With the way things had been going between us, ornotgoing, I figured the email I sent would be my final communication with Owen, so I’d made it thorough.
After he ignored my half-dozen texts and stuttering voicemail message, it felt like the only acceptable way to reach out. Plus, I attached his outline with my revisions and suggestions included.
I spent way too long working on the body of the email, because it was yet another chance to get in front of his eyeballs so I could try to sell myself, like I was a marketer aiming for those seven to twenty exposures tome. I kept it short:
Owen,
This book is important and youhaveto see it through. You have a gift that I was lucky enough to experience firsthand. You changed me, and I’m better for it, in so many ways. Now it’s time to share what you know with the rest of the world. Make it happen, Owen.
Truly,
B
I hoped the insights I’d added to his outline would help him, even if it was just the cheerleading I put in the margins. I knew firsthand how ruthless the industry could be. I wanted Owen to feel armed with positivity before the inevitable rejections started coming.
Although thanks to the email from Celeste, I was a writer with hope on my side for the first time in ages. She’d absolutely loved theArcherpages I’d sent and had basically demanded that I finish it yesterday.
On it. But first? Pickleball.
I was at Jimmie McDaniel waiting for my final practice session with Howard before the tournament, trying not to think about the Owen-sized hole in my life. I almost felt like my skills were devolving without his consistent insights, even though Howard and I won every game we played.
Most of the tournament pressure was off a little after doing some research about past New York Parks pickleball events. I’d envisioned a TV-worthy production, with rows and rows of seats for spectators and sponsor banners ringing the courts, like what I’d seen in YouTube pickleball tournament videos. Instead, it looked like normal public play with the added benefit of a referee, and small crowds of people standing around watching, who were probably just other players waiting for their own games to begin.
Very low-key, which was exactly what I needed.
I settled onto the already hot metal bench outside the court and refreshed my inbox a few times. No reply from Owen, but I wasn’t surprised. This was our new, depressing normal, me desperately trying to reestablish contact and Owen freezing me out.
In Romancelandia, the solution to our problem would be anextended grovel, to convince Owen that I’d made a mistake thinking that I was falling for the wrong guy. The fact thatIneeded to be the groveler went against the trope of the guy trying to win the girl back after fucking up royally, but real-life love stories weren’t always as predictable as fiction.
I’d gotten to the courts early to observe other players, which was yet another Owen suggestion. The four women were playing the world’s slowest round, pausing to chat and laugh after each bad shot. What I was watching was perfect despite their less than stellar effort. It was a big part of what the sport had to offer: community, camaraderie, and intervals of intense exercise—in this case, in between the gossip.
I’d gotten hooked on pickleball, and it sucked because absolutely every element associated with it was haunted by Owen. I’d almost been tempted to go back to my pink-and-yellow paddle, because every time I wrapped my hand around the one Owen gave me, I was reminded of him.
But ofcourse, I played better using the paddle he’d carefully selected for me.
The women gathered at the net to chat, so I pulled up my notes app and went back to plottingArcherwhile I waited for Howard to arrive. In the days since Celeste’s email, I’d managed to write a few thousand words that I felt really good about. I was now at a moment in the book that suited my current depressed state of mind; Zandria was lost in the woods after trying to chase down what she thought was an orphaned alicorn foal, but was in fact an illusion designed to weaken her for capture. Einar was determined to find her despite his wounds, both the physical ones and those from his fight with Zandria.
“Good morning! You lookveryserious.”
I jumped. Howard had materialized beside me without me even realizing it.
“Oh, hi.” I laughed at my skittishness. “Just doing some plotting for my next book. I tend to go into the zone.”
“In all things,” Howard agreed with a nod. “I’ve seen how you get out there.” He gestured to where the ladies were finally back to playing, then sat down beside me. “So when will I see said book on the shelf at the Strand?”
I was used to dodging the question. “Not sure. There are no guarantees in publishing, so there’s a chance you won’t.”
He frowned at the thought. “Quite a gamble for you, yes? Dedicating all of your time and effort to something that might not come to pass.”
A brilliant summary of my chosen profession that I was of no mind to process.
“Yup. But the sad fact is, I can’t stop myself. Sometimes an idea takes hold of me and I’m off.”
“How many books have you written?”
I paused to consider it. “I haven’t counted, but let’s just say I’m a prolific ghostwriter. Or Iwas, but I’d prefer to not talk about that mess at eight o’clock in the morning. Too complicated.”
“Understood.” Howard’s gaze shifted from me to the gameplay. “They’re not very good, are they?”
