewon’tletrejectiongetinherway.Haveyou
everhadthatmoment?Whatweretheconsequencesofsuchperseverance?
WhatwouldyoudoifyoustumbledintoahiddenARCroom?Howwouldyoudecorateit?Wouldyoutellpeople?
Whichcharacter’sweaknessdoyouidentifywithmost?Why?
Whichcharacter’sstrengthdoyouidentifywithmost?Why?
WhatdoesSavannahlearnaboutherselfintheendthatchangesher?How?
Whowasyourfavoritecharacter,andwhy?Acknowledgments
TheideacameforthisbookwhileIwasfirsttouringtheofficesofmyownpublishinghouse,ThomasNelson,withmythen
editor,JocelynBailey.Theambienceoftheofficewasdelightful.Thehumofactivityandfloorsofpeoplealldedicating
theirenergytowardonegoal—thepublicationoflife-givingbooks—wasinspirationalinitself.ThenIvisitedalittleunassuming
room,notmuchbiggerthanaclosetreally,whereshelvesofARCcopieswerestored.Theroomwasglorious.Hundredsofbooks
thathadnotyetbeenreleasedtothepublic,thereforthetaking.Andthenmyeditorwavedattheshelvesandsaidtwomagic
words,“Takesome.”Thatmoment,combinedwithwitnessingthebuddingromancebetweenacertaincharminglawyerandacertain
endearingeditor,andIknewIhadmynextstory.Whatbetterplacetowriteaboutthanhere?Whatbetterplacetostartthan
inatuckedawayARCroominalltheexcitementofthepublishingbusiness?

SothereisnowhereIcanbeginwithmygratitudethanwitheveryoneatThomasNelson.Fornotjusthelpingtogetmystoriesoutintheworldthroughtalentedcoverdesign,editing,salesandmarketingefforts,andpublicity,butbybeingtheinspirationforthisstoryitself,thankyou.Thankyou.Thankyou.ForLynnBuckley’sstunningcoverdesignofthisbook,thankyou.ParticularlytothosewithwhomIhavethejoyofcommunicatingwithoften—LauraWheeler,
Andformyforever-firsteditorwhotookmeon,walkedwithmethroughthisstoryandsomuchmore,andhassincemovedon
tootherlifeadventures,JocelynBailey,thankyou.

Tomyagent,KimWhalen,thankyouforalwaysbeingsoavailableandencouraging.
ToAshleyHayes,forbeingsuchawonderfulcomrade.
ToNicoleColey,forwalkingalongsidemewithcreativesupportofmybooks.
ToChristineBerg,foralwaysbeingmyfirstandfavoritereader.
Tomyhusbandandfamilyforconstantsupport,thankyou.
Tothosebookstagrammersandbloggerswhohavesharedmybooksinthemostgorgeousofways,youtrulymovetheneedle,and
Iamindebtedtoyou.

ToChrist,forgivingmeareasontowrite.
Andtoeverysinglereaderwhoencouragesmeonsocialmedia,repliestomynewsletteremails,sharesmybooks,writesreviews,
tellsyourbookclubs,andjustmakesmefeellikeI’mpartofacozycommunity,thankyou.Iappreciateeverythingyoudo
morethanIcansay.
AbouttheAuthor
PhotobyTaylorMeoPhotography
MelissaFergusonisthebestsellingauthoroftitlesincludingTheDatingCharade,ThisTimeAround,andTheCul-de-SacWar.ShelivesinTennesseewithherhusbandandchildrenintheirgrowingfarmhouselifestyle,andwritesheartwarmingromantic
comediesthathavebeenfeaturedinsuchplacesasTheHollywoodReporter,Travel+Leisure,BuzzFeed,andWoman’sWorld
***
She’dloveforyoutojoinheratwww.melissaferguson.com.
Instagram:@our_friendly_farmhouse
TikTok:@ourfriendlyfarmhouse
Facebook:@AuthorMelissaFergusonAcclaimforMelissaFergusonMeetMeintheMargins
“MeetMeintheMarginsisadelightfullycharmingjewelofabookthatfansofromanticcomedywon’tbeabletoputdown—andwillwanttoshare
withalltheirfriends.ReaderswilllosethemselvesinMelissaFerguson’switty,warmtaleofSavannahCadeandtheperfectly
drawncastofcharactersthatinhabitsherworld.Thisliterarytreatfullofmissedopportunities,secondchances,andmaybe
eventruelove,shouldbeatthetopofyourreadinglist!”

—KristyWoodsonHarvey,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofUndertheSouthernSky
“Fergusonhaspennedalivelyromanceforeverybookwormwhooncelongedtostepthroughthewardrobeorsleepunderthestairs.
MeetMeintheMarginsbrimswithcrispproseandcrinklingpagesasSavannahCade,lowlyeditoratahighbrowpublisher,secretlyreworkshercommercial
fictionmanuscriptwiththehelpofamysteryreader—andrevisesherentirelife.You’llwanttofindyourownhideawayto
getlostinthisdelightful,whip-smartlovestory.”

—AsherFoglePaul,authorofWithoutaHitch
TheCul-de-SacWar
“Melissadeliveredabookthatisfilledwithbothhumorandheart!”
—DebbieMacomber,#1NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthor

“MelissaFergusondelightswithagrandsenseofhumorandacaptivatingstorytoboot!Withvividdetailthatbringsthe
storyroaringtolife,TheCul-de-SacWarbringsusclosertothetruthoflove,family,andhome.Bree’sandChip’spranksandadventuresturnintosomethingtheyneverexpected,asMelissaFergusondeliversanotherheartwarming,hilarious,anddeeplyfeltstory.”
—PattiCallahan,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofBecomingMrs.Lewis
“MelissaFerguson’sTheCul-de-SacWarissweet,zany,andsurprisinglytender.BreeandChipwillhaveyoulaughingandrootingforthemuntiltheveryend.”

—DeniseHunter,bestsellingauthorofCarolinaBreeze
“Withhersophomorenovel,MelissaFergusondelivershilarityandheartinequalmeasure.TheCul-de-SacWar’sBreeLeakeandChipMcBrideprovethatsometimesitisn’tthefirstimpressionyouhavetoworryabout—it’sthesecond
onethatgetsyou.Whatfollowsisadelightfuldelugeofpranks,sabotage,andwittyreparteetiedtogetherbyheartstrings
thatconnecttoturnahouseintoahomeworthfightingfor.Iwas
—BethanyTurner,award-winningauthorofTheSecretLifeofSarahHollenbeck
“Witty,wise,andwithjusttherightamountofwacky,Melissa’ssecondnovelisascharmingasherdebut.Competitionand
chemistrybattletowinthedayinthishilariousrom-comabouttwopeoplewhocan’tstandtobeneareachother—ortoofar
apart.”

—BetsySt.Amant,authorofTheKeytoLove
TheDatingCharade
“Ferguson’sdelightfuldebutfollowsafirstdatethatturnsquicklyintoachildcarequagmire…Ferguson’shumorousand
chaotictalewillpleaserom-comfans.”

—PublishersWeekly
“TheDatingCharadewillkeepyousmilingtheentireread.Fergusonnotonlydelightsuswithnewlove,withallitsattendantmishapsandmisunderstandings,
butshetakesusdeeperintheheartsandmindsofvulnerablechildrenasCassieandJettworkouttheirfamilies—thentheir
datinglives.Anabsolutetreat!”

—KatherineReay,bestsellingauthorofThePrintedLetterBookshop
“TheDatingCharadeishilariousandheartwarmingwithcharactersyoutrulycareabout,superfunplottwistsandturns,snappyprose,anda
sweetromanceyou’rerootingfor.AnyonewhohaschildrenintheirliveswillparticularlyrelatetoFerguson’slaugh-out-loud
takeonthewildridethatisparenting.Ithoroughlyenjoyedthisstory!”

—RachelLinden,bestsellingauthorofTheEnlightenmentofBees
“Aheartwarmingcharmer.”
—SheilaRoberts,USATODAYbestsellingauthoroftheMoonlightHarborseries

“MelissaFergusonisasparklingnewvoiceincontemporaryrom-com.Thoughhernoveltacklesmeaningfulstruggles—socialwork,
childabandonment,adoption—it’salsofresh,flirty,andlaugh-out-loudfunny.Fergusonisgoingtowinfanswiththisone!”

—LaurenDenton,bestsellingauthorofTheHideawayandGloryRoad
“AjoltofenergyfeaturingoneofthemostuniqueromantichooksIhaveeverread.PersonalityandzestshinethroughFerguson’sevidentenjoymentatcraftinghighjinksandmisadventuresastwopeopleslowlymakewayforloveinthemidstofmajorlifeupheaval.Amarveloustreatiseonunexpectedgraceanditslife-changingchaos,CassieandJettfindbeautifulvulnerabilityinredefiningwhatitmeanstolivehappilyeverafter.”
—RachelMcMillan,authorofTheLondonRestoration
“Fergusondeliversastellardebut.TheDatingCharadeisafun,romanticalbeitchallenginglookatjustwhatittakestofallinloveandbeafamily.You’llthinkofthesecharacters
longafterthefinalpage.”