High on the excitement from having secured Klein a meeting with a publisher, I'd said I wanted to take Cecily out for a drink to thank her for her contribution to Klein's burgeoning career.
Things were going well. Or so I thought. Cecily is beautiful, but she's a lot of other things, too. Witty, which I'm a sucker for, but the kind of witty that calls upon my own cleverness. Her personality sang to mine in the oddest way. Sure, she was physically attractive, but I was mentally attracted to her, too.
And then she ghosted me. I've rewritten the true story of what happened on our date to include sudden onset illness, followed by a head injury on the way home that kept Cecily from remembering we went out. Nothing tidies up plot confusion like conveniently placed short-term memory loss.
What else could explain the events of that evening? We'd been having a good time, I stepped away to answer a work call, and Cecily disappeared. My text messages to her were not delivered. She blocked me.
Was I the only person feeling the chemistry between us? Am I really so out of touch that I detected and defined her facial expressions and mannerisms in an absolutely, totally, unbelievably wrong way? The thought of the disaster tinges my vision red.
Maybe I haven't compartmentalized the catastrophe as neatly as I'd like.
It doesn't matter. Cecily didn't tell Paisley anything about the date, which means Klein has no knowledge about the date, which means I can go on and lie to myself about the date.
Hello sand, here's my head.
Sally, an associate agent at the lit agency, sails into my office like someone has invited her. She does this often, and she also starts conversations as if we were in the middle of one already.
Her corkscrew black curls bounce around her head as she strides up to my desk in her striped leggings and corduroy skirt, theatrically dropping a coil-bound printed manuscript on my desk. It lands with a dramatic thud, blowing two Post-it notes onto the floor. "It might not be your usual taste, but you should take a look at it." Her arms cross, her gaze flicking down to the stack of paper.
"What isit?" I ask. Sally is also known for her use of the unspecified subject. Drives me crazy. I'd like to take a red felt-tip pen to every sentence Sally speaks, marking up the surrounding air.
"The man-u-script," Sally says, looking at me like I'm the one who's hopeless.
I sit back, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. "As much as I enjoy the syllabification you're doling out, you've made multiple errors, the first of which is walking into my office like you own it."
Sally arches an eyebrow.
Dammit.
She doesn't own anything, but her mother does. Sally is here because her last name is Whitaker, and this is Whitaker Literary Agency.
Nepo baby. And a recent college grad in need of a job.
I tap a finger on my thigh to keep myself from pinching the bridge of my nose. The last thing I want is to show this near-child she has riled me.
Tucking back my sigh, I look down at the printed manuscript.
Last Things First.
Was I drunk when I requested the full manuscript from the author? That title is terrible.
"A western horror," Sally explains. "Love the concept."
Now I remember this garbage. I didn't make it past page four before I tossed the brick of paper into the slush pile yesterday.But here the manuscript is, pristine and in front of me like it never met the shredder.
I smell a rat.
"The writing is sophomoric," I tell Sally, keeping my tone measured.
Her eyes harden. "It is not. I think it's really good. Maybe you're too old to understand how people of this age communicate."
Now it's my turn to narrow my eyes. Thirty isn't old. I could be offended, but I'm too busy sniffing out a ruse.
"Why did you tell your friend I'd look at their manuscript?" It's a hunch, but I have good instincts. It's part of what makes me a great literary agent.
Sally's lips sew shut. She knows I'm on to her, so I continue. "Why did you print out the manuscript and put it on my desk yesterday?" It's unlikely I would've requested a full manuscript of this book from a query letter. The only way this made it to my desk in physical form is if it was placed there.
There it is. A slight movement in her jaw. A flicker of fear in her eyes.
