Viv implicitly understands. But she demands it anyway: “Tell me.”
And so, finally, I do.
Chapter 34
It was a hot, sticky day in Milwaukee. The lake smelled especially pungent; it was like breathing in fish broth.
I marched quickly down the riverwalk, passing apartment complexes overlooking the water, stopping in front of the newest, fanciest one.
Sage’s latest home. The one she could afford because of her gigantic advance. I wondered if she wanted to meet here to rub it in my face.
“Hey.” Sage approached me from the dock that stuck out into the river right across from the apartment’s entrance. “Thanks for meeting me. I’ll try to make this fast. I’m about to go out on the lake, and I need to grab my laptop from my apartment.”
I had been shocked to receive a letter—an actual handwritten letter—from Sage two days before, asking me to meet her here atnoon. It made sense; Sage was dramatic. Of course she wouldn’t unblock me. She’d use a one-way communication method that gave her complete control. I almost didn’t show up, but her letter gave me hope. She said she had an opportunity for me.
“Are you going to tell the truth, finally?” I asked without preamble.
We faced each other on the dock, Sage’s pontoon bobbing in the river behind her. She was clearly about to go out for another writing and swimming session.
Sage rolled her eyes. “I told my truth. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” She paused, and then bit her lip. “I told my publisher about you.”
My jaw dropped. “Youdidtell the truth!”
“No, listen,” Sage said. “I told them we used to write together. Workshop our books. I proposed… Well, I proposed bringing you on as a contractor of sorts.”
My heart fell. “What do you mean?”
Sage straightened. “I’m willing to bring you on as a ghostwriter. Someone to bounce ideas off of. For Book 2. My publisher is on board with hiring someone so I pitched you.”
I glared at her. “You couldn’t do it, could you? You couldn’t come up with a good plot for the sequel becauseit wasn’t your idea to begin with.”
Sage spent so much time with me and my research, ideas, and notes. She knew the book as well as I did. She just beat me to thepunch with writing it. But now, she was floundering. Sage didn’t know what happened in Book 2 because Book 1 wasn’t hers.Iknew where the series was going, but I hadn’t shared that with her because I was focused on getting the first novel done. Sage couldn’t pick up the threads of the story alone, even though I sowed them there intentionally.
“Ghostwriter isn’t enough,” I demanded. “I want recognition. I want my name on my work. I’m not going to help you continue to steal my story.”
“You’ll be compensated.”
“As much as you? Will I be compensated for the first book?”
Sage growled. “You didn’t write the first book.”
Throughout my fury, hope still palpitated. If Sage was willing to bring me on as a ghostwriter, maybe she could be reasoned with.
“You’re aNew York Timesbestselling author now!” I said, cajolingly. “There’s a way we can do this so that we’re both happy. I can get representation too. Add me as cowriter. Credit me for the first book. This doesn’t have to be a scandal.”
Sage narrowed her eyes. “Tell me something, Char. Have you written anything else to completion? Ever?”
“I… Not yet, but—”
She cut me off. “No, that’s the thing, isn’t it? You were never going to write that story. You had a good idea, but it was wasted on you. I had what was needed to get it done. And I did. I’m offering you a compromise, and even that’s not good enough for you despiteyou having nothing else to give. This is the deal: ghostwriter or nothing.”
“Fuck you,” I cried. “You know that’s not enough! That book was my dream! Just because I don’t write as fast as you doesn’t mean you can take it away from me. You can do better than ghostwriter. If you don’t, I-I’ll sue. I have my notebook.”
Sage sneered. Her breath smelled like beer. “Your dateless scribbles that could have been written at any time and are direct quotes of my work and vague ideas? Yeah, that’ll hold up in court. Are you taking my offer or not?”
“Sage, don’t do this,” I begged. “Please. We were friends. And you need me. How are you going to write Book 2 without me?”
She leaned forward. “We’ll find someone else. I went to you first out of courtesy. As a respect to our former friendship. But there are hundreds of talented ghostwriters out there, and my publisher is willing to play ball after all the money they spent to get this book on the bestseller lists.”
