Her gaze is sure and steady, and the words ripple from her effortlessly. If what she says is true, she didn’t mean for this to happen. She didn’t mean to rival my stories with her frivolous scenes.
“I’m sure your subscribers will be anxious as well,” Melanie replies, keeping up with the pace of our practice. “Now, Evan, you’ve read Rachel’s work, correct?”
“I have,” I say, unsure where Melanie is going to go with this line of questioning.
I’m not used to having to share the spotlight with someone else. Usually, all the questions are just about me.
“What are your thoughts on the life she has created for Barrett through her fanfiction?” she questions.
My gaze sways from Melanie to Rachel. I can practically feel how her shoulders have inched up slightly. She’s anxious about how I’m going to answer. I put a well-practiced smile on my face.
“I suppose part of my fanbase would love to learn more about Barrett. My novels focus more on his career and his keen ability to crack a case, not crack open the bedroom door. I write murder mysteries, not romances. I don’t plan on changing the plot lines to account for intimacy that distracts from the main conflict. Rachel’s fanfiction may not necessarily take away from the Barrett I’ve created, but I can say with certainty that the Barrett she writes about isn’t the Barrett I created and know very well.”
If it's a debate she came for, it’s a debate I’m going to give her. And maybe she hadn’t meant for her fanfiction to catch fire quite like it had, but she’d chosen to continue. I looked and she’d written one hundred and twelve scenes. It was practically three novels worth of words.
“So, are you saying that her version of Barrett is…” Melanie falters, not sure where to go with this line of questioning.
We’ve strayed from the index cards, and I feel a surge of anger swell up in my chest as all the comments I’ve read over the last week swirl around in my brain from Rachel’s beloved fan base.Comments that praise her while tearing me down. Comments that say she“understands Barrett better than the actual author ever did,”or“Finally, someone is writing Barrett the way he was always meant to be.”
“False, yes,” I declare. “The Barrett that I know, who has been a friend of mine for years, is nothing like the version she writes about.”
“He’s not false!” Rachel interrupts, not following the protocol that she knows nothing about. “I can assure you that the Barrett I write about is the very same one Evan has not been able to fully comprehend and develop on his own. I think heusedto know him. I said Evan’s earlier books were my favorite because Barrett once was more than a detective. Maybe Evan doesn’t even rememberthatBarrett: the one that had a complexity to him, that struggled, that loved, that lived by more than a well-paced plot line. Barrett used to make me feel things. I did not reinvent Barrett. I resuscitated him.”
Rachel is leaning on the edge of her plastic seat. It’s practically toppling over, and her hair has fallen free from being tucked behind her ears. Her words are aggressive, savage even. She has more passion for this fictional character than I’ve ever witnessed for a real person, and maybe that’s what causes something to snap in me.
It feels like Rachel cares more about Barrett than I do since I’ve been debating whether to kill him off or not. It feels like people love her version of Barrett more than mine, and well, he’smymain character. I should know him better than anyone.
But who issheto say these words out loud, in this room where no one is watching…Except I realize now, glancing out into the room, that all seven people in our audience have put their phones down and are intently staring at the spectacle we’ve created on this mock stage.
Great. Melanie and Lily are right. This is going to become a viral sensation. If a mock forum can make people stop staring at theirscreens, the real one would have people remembering how to live outside their little six-inch-by-six-inch worlds in their hands.
I look back to Rachel. “Resuscitated him?” I question while standing from my chair, the metal legs dragging across the floor, screeching.
She stands to match me, taking three steps toward me until she’s inches away. “You heard me. You killed him many books ago. Your fourteenth novel should actually have a plot line of solving his own murder.”
It hurts. The truth she so freely gives without even knowing it. She doesn’t know me, and yet I fear she might know me more than I want to admit. How long had Barrett been dead to me? And why did Rachel recognize it before I did?
Melanie stands up, wiggling herself between us, pushing us away from the heat I can feel.
“Okay. Wow. I knew you two had chemistry, but this is a little much,” Melanie says. “I thought maybe meeting up with one another would help this be more civil.”
I watch as Rachel crosses her arms before she says, “If barging into my apartment and interrogating me counts as meeting up, you’re right.”
Melanie’s head snaps toward me. “Did you not at least text her before going to her apartment? When I sent you her address, I told you to check with her first.”
“I must have missed that part,” I deflect, crossing my own arms to match Rachel’s.
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Both of you,listen,” Melanie demands. “You can hate each other all you want outside of the very important times you must act like you are each other’s biggest fans. You will be funny, supportive, andslightlysarcastic with each other on stage…in a cute way. A cute way thatsellsbooks.”
I feel my jaw grind. This is a horrible idea.
“If she can even make it the entire book tour,” I state.
“Is that a challenge?” Rachel demands. Her cheeks are flushed.
“There is no challenge,” Melanie barks. “You two need to cool it. The heat in this room is scorching, and not in the way I’d prefer.”
I see a flash of a camera out of my peripheral.
