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)
Which is a metaphor for life, I think. It goes by so fast.
Look at me. Ten years. I’ve been doing this charade for ten years.
And I think… it’s time… for it to be over.
Not the romance books. I still have some stories in my head that I want to write. But ya know what?—I look at the agent’s card again—I’ve got other things to write too.
I’m gonna call this guy tomorrow. I’m gonna set up a time to talk about things. See what he’s looking for. See what the market’s like these days.
And then… I’m gonna do it.
I’m gonna make my dream of being a famous sci-fi writer come true.
The banner in front of me comes sliding down and suddenly, on the other side is Cordelia.
“Oh!” She takes a step back, startled. “I didn’t know you were there.”
I sigh, pretty fuckin’ happy. “Did you have a nice last day?”
Cordelia blushes a little, and nods. “This was pretty much the highlight of my life, Steve. And not because I sold every single book I brought with me. Though that doesn’t hurt, ya know?”
I smile and nod.
“I…” She hesitates. And yeah, we’re at that point now. The fantasy is over, real life is one sleep away, and we don’t know where this is going. “I…” she tries again.
“Hey… would you like to go out with me some time? Dinner? Beach day? Surprise trip to Maui?”
Cordelia’s eyes are sparkling. “It’s a date.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Steve seems to relax when I accept the invitation. Almost like he thought maybe I’d say no. Oh, how the tables have turned. Cool, easy-going Cordelia and uncertain, anxious Steve.
Ha. Not really. If he hadn’t said something like, “Would you like to go out with me some time?” I might have just peed on myself. So I’m glad he did. Because I’m not wearing underwear again today because I accidentally didn’t bring enough, so… Doesn’t matter. I’m just really glad he said what he said. Less messy all the way round.
“Although,” I add to my acceptance of the offer, “if you’re telling me now that it’s going to be a surprise trip to Maui, it won’t really be a surprise.”
“Okay, language cop,” he says.
And then he leans down and kisses me. And even though it’s not even close to our first kiss, it feels different. There’s something familiar about it. Familiar, but still new. Exciting and fresh, but also eternal.
It’s impossible to explain, at least with words. Which, given the value and importance I place on language, historically, is… well, funny.
This is wild. I came to this convention hoping—no, virtually begging—for the universe to give me the thing I want more than anything else. Or so I thought. I couldn’t have imagined that I might desire anything more than a career in this crazy, beautiful, hopeful world of romance writing. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of having. The respect of my peers. The acclaim that comes of being well regarded. The halcyon glow of success.
But, it turns out, there is something I wanted more.
And it’s not Steve. (Although the possibility of something more with Steve Smith is a massive bonus.)
It’s being able to give all those things to myself. Respect, regard, an understanding that ‘success’ is, in fact, the acceptance of those things. Acceptance of myself.
I’ve spent a long time locked away. Locked away in my little pool house. Locked away inside my own thoughts. Holding onto things that stopped serving me a long time ago, but I just didn’t see it. And all it took for me to step out of the shadow of all that and into the light was not caring what anyone else thinks.
Easier said than done, obviously, but once you see it, it’s impossible to un-see it.
The kiss goes on for a long, long time. So long that I actually have to break away so that I can breathe again. I debate with myself about it first. If I pass out, he’ll probably have to give me mouth-to-mouth, which would just prolong the whole thing. But there’s probably a downside to collapsing here at the very end of the con that I can’t immediately see.
So I pull back and pat him on the chest. “You’re, uh, you’re good at that,” I say. He laughs. Then I look down and notice something he’s holding in his hand. “What’s that?”
“Oh. This?” he says, lifting up the ivory-colored rectangular card stock and showing it to me. “This is a business card.”
“Whose?” He hands it over. I read it aloud for some rando reason. “Gary Pritchard. North Star Author Agency? Holy shit. They’re great. I mean, they’re, like, for real. They rep some serious, serious writers.”
“I know.”
“What did he give you his card for?”
“He, uh… he knows Alien Alliance.”
“Your series? Your sci-fi?” I ask. He nods. “That’s amazing. And…?”
“And… he wants to talk about repping me.”