However, the point of this message is to acquire your real identity and your contact information so I can pass it on to my publicist.
If you prefer to consider this spam, please ignore.
Evan Michaels
“Hey, Mal,” I mutter, my mouth still gaping open as I stare at the tiny screen on my phone. “Come check this out.”
“Only if you come stir the noodles,” she replies, offering up the utensil to me. I accept.
“It can’t be real, right?” I question, watching the angel hair noodles gently swirl beneath my stirring.
“I haven’t even read it yet, Rach. Hold on.” Mal laughs.
The noodles twist and turn, as if they know some kind of secret dance, a waltz perhaps with their flowing movements. They sway in the hot, boiling water, as if they enjoy being cooked to their death.
“You have to reply!” Mal shrieks. “If this is real, you’d never forgive yourself for not replying.”
She thrusts the phone into my hands, taking back control of the kitchen, which is how I prefer it. I’m not much of a cook unless cooking means cereal. Then I’m a five-star chef of Rice Krispies or Lucky Charms.
“What if it’s some creep?” I argue. “Or what if it is someone who simply wants to reveal my identity, or claim my work as their own, or what if it reallyisEvan Michaels and his publicist has a problem with my writing? What if I’ve done something terribly wrong and…”
“Quit,” Mal interrupts my rambling. “You’re only focusing on the worst-case. Think aboutbest-case. We spent three weeks diving into fanfiction and the legalities about it. You haven’t done anything wrong. What if his publicist likes your writing? What if this is exactly what you just said: your job finding you!”
I look back over the message, the message that I now realize seems extremely rude. “He doesn’t seem to like me. In fact, he seems to not agree with what I’m doing.”
I glance through his words once more, and I begin to feel like someone just doused me with a bucket of ice-cold water and I’m suddenly shivering.
I think Evan Michaels hates me, and he doesn’t even know me. He just knows my words, and somehow, that stings just as much as if he knew my heart.
“Rach?” Mal asks. “Are you okay?”
My hands are shaking, the message blurring as I continue to stare at the words that seep much deeper beneath my skin than I should let them. But it’s Evan Michaels! My inspiration!
He’d said,“A writer who steals from another writer”…
Was he calling me a thief? I’d poured my heart into every sentence, every story. The only thing I’d borrowed, and not for my benefit, was Barrett. Surely, he wasn’t serious. Surely, he really didn’t hate me.
“Rachel,” Mal says firmly, taking the phone out of my hands. “We don’t even know if it’s Evan Michaels. Take a deep breath.”
I do as she says as I look into her deep-brown eyes.
“Let it out,” she continues. “Inhale another.”
I breathe, and my heartbeat starts up again as if the message had stalled it.
“You don’t have to reply tonight. Why don’t you sleep on it?” Mal suggests. “I’m teaching a class in the morning. Maybe some yoga and deep breathing would help?”
I nod my head. Yes, it was best not to overthink and read more into this situation than I should. I need to take a step back and truly evaluate the situation.
Most likely it was spam.
Although of all the spam I’ve received…I’ve never been accused of literary theft.
Chapter 5
Rachel
Ifeelmoretwistedup than a pretzel from Auntie Anne’s—which I would much rather be eating right now with some cheese dip than torturing myself in thishotyoga class, something Mal forgot to mention when suggesting I take her Saturday morning session. And Mal, for some ignorant reason, believes I’m capable of greater flexibility than a sugar maple growing tall and sturdy in the Oklahoma sun, but I’m more like the stubborn branches than the vines that snake around the tree trunks. At least I get to be barefoot while I grunt and groan through the impossible poses Mal is leading the class through.
