I finish signing the book and hand it back to the woman, whose eyes gleam as she thanks me and wishes me well on my tour. My phone buzzes, Mom’s name scrolling across the screen. I worry my bottom lip for a second before swiping to answer.
“Hi,” I say quietly so attendees can’t hear. “Everything okay?”
“When you and Maral are home next week I need you to move the couch so I can vacuum underneath. It is zuzveli.”
For the thousandth time I wonder when she’ll stop referring to Boston ashomewhen Mar and I haven’t lived there in five years. “Maral is staying with friends while we’re in town, but I can do it, don’t worry. And it’s not next week, it’s in two weeks.” Boston is our last tour stop.
She sighs. “Have you called the gardener yet? If he doesn’t complete the job, you shouldn’t pay him the full amount.”
“Not yet.” I catch the eye of someone waiting in the middle of the signing line and smile. “I’ve been a little busy today.”
“Always so busy. It’s not like you are a doctor anymore.”
I count to five before answering—a trick Maral taught me since my mouth often doesn’t get the memo that it needs to consult my brain before doing its thing. “I was never a practicing doctor, Mayrik.” I hold my breath for another second before saying, “My book released today.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Is that what’s in the package you sent me?”
“Yes.”
She makes a sound that’s somewhere between acknowledgment and dismissal. “The courier kept ringing and ringing the bell while I was watching Drew Barrymore. I thought it was an emergency.”
Nope, just the fruits of my labor.I’m practically drawing blood with the way I’m chomping on my tongue. “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? And I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Oh. Okay, Anahid jan.” Then, more buoyantly, “I will have nazook ready for you.”
My shoulders release from around my ears at her mention of my favorite Armenian pastry. Feeding me is her love language—this is her trying. I smile. “I’ll bring my appetite.”
I drop my phone into my bag as the next person in line steps up, gently placing a copy of my book on the table. Standing on the other side is the one person I’ve kept an eye out for while hoping we wouldn’t have to interact all night.
“Great to see you again, Ana,” Ryan says.His ramrod posture makes it so he’s literally looking down his nose at me. Typical.
“Surprising to see you again, Ryan,” I say.
“I wouldn’t miss your launch.”
It certainly wouldn’t miss you. “I didn’t expect you, given you aren’t working on the book anymore.”
“This event is for fans, not just people working on the book,” he says. He raises a brow at his copy, which remains untouched, so distracted am I by his implication that he’s a fan. As if. “Thisiswhere we get our books signed, right? I wasn’t sure if you were the author because there’s just no indication anywhere…” He makes a show of turning in a slow circle, indicating the room splattered with images of my face.
“That’s the kinda razzmatazz that sells influencer books, I guess. I know it’s not your standard fare,” I say.
“No, the books I work on are usually not Reese picks.” He bows a little. “Congratulations, by the way. I haven’t had a chance to tell you that since the news broke.”
That twinkle in his eyes. I almost forgot it, my memories painting him as wooden, dead-eyed, in all his standoffishness. But there it is, adding a golden glint to the green of his irises. Decidedly humanizing.
“I got your email,” I say. “That was plenty.”
His expression remains neutral but I see his Adam’s apple bob. Shit—I didn’t intend to sound unkind, but my tendency to blurt out words without filtering them is one of the reasons Maral says I should be an indoor cat. I know Ryan didn’t willfully try to harm my book. At least, I hope he didn’t—he wouldn’t be much of an ambassador if he shot his employer’s product in the foot. But his grumbly curmudgeon energy in every interaction we’ve had over our two-year acquaintance, mostly terse emails and clipped calls, has telegraphed his distaste for it. I wanted tonight to be all positivity. Which means he and his opposite-of-the-Midas-touch vibes are non grata.
“I met your cousin,” he says. “Is the rest of your family here too?”
I pull his copy toward me. “They’re not local,” I say. Although even if Mom lived down the street and I sent a car to bring her here specifically, it’s a toss-up whether she’d come. Vartouhi Movilian is not really a crowd person. Or a reader. Or supportive of my career in general.
Dad might have come, though.
The thought comes at me, unbidden, like a boxing glove. All at once I feel knocked out, heavy in my chair.
I suck in a breath and point my Sharpie at the title page. “Who can I make this out to?”
