The email merely says:Hi Fern! Okay to call?
In the single second that it takes me to read these five words, my heart rate goes from normal resting rate to high-powered cardio speed.In fact, my heart thumps so hard I can feel my palm pulsing, can almost see the phone juddering in my hand from the strength of it. “Oh shit,” I whisper. I almost drop the phone as I reply: “Yes!” I hit send and stare at the phone, willing it to ring. When it finally does, I stab at the accept button and slap the phone to my ear. “Hi, Poppy? Hi!” My voice comes out slightly breathless.
From inside Annette’s office, she glances up, sees me on my phone, then gives a very pointed look at her watch; there are still seven minutes before break time, and she is not happy. Anxiety kicks in, but only for a second. There is no way in hell I am pushing this call back, not even a mere seven minutes back. I give Annette a sheepish smile and mouth “Sorry, I have to take this” to her.
“Hi, Fern, how’s your day going?” Poppy says. I swear she has the most beautiful voice in the world, and it’s not just because I’ve put my literary agent on a massive pedestal, the way every other writer in the world has.
“Good, yours?” I say the words so quickly they come out as one single word—Goodyours?I don’t care, Poppy! I want to scream. I mean, I hope your day is going well, but just tell me why you’re calling!
Fortunately, she must have sensed my nervousness, because she cuts right to the chase. “Really good, because ... we have an offer!” The smile in her voice is palpable.
We have an offer.
An offer.
How many times have I dreamed of hearing these exact words? My breath catches in my throat, and when I blink, I feel something wet slide down my right cheek. A tear. Oh my god, I’m actually crying. I suck in a shaky inhale and manage to say “Hnnh?”
Poppy laughs. “An offer, Fern! From Harvest Press. The editor, Lindsay Tillman, emailed this morning.”
My breath releases in a high-pitched whistle. “Oh my god,” I quaver. I glance up and see Annette openly frowning at me now and shaking her head. If she notices how emotional I am, she certainly doesn’tgive a damn. Again, I give her an apologetic grimace. I should get off the phone, but oh god, how can I?
“It’s a really good offer for Harvest. Eight thousand dollars per book for a two-book deal. They very rarely break five figures, so this is really strong coming from them.”
Key phrases sear themselves into my mind. Really good offer. Rarely break five figures. Really strong. More tears are streaming down my face. I must look a right mess, but I couldn’t even care less. My head feels hot and cold at once, and I can barely feel my hands.The Happiest of Unhappy Daysis my fifth manuscript and has been out on submission for over half a year now, and by now I’ve been on this journey long enough to know that if it hasn’t received an offer after a month, it likely won’t receive an offer ever. But guess who’s only too happy to be proved wrong? And not just any offer, but a strong one. I could just shriek with the effervescent joy of it, I really could.
But I don’t. Instead, I manage to gasp out, “Tha—that’s amazing.”
“I’m so happy for you, Fern,” Poppy says. “All right, so we still have yet to hear from a handful of editors, so what I’m going to do now is email them to let them know there’s an offer on the table. And who knows, if someone else is interested, we might even go to auction!”
Auction.That is the magic word that every author dreams of, an all-out fight for their book baby. “Sounds good,” I say. Sounds good? Sounds fantastic! Sounds incredible! Sounds utterly magical!
By the time I get off the call, I realize my shirt is damp from sweat. Annette has come out of her office and is lurking at the kitchenette. She clears her throat in a way that has nothing to do with the clearing of phlegm and everything to do with catching one’s attention. But you know what? It doesn’t scare me. Okay, maybe it scares me a little, but I’m flying so high that nothing can possibly drag me down in this moment, not even Annette. I look up, beaming, my face shining with happy tears.
“Was that a family emergency?” she says snidely.
It clearly was not, unless she thinks I’m some demented soul who would grin at the news of a family emergency. Still, like I said, nothing can possibly get me down in this moment. Her meanness slides off my back effortlessly. “No, it’s—I’m going to be a published author,” I say, and the moment the words are out of my mouth, a fresh wave of tears spills from my eyes. My god, a published author. A dream I’ve nursed ever since my middle school years became hell on earth and books became a place of refuge for me. In this moment, everything makes sense. Even that awful saying Dani loved to repeat, “Everything happens for a reason,” makes some semblance of sense. Everything did happen for a reason. If Haven hadn’t turned everyone against me, if she hadn’t bullied me endlessly, I wouldn’t have turned to books with such fervent desperation, and I would definitely not be here right now, poised to become a real-life published author. God, if only Dani were still around. She would’ve loved this for me, I just know it. She would’ve laughed and clapped her hands and said something like “See? What did I tell you? Everything happens for a reason!” This moment makes all those years I spent eating my lunch in the bathroom worth the while. The best revenge truly is a life best lived, and look at me now, living my best life.
Well, okay. I’m not quite living my best life yet. Especially not right now, with me having to grovel to Annette. She’s smiling at me, but I can also see that the smile is fighting her every step of the way. “A published author?” she says, as though the concept of it is alien to her.
“Yes,” I say, still beaming. My voice sounds like liquid sunshine to me. Is this what a published author sounds like? Again, the thought of me being a published author sends a shiver down my spine.
“You write?” Annette says, her nose wrinkling as though that’s a distasteful thought. Or maybe it’s specifically me doing the writing that’s distasteful? I have this thing where I’m convinced everyone secretly hates me.
“I do.”
“Wow. Well, congratulations.” Annette looks half dubious, half calculating, and I realize then she’s calculating the likelihood of me quitting.
“Don’t worry,” I say quickly, “I’m still your assistant first and foremost.” It isn’t quite true. I have always been a writer first and everything else second. People often say they would be a writer if not for their other priorities, but see, my main priority is writing. Given the choice between spending weekends out with friends or writing, I would choose writing all the way. Of course, I don’t have friends, so that’s a moot point, but I’m just saying, if I did, I would still prioritize writing. But Annette doesn’t need to know that. And the truth is, $16,000 divided over two books is not enough to live off, especially not in New York City, so as much as I would love to quit my job in the most dramatic way possible, I can’t. Not yet, at least. But I am tenacious. I will keep writing, I will keep chipping away at my dream of becoming a full-time author, and one day soon, I will get there, I know it.
Because karma exists, and when you’re a good person, good things will come your way, I remind myself. And I’m living proof of that, aren’t I?
“Well, I hope you’re not using your work hours to write your little books,” Annette says.
“Of course not,” I say brightly, and my smile does not waver, not even a little, as she walks back to her office. Nope, nothing can harsh my buzz right now. I am untouchable. And because I feel invincible, I open up IG, and the first thing I do is tap on the search button. Haven’s name comes up as soon as I click on the search bar. Instagram knows me well enough to know that I’m only on here to hate-watch Haven’s content. But now, even as I watch her vivaciously happy videos, I don’t get that familiar sense of jealousy and sadness that I usually do at the sight of her smiling face. No, this time, all I get is a sense of peace.
Look at me now, Haven, I think. You tried to bury me, but I fought and I crawled and I clawed my way back up to the surface. And now it’s my turn to be under the spotlight. And by god, I’m not going to waste this chance. My life is about to begin.
Chapter 4
