Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Sitting in front of the refrigerator, I made a mental list of all the things I could write to her, all the apologies I could make. I practically wrote an entire thesis before I got up and went to my computer. But when I got there, nothing seemed right. I typed and retyped, then deleted it all and wrote simply:
Hey. I miss you. If you’re still angry with me, I get it. There’s going to be this thing for my book at the 310 Gallery on W Broadway in Soho next Thursday. It’s at eight. I would love to see you.
Hitting send was harder than I’d expected.
Waiting for the reply that never came was harder.
* * * *
Being the guest of honor at any party weirds me out immensely. Being the guest of honor at a party where I was under a ton of pressure to prove my salability to my publisher and my worth to readers was a thousand times more stressful. I would have rather been thrown as a sacrifice into a volcano.
When I expressed this sentiment to Neil, he’d said, “I thought they only sacrificed virgins to volcanoes?”
As a man who was used to being the immediate center of attention in every room he walked into, he didn’t understand my plight. I’d only recently been thrust into any sort of public consciousness.
I agonized over what I should wear for hours, finally settling on a deep blue DKNY dress with a plunging v-neckline, knee length skirt, and elbow length sleeves. Bands of fabric crossed over the waist, accentuating my cleavage just a little bit. Looking hot was like a suit of armor for me. I spent a long time getting my hair just right in loose, flowing curls, and I carefully contoured my cheekbones and dusted bronzer over my collar bones. I managed such a sharp cat’s eye that I hoped no one cut themselves on it. And I slicked on some YSL lipstick in “Rose Boheme” and a touch of clear gloss.
I wore my engagement ring and the platinum and pink sapphire earrings Neil had given me before our weird break up spell. They weren’t the best accent for the dress, but they were simple, understated, and reminded me of how far we’d come. After all, the book was about our journey together.
“Darling, you’re going to be late to your own appearance,” Neil called from the bedroom door. I stood in front of the trifold mirror in the dressing room and took in my outfit, from the gray t-strap pumps to the figure skimming dress and my flawless hair. If I just held on to the self-confidence I had at that moment, I would be invincible.
When I stepped into the foyer, Neil already held my coat and purse. A slow, reluctant smile broke through his annoyance at my tardiness. “Worth the wait.”
“Thank you.” I smirked a little as I slipped my arms into my coat. I turned and raised my cheek for him to kiss. “But I didn’t do it for you.”
By the time we reached the gallery, my heart was thumping and my guts were clenching in a very threatening way.
“Remember my story of how I shit myself at cross country practice?” I asked as Tony rounded the car to open my door for me.
Neil squeezed my hand. “You’ll be wonderful, and they’ll all love you.”
“You’re lying,” I said, squeezing back. “But thank you for lying.”
We entered the gallery through a back door, where India met us and ushered me inside. “Mr. Elwood, you can either go round front or slip in discreetly ahead of us,” she told him sternly. “But this is about Sophie.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Neil was too polite to make any outward sign of annoyance at India’s presumption that he would steal the spotlight from me. He kissed my cheek. “I’ll see you after.”
Alone with India, I tried to swallow my fear. “Okay, what happens now?”
“What happens now is you’ll go out, and Andrea Vessichio, a publicist from M and R, will introduce you. You’ll thank her, thank everyone for coming, you’ll read the excerpt you practiced, then it’s time to sign books and mingle. Easy as pie, and we’ll be out of here by ten.” She pressed a copy of my book, with the appropriate page marked, into my hands.
God bless India, for making the most nerve-wracking moment of my career sound easy-peasy. The book helped; it was still surreal to see my name on the cover. The art department had come up with the perfect cover image for the book jacket, nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed “my boyfriend is a billionaire.” The title, I’m Just The Girlfriend, in butter yellow on a tangerine background, with a stylized bag of bright green IV fluid in the space between the title and my name. Sophie Scaife. Right there, on the slipcover. I still couldn’t believe this was real, though I had a box of copies at home.