“Are you collaborating with her for your next book? Is that why she is on tour with you and the book isn’t released yet? Are you writing together?” The questions are fast, and I have to blink to process what she is asking.
I sign her book, a firm smile on my face.
“Rachel is great,” I repeat. “No, we’re not writing together.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” the woman murmurs. “She saved my marriage.”
My eyebrows scrunch together, and I look up at this woman. She appears to be fifty, give or take. There’s a little silver speckled throughout her dark-brown hair that flows around her shoulders.
“Saved your marriage?” I ask.
“Oh, honey, romance isn’t just about kissing, although who doesn’t love a good kiss. It’s about life and choosing to live ittogether. What Rachel writes into Barrett’s character isn’t just swoony scenes, it’s the messiness of life and how we can work through it together. I sure hope she’s okay. That man gave me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Security has taken care of it,” I repeat.
“Oh, thank goodness!” She sighs. “Well, thank you for inspiring Rachel to share what she has through Barrett. You’re a good man.”
The woman takes back her book and leaves me. Speechless.
Because first, Rachel’s writingsaveda marriage, and second, I’m not sure how to process what the woman just said. I’m a good man because I’ve inspired Rachel to write a life for my character that I didn’t come up with myself?
I know people love my books. That’s evident. A good mystery, clues, and arresting a murderer in the end is something practical and thrilling to saunter through while taking a moment to escape the mundane or overwhelm of real life. But it’s expected: a perfect resolution to a perfect murder mystery.
I honestly thought romance was the same. A happy ending to a perfect love story.
But according to this woman…it is much more. It can be life-changing, not just life-escaping.
I grab the next book that’s handed to me, open it up, and as I sign it, my grip slips, and I notice my perfect signature takes on a loopier form that doesn’t match all my other signatures. I scribble it out. Try again. Now it’s worse.
“Um, Mr. Michaels?” a small voice squeaks out, like a mouse poking its head through a hole, assessing whether it should make itself known or not.
Is the cheese worth it? Or has the cat been sharpening its claws and waiting for this exact moment to swipe?
I shake myself from my thoughts and see that the voice belongs to a young boy, probably thirteen. Shaggy blond hair and big brown eyes. It’s as if I’m looking at a boy I once knew, a boy Ionce was. Then I look back down at the book, where I’d taken my frustration out through my pen.
“Oh.”
It’s more like a breath than a sound as it escapes my lips, realizing that this is the boy’s copy that he brought. Torn a little around the edges. A paperback. My fourth novel,Death Requires Company, one that is a favorite of mine.
It’s a favorite because of Delilah, which also makes it one of my least favorites. It’s complicated.
“Are you okay?” the young boy asks.
I notice that he doesn’t sound mad that I just scribbled all over the title page of what seems to be a treasured book of his. He seems concerned or curious, maybe both. And I am honestly curious alongside him.
It’s been a day. That’s for sure.
Between the psychotic stalker, the fact that Rachel is in my hotel room taking a bath, one fan suggesting I co-write my next book with Rachel, one fan revealing that Rachel’s writing saved her marriage, and the realization that all my thoughts are really about Rachel while my eyes have been constantly searching the crowd for a bright-blue shirt…I’m confused as ever.
I look up at the boy, trying to find focus away from all my chaotic thoughts. Chaotic thoughts inspired by Rachel Perry’s chaos. Which makes sense, honestly. The woman is a mess—a beautiful, puzzling, irritating mess—and apparently, she’s messing with me.
“What’s your name, young man?” I ask.
“Gregory,” he replies, an incredulous expression still plastered on his face from the way his eyes squinted inwards.
“Well, Gregory, I’m so sorry about scribbling in your book there. My hand has started to cramp, and I would replace this book, but it looks as if it’s pretty special to you.”
He nods. “It was my mother’s.”
