Chapter 1
Chloe
Youknowwhenyou’vewanted something your whole life, finally do it, and feel incredible—like you’re on top of the world? I haven't experienced that yet, but I’m hoping I’m about to.
I just handed my boss Linda Ricci, Senior Editor at Mountain View Press, the manuscript I spent the last three years perfecting. I’ve been working up the courage to show it to her for months.
The sunlight illuminates Linda’s regal facial features as she reclines in her high back, leather office chair. Linda could easily be a covergirl in her sixties. She’s always dressed in stylish, professional power suits and never has a speck of makeup out of place.
Since becoming Linda’s editorial assistant, I’ve often pictured myself as Anne Hathway inDevil Wears Prada. Linda isn’t as cruel as Meryl Streep’s character, but she can certainly be as demanding.
In a power move that I can only assume is to create an impersonal distance, she calls everyone by their last name. My name’s Chloe Reid, but from Linda you’ll only ever hear, “Reid!”
She says everything in a perky, down-to-business way. For example, when I arrived at the office today she told me, “Good morning Reid! Can’t wait to see five chapters of that manuscript all polished up by noon and not a minute after!” She’s sneaky like that. Her tone doesn’t necessarily match her words.
My toes are tingling as I scrutinize her every movement. Linda’s eyes are scanning the bottom of the first page, and just as she begins to turn to the next one…she lets my manuscript close.
“Reid, darling,” she says with a sparkling smile. “This plot has potential, but your characters have the charisma of wet chalk. There’s no emotional depth to make me buy in.”
My heart drops. “But, but you only read the first page.”
She plops my manuscript down like a dead fish and leans forward with her elbows on her shiny mahogany desk. “I’ve been doing this for thirty years. One page is all it takes.”
Blinking back tears, I reach for my decimated dream. I cannot let my emotions spill out—especially here.
Linda hands it to me, but doesn’t let go when I grab it. “Reid, writers need life experiences that are raw and challenging. You’re too sweet for that. You’re an editor. Stay in your lane and don’t waste your time trying to be an author, okay? Trust me, it’ll save you a ton of heartache.”
She lets go of my manuscript and I give her a silent nod. My body feels numb.
Somehow, I make it back to my office. After throwing my manuscript in my bottom desk drawer, I collapse into my chair. That’s when the tears fall.
I’m a notoriously ugly crier, and if I don’t get it together soon, my face will be blotchy for the rest of the day. I blame my auburn hair and fair complexion. I’m like a white T-shirt that advertises every blemish.
Just suck it up, Chloe. You have so much to be thankful for.
I've wanted to be an author since I learned to read, but when I was sixteen, books became my life preserver.
That's when I started caring about things like boyfriends and school dances. The allure drew me in and rejection pushed me out. I can still feel all the emotions of Friday afternoon, sophomore year.
No one had asked me to the homecoming dance. No one. I wasn’t aiming for the stars—I knew better than to dream that James Royce, a handsome football player, would ask me out. I was truly just hoping for anyone to see me, acknowledge me, want me.
But, as three o’clock rolled around and the school day was ending, the reality slammed in on me that no one was going to ask me to the Homecoming dance. I acted like it didn’t bother me, that I didn’t want to go…and that made it so much worse because I had no one to console me.
Instead of going to Homecoming, I went to the library. My safe place, my comfort. And once again, I found solace in books. That night I decided even if I couldn’t live an exciting life, I could write about one.
I got a job in publishing to safely pursue my dream of becoming an author, but that clearly didn’t work. I feel the tears welling up again. I sniffle and grab a tissue from my desk.
Taking a breath, I will one of my dad’s ‘tough love’ pep talks to work. “Take it on the chin and keep grinding, kid.” He’d tell me people encounter much worse.
He and my mom have worked blue collar jobs tirelessly so that me and my siblings could get a good education. They wanted more for us.
Taking a long inhale, I manage to slow my breathing. After wiping my face, I smooth my shirt and sit up. I’m an editor. I have a job to do. So what if my life plan has been blown to shreds? My intricately thought out idea was to work my way up, learn the industry, be close to other authors. I thought that if I rubbed shoulders with the experts, I’d learn what I needed to do.
Well, part one was a success. Part two, an epic fail.
I stare out my 19th floor window. I’m proud that I've worked my way up to Senior Editorial Assistant. But that’s where I’m stuck—assisting—which was never my end game.
I graduated from Colorado State and immediately got a job at Mountain View Press in Denver. I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I did in some ways. I have a steady paycheck and a respectable career.
