Well, I'm starting to think I just got lucky. A girl with too much anxiety, haunted by a literary ghost that only visits when Mercury isn't in retrograde. And according to Lucy, it always is.
"Can it be something else?" I practically beg. "Anything but betrayal?"
Carl sits leisurely on the edge of the table, crossing his arms. "Betrayal keeps people up at night. And it sells."
I make an annoyed face. "Never got why."
"Because readers want to blame others for the things they secretly want. They want characters who screw it up, choose chaos, so they don't have to." He lifts his hand, slowing down when he sees me open my mouth. "I know. I know. You don't like dancing with the devil, but—we need something that puts you back on the map. I'm very serious."
"So you want me to bleed on the page again," I joke.
"No," he says sweetly. Then his eyes glint and his tone goes darker. "I want you to twist the knife, see how much deeper it can go."
Chills. Actual chills.
"Oh my god, you said it like a final line in a movie," I say, staring at him.
He shrugs, his conviction unshakable. "Authors don't have to be original, just honest. Then let the world decide what the hell they want to do with it."
I roll my eyes, more at myself. "I'm too much of a good girl to not care."
"Good girls end up broke."
"Okay."
"Forgotten."
"Got it."
"Mid."
I burst out laughing. "Who taught you that?"
Carl gives a smug nod, teetering on a chuckle himself. "You're better than that. Do you have any idea?"
A sigh. "I do. There might be a story I'm trying not to write."
His brows jump, intrigued, and he points a sharp finger at me. "That's the one I want. Three chapters in a week?"
"Well, can I say no?"
"No," he says resolutely, but smiles.
Then he stands, loops around the desk, and perches closer to me. "Business aside, how are you?"
"Good," I say automatically. "How's your new home cinema?"
"Incredible," he grins, and unlocks his phone, flipping it around to show me a photo of Bridgette, his emotionally unstable bulldog, sprawled on a plush blanket in front of anabsurdly large screen. "Tod's been obsessed. You have to come over. We'll screen Roman Holiday. You'll feel like you could kiss Audrey."
"Sold." I smile.
He smiles back before he suddenly becomes fascinated by the tip of his shoe.
"Why don't you come alone? We can catch up properly," he says.
It's the third time he's suggested not to bring Richard.
I should probably ask why—probably—but me being me, I don't. I just nod.
