Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
So, right now, my brain is buzzing like a bee. (I am really torturing this garden metaphor here.) Which, let’s be honest, it always is, but this time it’s buzzing because I have so much I now feel like I wanna say. And do. And write! Because I can’t let this momentum stop!
So, instead of answering the question, I ask one of my own.
“What do you think about rom-coms?”
“Rom-coms?” Britney echoes. “I think they’re sweet. Why?”
“I’m thinking about writing one.”
“Really?”
“I know it’s not the kind of thing I’ve gravitated to before, but I dunno. I still want to write everything, just like I always did, but now I wonder why I can’t just do that in the romance world. Y’know? Like write a serious book, then maybe a dark one, then maybe a light one, then a historical one…”
“Wow. This from a woman who just last week was worried she wasn’t following the rules.”
“You heard Lesperia. Cynthia Lear doesn’t play by the rules.”
She laughs.
“Girls?” Sheila pops her head outside. “What are you doing out here?”
“Hi, Sheila.” I smile as she wanders over to the pool in her swimming costume. (That’s what she calls it. I feel like ‘costumes’ tend to cover more flesh, but hey, her house, her rules.)
“I heard the laughing. Such a lovely sound.” She plops herself down onto a lounge chair, adjusts her giant hat, and closes her eyes.
“We were just talking about what Cordelia’s going to do next,” Britney says.
“Oh, you mean where she’s going to live?” Sheila purrs.
“Sorry, what?” I ask. “What do you mean where I’m going to live? I live here.”
“I know, dear. But not for much longer.”
“Sheila… What are you talking about?” And then it dawns on me. “Oh, my God, Sheila, are you… are you dying?”
“We’re all dying, dear. All the time. That’s why we must seize life in front of us by the balls and yank as hard as we can.”
Okay. That was intense. “Sheila—”
“No, dear. I’m not dying. At least not soon. As far as I know. I simply mean that you should think about moving on.”
“What? Why?”
“Because, sweet girl, it’s time for, in your parlance, your next chapter.”
“Sheila, I—”
“Sweetheart, you never planned on this being your life, did you? Living in an old woman’s pool house, cloistered away, writing books all by yourself?”
“No, of course not, but…”
“It’s time, dear. You should think about who you want to be next.”
My head is spinning a little. A week ago, I was Cordelia Sarantopoulos, unknown romance writer and impromptu pool girl, and now…
I look at Britney, who raises her eyebrows, and then down into the water. The reflection of the sun shimmers off the surface. Slowly, carefully, I start lowering myself forward.
“Cord? What are you doing?” Britney asks.
I don’t answer, just keep edging myself further and further into the water. The frayed ends of my jean shorts are now submerged.
“Cord?”
“I’m okay,” I tell her as I drop down to my waist and let my t-shirt float into the pool. “I’m just…”
“What?”
The water is at my chest. I turn and look at her, holding myself up with my hands on the edge of the coping. “I’m just deciding if I want my own pool to be square or oval.”
She smiles. I smile back. And submerge myself fully under.
Getting recreationally wet while fully clothed.
Because Cordelia Sarantopoulos is also done playing by the rules.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After two days of successfully wallowing in the shallows of denial, I made the mistake of turning on my phone.
Three hundred and twenty-five emails, so many private messages on socials I can’t even begin to count them, and four more hashtags: #SSScandal, #ChokeSteveSmith, #SSTwinLiars, and #SaveRaylen.
Save Raylen? Are they fucking kidding me?
So far Team Raylen has accused Essie and me of malicious slander, harassment, bullying, creating a hostile working environment, plagiarism (again), trademark infringement (what?), fraud, child endangerment (seriously?), intimidation, too many torts to list, negligence, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.
We haven’t been officially served with anything, but it’s coming. We know it’s coming.
There were no messages from Cordelia.
I was upset about that for a while, but then I remembered that we didn’t exchange numbers. We were kind of in a close-proximity relationship throughout the convention. Not textbook close-proximity, but the definition of the trope still fits.
I’ve been doing that a lot too. Using story structure to force my current dramatic problems to make sense. Like I’m a character in a book and none of this is real.
Except I’m not a character in a book and all of this is real.
It’s now day three post-blow-up and I’m currently taking turns looking at the keypad on my phone and the little white card that agent guy gave me.
Do I dare?
Like… shouldn’t I just give up? There is no way that guy hasn’t heard about this drama. It’s all over the internet. All those trashy websites calling themselves ‘news’ have Essie and me on the front page of their entertainment sections. Along with a bloody photo of Leslie Munch’s last emergency room visit.