One minute passes. Then two.
She’s met with silence.
Resigned, Grace peers down, as if a blueprint for her future might appear amid the mess that’s taken over her once tidy workspace.Crumpled pages. Balled-up sticky notes. Empty mugs. Her monthly planner flipped open to a grid of scribbled-out goals.
“Try not to take that thing so seriously, Cece,” Birdie often reminded Grace when she caught her plotting out her life like it was a book she planned to write. “You know what they say, sweetheart,” she’d add through her signature red-stained lips, as if she were out on a perpetual date with life. “We make plans and the universe laughs.” She’d give her daughter’s hand a knowing squeeze. “Leave some space for surprises.”
Back in her small home office, Grace pulls off her blue-light glasses. Nothing productive will come from her today. Maybe not ever again. She closes her document and clicks open her email, only to find a wealth of junk. Newsletters from other authors with better momentum (Big Announcement!). Bank statements she’d rather not see. Promo codes for end-of-season sales, like she has anything to dress up for these days. Foolishly, she opens one anyway. Gauzy dresses. Rattan bags. Models smiling from sunny locales. A curated vision of the summer she’s missed.
For an instant, she closes her eyes and lets herself picture it. The chance for an escape. A break in this awful routine. Warm sun on her skin. An ice-cold soda in her grip. The distant sound of waves. A fantasy. Even so, when her lids lift, she can’t help what comes next. It’s automatic. Something she’s done so often these last few months she’s lost count.
A few keystrokes later, the listing appears. 116 Surf Street. Sea Drift. Her and Birdie’s favorite place on the Jersey Shore. The house looks the same. No surprise. Cedar shingles. Turquoise door. Pea gravel driveway. She scrolls through the rental calendar, plugging in dates for the solidly booked property, just tosee, as if she’s planning a joy-filled trip and not daydreaming about better times. It’s silly, this habit, like searching online for a profile of an ex. It’s not like she intends to book anything. If forced, she could provide a list ofreasons to never go back. Even so, she needs to see that it’s still there. Something—somewhere—to keep her anchored. Proof that at least certain parts of her past were real.
Ding.
Her inbox. A new email.
Instantly, her stomach tightens. Her pulse quickens. Every part of her body thrums with dread. Without the need to look, she’s certain what new message awaits.
Subject: Checking in!
Sender: Mollie Grey, Chapter One Literary Agency
Hey Grace,
Hope you’re doing well since we last spoke! Wanted to see if you have any new pages for me to look at yet. No pressure! But considering how things went with your last draft, might be a good idea for me to take a fast peek? I’m heading out of town later today and will have limited access to email for the next week, so feel free to send soon! Would love to read them on the drive!
Should we plan a lunch in the city for when I get back? Something to toast your anticipated success? September 15th will be here before we know it.
xx,
M
A nauseous taste fills Grace’s mouth as she skims back through the message. Four exclamation points (five if she counted the subject)anda smiley face. Professional urgency disguised as cheer.
During their lunch in June, at an airy Italian restaurant in lower Manhattan, Grace assured Mollie—her literary agent of nearly a decade—that her new manuscript was progressing smoothly. No issues!No worries! No stress! Shesworethis new version of her next book wasthe one, then assured her she’d pass along chapters once they were ready. Weeks later, they’re not.
At that meeting, despite the breeziness of their conversation, there was something neither party explicitly stated but both privately understood: that this final round of edits was Grace’s last chance. Her first book? A huge success. Her second? A flop. Her third? Still unfinished.
She’d submitted the original draft for it in January. Grace knew it wasn’t her best. The months she’d spent writing it were weighed down by such heavy things. Even so, she hoped that with some finessing, it could work. Her editor sent a note a few days later, expressing that shedidn’t love the direction. Publishing speak forStart again. She was assigned a new deadline, which had since been bumped back three times. The September delivery date was the final straw.
Her hands shaking, Grace exhales and types a fast reply.
Subject: Re: Checking in!
Sender: Grace Whittaker, Grace Whittaker Books
Hi Mollie,
You must have read my mind! Happy to send along some pages when you’re back (hopefully from somewhere with fun cocktails and water views). Just polishing a few last bits!
Thanks for reaching out! Should be a-okay for next month’s updated deadline. Exciting!
xx,
Grace
There. Four exclamation points. Enough to sound enthusiastic but not unhinged.
