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* * *

It’s been four tortuous days since I held her. That’s what I woke up with today. I’m at a breaking point with this. I’m mad about her. I’m in LA, and I think she’s still in South Carolina. She’s somewhere else today, but I’m not sure. I check her website and Twitter for her schedule. She posted it to IG last night, and the picture wrecked me. So beautiful and carefree. I know IG is curated, but I somehow wanted her to look as if she was thinking about me. My lord, I’ve turned into a simp. Atlanta. Shit. Atlanta. No. I’ve got to push that from my brain.

I’m the man who makes shit happen. I don’t sit around and pine for anything. I made my own way in politics and found a calling in seeing both sides. It’s not like that’s a popular job for a pundit, but I did it. I convinced people to hear what I was saying. I convinced four other guys that we could all be heard and built the company. I can do this. Time to get back to me.

I dress and head to a fundraiser in Newport Beach. We’re doing a quick Q&A thing.

13

Tess

The flight’s more hellish than I thought it would be. I didn’t sleep well. I also didn’t hook up. I simply going to focus on mentoring kids. It’s a great part of the Atlanta appearances. I get to remind them words have power. It’s a nice reminder for me as well.

He’s not really a thing yet. He felt like a thing. I wish I could stop thinking about him. Will he call me in November, or am I forgotten? This was the dumbest plan, to put me at his mercy, basically. I don’t trust well. I’m a prisoner of my mind.

I signed a ton of books tonight at an amazing radical feminist bookstore called Charis Books, housed in an old house on Agnes Scott College campus. It’s fun and purposeful. I wasn’t certain why they wanted me, but in the end, it all made sense. I thought my book was a conventional love story, turns out I created a feminist protagonist. I’m proud I did it unconsciously.

Tomorrow is the Posman bookstore and a cultural reception at some hotel downtown. I’m most excited about Read Shop by Merchant the next morning. It’s a reading, a Q&A, then a tea with giveaway winners from Goodreads. It’s one of my favorite bookstores and a nice deep dive with readers.

I can’t stop thinking of his crooked smile. I’m raw from fatigue. I let it wash over me. He’ll fade in time. But tonight, I’m too tired to keep him at bay. I forgo the bar and order a white bottle, a side of Brussels sprouts, and a plate of French fries. The knock at the door jars me awake. It’s 7:30. I’m a tired girl right now. Writing will focus my mind. But after a plate of fries, half a glass of wine, and a shower, I fall asleep by 8:30.

* * *

“Did you check in with that indie publisher?” Joan loves to keep up with little local publishers, but she refuses to travel this far.

“Yes.”

“Wudcha do last night?”

“Slept,” I tell her.

“Boring. Come on, you’re young. It’s Hotlanta. Hook up with someone already.” I give her the broad strokes of my recently greased nether regions.

“Shit! After I left you?”

“Yes. Dinner and a sound rogering, and a lovely evening was had by all.”

“Brava. Give the girl a high five for me. Be nice at the thing tonight and call me tomorrow after that tea mishigas. Why are you spending another night in that southern hellhole?”

“You just called it Hotlanta,” I scold her.

“That was when I was trying to get you laid.”

“You’ve never been here before, have you?”

“No.”

I scold her. “Then you can’t call it a hellhole. Most folks here would say the same of New York.”

“Jesus, must you find the good in every city?” I hear her frustration, and I love riling her up.

“Yes, because there is good in every city. If touring has taught me nothing else.”

“Fine. Have a good night.”

I’m tired of being Tess McGuire, but tonight’s a thing honoring authors. The publicist insists I be here. I hate her a lot, but I always listen to her. The current book is sagging a bit, and the next one’s a mess. Such a fucking mess. I can’t figure it out. I need a week by an ocean. But for now, I’ll settle for canapes and drinks.

I’m introduced to ten million people before I’m handed a cocktail. It’s a signature cocktail named The McGuire. It’s a thyme and fruit infused whisky thing with way too many ingredients for a cocktail. I think I’m going to puke.