Dear Evan,
If this really is Evan Michaels, I’m intrigued by the interest your publicist has in my identity. I know that I am legally within my rights to write what I do regarding your character, Barrett. I currently have over 800,000 subscribers and I do not earn a single penny on what I share. I believe the popularity I’ve acquired is because I write what you cannot.
I will not send you my information, however if you would be so kind as to send your publicist’s contact information to me, I would be more than happy to consider a conversation with them.
Sincerely,
The Better Barrett
I look over my words before I press Send.
My smile is tight and proud as I stare at the little check mark that says the message has been delivered.
The truth is I like Evan Michaels. The one that I’ve made up in my mind anyway.
I don’t know the real one. I’ve only met him once.
It was for two minutes, and he probably wouldn’t remember me.
I was at a book signing here in New York City six years ago when I first moved to the city. It was summertime, and a dewy glow of excitement had painted my cheeks as I stood in a line outside a quaint bookstore for three hours. I’d slipped my sandals off and held his book tight against my chest, hope pulsing through my veins that we’d have a conversation that would spark something fresh and life changing.
When I got inside and could see him, my heart leapt up into my throat and I had to swallow it back down. He was gorgeous. I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at his photograph on the back of his books, but seeing him in the flesh made heat flush my cheeks and a weird sensation tingle across my lips.
When it was finally my turn, he’d looked up at me, taking the book that I held out, and said, “What’s your name?”
“Rachel,” I answered breathlessly. “I’m a big fan.”
He nodded, his pen moving perfectly on the cover page as he signed my book and handed it back over with a smile that made my knees buckle. I mean, seriously, smiles like his should be banned. They are dangerous and make women believe in things they have no business believing in—like having his babies.
And at that moment, I began thinking about it.Ourfuture and not mine. I am a dreamer, after all. Suddenly, I did want to have all his babies—three to be exact, two redheads and one blonde. We’d live in a penthouse and vacation four times a year—once to the mountains, twice to the beach, and once somewhere exotic like an African safari. We’d both write bestsellers, our names down the spines of our books, and obviously, we’d live happily ever after.
I said, “Thanks.”
And that was the end of those two glorious minutes.
But now…
If this is the real Evan Michaels…
I'm not going to let him make me feel small even if it means that my literary inspiration and husband of my dreams hates me.
The glass door from the what-should-be-illegal hot yoga class opens.
“There you are!” Mal exclaims. “Are you okay?”
“First of all, you’re insane. Hot yoga is for psychos,” I say. “Secondly, yes, I’m okay. I just messaged Evan Michaels back.”
“And?” she asks eagerly, as if the class had just energized her instead of draining every ounce of hydration from her body.
“I told him to send me his publicist’s information,” I reply.
She squeals. “I’m so proud of you for taking a chance on yourself!”
“We don’t even know what it’s about yet,” I say, but I’m smiling because it did feel good, especially when I signed the message,The Better Barrett.
“It’s going to be good, Rach,” she says. “I mean…it’s a publicist! At the very least it could be an amazing connection.”
“Exactly,” I say with a nod.
