Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Me: Oh, the Buzz you don’t want to date because he’s NOT SERIOUS ENOUGH? That guy? The one you don’t trust because he’s on a team with your fuckboy of an ex?
Hollis: Don’t put words into my mouth, okay? All I said was maybe I’m just trying to figure stuff out.
Me: Hey it’s cool.
Hollis: Somehow you saying that is worse.
Me: I don’t know what you want. I thought we were getting along. Making progress and shit.
Hollis: We are.
Me: Alright. Well. I just wanted you to know that we missed you at dinner tonight, and—sorry my mom invited you. Hope it didn’t put you in a weird position.
Me: If it makes you feel better, I told everyone we were just friends, so you’re off the hook.
Hollis: Honesty is good. I did feel bad for your mom.
Me: Yeah, I know. Everyone always feels bad for Genevieve Wallace with her two unruly sons.
Hollis: I didn’t mean it like that…
Me: I know. I know you hated lying and now you don’t have to anymore. I’ll never ask you to lie for me again—I shouldn’t have in the first place, and again, I apologize.
Hollis: Now you’re making me feel bad.
Me: For what?
Hollis: I don’t not like you, Trace—I’m just letting it all sink in. You know what I want, someone who is there for me.
Me: How do you know I won’t be there for you when you need me if you won’t give me a chance?
Hollis: You’re in the midst of your season. You don’t have time to date now anyway. Maybe we should wait until the season is over.
Me: Sure.
Me: Whatever you say Hollis.
19
Hollis
Why do I get the feeling I’m forgetting something?
The thought niggles at the back of my mind as I sit across from a potential new author in the conference room of the small publishing house I work for, one of three that exist in Chicago. Would I love to work for one in New York? Yes. Is that my ultimate goal? Also yes.
Will that ever happen?
Who even knows.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m only half present for this meeting with Lesley Ashby, an interior designer pitching a coffee table book to my boss. Her book is bold, bright, but—nothing groundbreaking or new.
I already know my boss is going to red-light the pitch unless Lesley comes up with something more creative than photographing expensive interiors and floral tablescapes.
Who can afford that anymore?
“We’ll get back to you, Lesley,” my boss is saying as she rises. “Thank you so much for coming in.” She extends her hand to shake Lesley’s. “Tina in reception can grab you a swag bag for the road if you’re interested.”
That’s what Wanda gives to everyone she’s giving the green weenie.
A canvas tote bag filled with Twilite Publishing goodies no one, but a book nerd actually wants: koozie, bookmarks, reading light, magnet, car decal.
Lesley Ashby is going to trash the entire bag once she hears back that we’re not going to represent her and shop her book.
When she leaves the room, my shoulders sag.
It’s been the longest day, the Mondayest Tuesday ever, and my feet are killing me in these heels. My feet and my heart, both throbbing, though in entirely different ways.
It’s been five days since I last spoke to Buzz. He has left me alone since our texts on Thursday, but that hasn’t stopped me from reading and rereading them over and over.
Like the script for a bad play, they make me cringe. Seeing what I wrote and reliving it? Also embarrassing.
He didn’t deserve what I said and I realized over the weekend that I was projecting my relationship fears onto him. Fears about ending up with a man just like my father. Fears about ending up with a man just like Marlon. Fears about ending up alone because I’m too stubborn and scared to let myself open up.
I have a few more things to get done before I head home for the night and I make quick work of my to-do list. A few emails, a bound manuscript that has to get mailed back to its author for edits, I tidy up. Grab my coat, laptop bag, keys.
Our office isn’t in a skyscraper. Rather, it’s an eight-story, brick confection sandwiched between two corporate edifices, but with an attached parking structure. In the winter, it’s a lifesaver having covered parking in downtown Chicago. In the summer, it’s a lifesaver not having to walk block after block in the heat.
My car is where it always is, parked in the third spot next to the stairwell. Not too far from the exit, but not so close that it’s the last car in the row and thus susceptible to vandalism. In the past, we’ve had issues with that. Because it’s a small, less-expensive building, security isn’t as tight as it would be in a high-rise.