DECEMBER 17
CHAPTER 1
GEORGE
My computer is tryingto kill me. The cursor blinks back at me from the blank page, tapping out a steady litany of cruel, if imaginary, jabs.
This manuscript isn’t going to write itself, George.
You have less than a month before it’s due, George.
Your fans might love you now, but if you don’t deliver, what’s to stop them from moving on and finding another spy thriller author? Someone who can give them what they want? They’ll be fine. They’ll be happy. And you’ll be alone. Just like you were after Luca moved on.
I groan as I realize I am thinking about this again.
What are you even doing, George?
My computer is an asshole.
I am rescued from this rabbit hole of self-loathing by a pounding on the door. Hurricane Zoe bursts in the second I open it, blonde curls bouncing, immediately launching into a whole narrative schtick about the date she had yesterday.
“And then he tells me he thought I was this other chick he’d been talking to on a completely different app! Like, he couldn’t remember who was who, even though this other woman is a teacher at a Catholic high school. I mean, hello, what aboutthis”—she gestures to her whole Technicolor-body-con-clad self—”says Catholic school marm?”
“I don’t think that’s what a ‘marm’ is.”
“Whatever. I would have said something, but I’d already called him Paul, and his name turned out to be Greg, so I just made out with him and called it a day. I figure I’ll get a decent How-to-Lose-a-Guy-in-10-Ways piece out of it, anyway.” She flops on my leather sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee table. That’s when she looks up at me. She freezes. “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head noncommittally. “You want some coffee?”
I shuffle off toward the kitchen in hopes of avoiding having to discuss… well, myself. She follows.
“Is it the book?”
I shrug. I busy myself grinding some Italian roast. It isn’t, really. It’s maybe my inability to write the book. Because I am me.
“Is it that nitpicky editor of yours?” Writing for FlashPop gives Zoe an unrealistic sense of how much artistic freedom a writer should be allowed, but what do you want from a media platform that once published an article entirely in emoji?
“Anabel’s fine. And editors are supposed to nitpick. Although I still think I was right about that semicolon.” I turn away, packing the grounds into the espresso machine.
Zoe leans in, speaking gently. A feat for her. “Is it Luca’s wedding?”
I hang my head and let out a groan.
“Oh, babe. Come here.” She wraps her arms around me, and I collapse into her.
“It’s not him, you know. Or the wedding. It’s just… I think marrying someone else qualifies as most definitely moving on, and I’m… I’m right where he left me.”
She rubs my back.
“You are not.” She glances around my apartment. “Except in the most literal sense of the word, I suppose.”
“Symbolism,” I say pointedly, pulling away to get out the mugs and milk to steam.
“Oh, please, it was self-preservation. No one in their right mind would give up a rent-controlled pre-war on the Upper West Side over a breakup.”
“Touché.”
“George, if you want me to stay home that night and eat ice cream with you, I will.”
