“I’m going to sound completely judgmental, but I have known a few models.” I’d even dated a couple. “They tend to be pretty self-absorbed.”
“I’m extremely self-absorbed,” he said soberly.
“Really?”
“You should see the amount of time I spend on exercise and grooming. It’s criminal.”
“Well, that is part of your job.”
“I probably spend as much time in front of a mirror as you do in front of your computer.”
I’d later learn it wasabsolutelytrue.
“Again, hazards of the job.”
“Then how about this?” he challenged. “I’m writing a memoir. How many people in their twenties do you know who are writing a memoir?”
“You said you weren’t a writer.” I reminded him of our last conversation when he’d denied it.
“I’m not getting paid to do it.”
“Does that matter?”
“Of course, it matters. Do you know how many people think they’re photographers just because they can snap a picture on their smart phone? Doesn’t it aggravate you when you tell someone you’re an author, and they say they’re going to write the story of their life, and it’s going to be a bestseller? Like there’s no craft or skill to it at all.”
It was alittlebit aggravating. On several occasions I’d been tempted to make up some other profession for that exact reason. Even worse was when they asked me to write their story for them, as though they’d be doing me a favor.
“In my opinion, if you’re dedicated to the craft of writing, that makes you a writer,” I said.
“I wouldn’t dare elevate myself to your level,” he said with a straight face. I was 99 percent sure he was fucking with me.
“Do you intend to publish your memoir?” I asked.
“Definitely not. I’m a shit writer. It’s just something my therapist suggested. But isn’t that completely self-absorbed? To spend all day having people fuss over you and take your picture only to come home and write about yourself? Even now, I’ve turned the conversation back to me. That’s how self-absorbed I am.”
I smirked at his cleverness. “I don’t mind. I find you fascinating.”
Arden gave me a disbelieving look, then changed topics entirely. “What are you working on now, Michael?”
I sighed deeply and Arden picked up on my angst.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “That must be an industry no-no. Ours is, ‘have you gained weight?’”
I gave a wry grin. “I’m embarrassed to admit what I have.”
“Is it crabs?”
I laughed. “Worse. Writer’s block.”
He nodded, serious for a moment before his expression lightened. “I’ve read your books.”
Now it was my turn to be put on the spot. I hated discussing my books post-publication. For those who said they liked them, I never knew if they truly meant it or if they were only being polite. And if they hated them, I really didn’t want to be confronted with it face-to-face. Or to have to argue my narrative choices. (As if there were anything I could do about it at that point, anyway!) That’s what book clubs and online forums were for. Though perhaps the worse reaction of all was for readers to be bored. My most devastating review was only three letters long—meh.It sent me into a doubt spiral that lasted for weeks.
“What did you think?” I asked as if pulling the pin on a grenade.
“I loved them,” he said with warm sincerity. “I picked upMurder at Cold Lake Lodgein the Miami airport, then binge read the second. I couldn’t believe I had to wait for the third one to be published. Needless to say, I pre-ordered that and the fourth one as well. I’m open to any hints you want to give me about the fifth.”
“No spoilers,” I said with a huge grin. “This must me why you agreed to have lunch with me.”
