“Me,” he says.
My eyes flash to his. “Why?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“I’m just surprised,” I say.That you’d want me to sign a book you clearly have no regard for.“That you’d buy a copy. Given you work for the publisher.”
“The bookstore requires proof of purchase if we want to get it signed.”
“And you justhadto get it signed?” I ask.
His eyes are steady on me. “Yes,” he says. “I just had to get it signed.”
My brows knit together.What is this guy’s deal?
Whatever. Another sale is another sale. What do I care how he spends his money?
I scrawl my name on the title page before handing the book back to him. “Hope you enjoy it more thanKirkusdid.” Clearly my mouth can’t resist the digs.
“Most people enjoy books more thanKirkusdoes. And I already have.” He taps the hardcover on the table. “See you soon, Ana,” he says, and heads off to join the rest of the Woodsworth folks by the bar.
See you never, Ryan.
What does he meanI already have? He could, and I assumeddid,pitchSo Proud of Youwithout having read it—the proposal he practically dismissed was thorough enough for him to know its general deal. Not that his pitching was award-worthy, given that the media outlets he reached all pooh-poohed it.
Like thatTalonmagazine interview he set up.
He positioned it as a huge coup when he first told me about it—exposure toTalon’s circulation of 1.1 million readers meant potentially garnering a new audience, and the journalist was Ryan’s buddy from college.Daniel Fox.His very name brings bile to my throat. While he was supposed to write a glowing feature on my rising star after my book deal was announced, instead he took a derisive spin, ultimately lambasting me as a trite internet personality who had no business getting a book deal at all. I’d tried toquash my suspicions during the interview, when he asked leading questions with a permanent smirk on his face. Tried to ignore the discovery in my pre-interview internet stalking that he was a creative writing major turned journalist and thus may have Opinions that would bias his take. Ultimately, I wanted to trust Laura’s assertion that Ryan’s instincts would pay off. Trust that my work would speak for itself. But certain people will never take you seriously—trolls, Daniel Foxes, Ryan Grants. The lesson is to surround yourself with people who will. And try to convince yourself they’re the ones who know what they’re talking about.
Over an hour later, when the line thins to an end, the room is still filled with guests holding dwindling glasses of wine, grease-stained napkins that previously held canapés, and copies of my book tucked into their armpits or branded totes. I should mingle, and I will, but what I really want is—
“Here,” Maral says, handing me a sweaty glass of clear liquid, a curl of lemon rind floating among the ice cubes.
Bless her. She knows me so well.
I take a sip of the vodka soda. “Boyid mernem,” I whisper. An Armenian expression that translates literally toI’ll die for your heightbut somehow meansI love you. Aggressive devotion is an endearing quirk in our culture.
“Full house,” she says, clinking her own glass of white wine against mine. “Cheers, Ayn. You did good.”
High praise from Mar—she’s not usually so effusive.
“This is all Meredith and Alison,” I say.
She points to the dwindling display of books on the table. “You did write that thing, right? I seem to remember you working twenty-hour days for several months instead of your usual sixteen.”
“Yeah, my workout regime really took a nosedive during that stretch.”
She purses her lips. “You dictated the first draft into your phone from your Peloton.”
“Movement helps with creativity,” I say. “If only Siri knew how to separate my voice from Ally Love’s, that might not have ended up beingmorework to edit afterward.”
“Speaking of editing,” she says, checking her phone, “I’m going to head out in a minute—the last episode still needs to be spliced and Simu just uploaded better audio from his end of the interview to Dropbox. Shanthi’s got his video, so she’ll be able to post clips as a Reel tonight too. She says she’s not sleeping anyway.”
If there’s anyone who works more hours than I do, it’s Shanthi. I’ve told her to take a page from Mar’s book (she only works twelve-hour days—something about boundaries, whatever those are), but she’s clearly cut from the same cloth as me.
“But first,” Mar says, turning covertly toward the group of Woodsworthians still by the bar. Laura, Meredith, and Ryan are clustered together, body language casual as they converse. Well, Laura and Meredith are casual. Ryan always looks like he forgot to take the hanger out of his jacket. “I’m still wiping my jaw off the floor from when the Storm Cloud showed up in the middle of your speech. Nice recovery, by the way.”
I shake my head. “An emailandan in-person showing. What if that’s a double bad sign? Bad things come in twos.”
