“So what are the next steps?” I ask Nadia.
“We secure a meeting with Waters and his team. I’ll aim for next Friday, when you’re in L.A., so you can meet in person.”
“What can I do?” I ask, restless energy vibrating through me.
“Go on your book tour and sparkle like you naturally do. I know Shanthi will be sharing clips from events and interviews on your socials—Waters follows you, so he’ll be inundated with proof ofyour charisma.” Her husky laugh is tinny through the speaker. “Leave the rest to me—I’ll update you as soon as I have more to share.”
I exhale. “Okay.” Leave it to her—cool. I can do that. It may be wholly foreign to me, but I can leave all my hopes and dreams in the hands of someone else. Easy peasy, tummy queasy.
After we hang up, Maral hits a Hudson News for some granola bars since we’ll be flying through lunch and our short-haul flight to Chicago won’t serve any food. (I offered to make her something for the flight before we left my apartment, but she looked at me like I’d offered to skin a rat on a plate, exclaiming, “What have I ever done to you?”) I crane my neck in search of coffee and spot a Starbucks just beyond our gate. I’ll drop my bag and hit it up, stat.
Shanthi sits cross-legged on the floor, her phone charger plugged into an outlet on the pillar she leans against, her thumbs flying over the screen. This is her default setting—lucky for me, becauseSPOY’s online presence has benefited heartily from her dedication.
She casts a quick glance at my overstuffed carry-on as we approach. “Did you leave anything at home?”
“Only her dignity,” Mar says.
“You can never be too prepared,” I say.
At the edge of my vision, Ryan approaches the gate. For someone whose vibe is so forbidding, his gait is surprisingly graceful. Like me, he doesn’t dress down for travel and has the nerve to look decent, clad in business casual. He’s so buttoned-up, I doubt he even owns a pair of sweats.
Unbidden, my mind conjures an image of Ryan in sweats and, much to my annoyance, it’s not unappealing. Not even a little.
He’s wheeling a compact hard-shelled suitcase and scowling at his phone. “Good morning,” he says when he reaches us, as if the words taste bad in his mouth. He’s clearly no happier to be on this tour than I am that he’s coming.
“You look cheery,” I say. “Looking forward to spending the next two weeks with us, I’m sure.”
Finally, he raises his eyes, and I fight the urge to fidget under his keen appraisal. “Is it that obvious?” he deadpans.
“What’s wrong?” asks Maral, nodding at his phone.
“There’s been a change of plans for tomorrow’s event.”
“Change of plans?” Shanthi asks from the floor.
He seems to notice she’s there for the first time. “Ryan Grant,” he introduces himself.
“This is Shanthi Prasad,” I say, because manners above all, “my content manager.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’ve been impressed with your work—you’ve taken Ana’s socials to significantly greater heights since you started, what was it, a year ago?”
Who is this person, so reticent in his interactions with me, throwing around accolades now like free condoms at a college orientation? And how does he know when she started? Sure, we did a quick post introducing her as the woman behind the woman when she first took over, but he’d have to follow my accounts—or at least check them—to have seen that. And I know for a fact that Ryan doesn’t even have a personal social media account (I checked—it’s polite to follow people I meet in a professional capacity).
“Change of plans,” Shanthi repeats, not acknowledging the compliment. Classic Shanthi—even I can’t break through with my litanies of praise.
His cheeks puff out on an exhale. “More like a notice that we’ll have to change our plans.”
“Explain.”
“The dry cleaner that shares a wall with Prologue Bookstore had a fire last night. The smoke damage has affected every business in the building—they have to close the premises for the rest of the week at least.”
Prologue is meant to be hosting tomorrow’s event—a reading and Q and A followed by a signing. We’ve pre-sold over a hundred tickets already, and general admission is being offered at the door.Was goingto be offered.
“We’re trying to find a new space,” Ryan says. “Alison is making calls as we speak, and will hopefully have something for us before we board. At the latest, soon after we land.”
Shanthi nods. “I’ll be on standby to spread the word,” she says, seemingly unfazed by the news.
I, however, am fazed as hell.Of course.Ryan steps in as the on-tour publicist and before we even board the first flight, the opening event is compromised? Storm Cloud in full effect. I try to catch Maral’s eye so I can visually scream,See? bad things!,but she’s buried in her own phone.
