Finding peace, p.12
Finding Peace, page 12
I write the kind of story I’ve been desperate to read lately, the kind of story Patrick thought was worthless. The kind of story I have always loved. And then the sun starts to rise, and I stare out the window and blink and blink and blink, half dazed, half drunk-tired. What time is it? It can’t already be morning.
But it is.
And I’ve written four complete chapters. Holy smokes, really? They’re rough, but as I skim the opening pages, they’re also good. Surprisingly good. My fingers tremble as I click on Henri’s email and look over the details. Avon wants a proposal with three sample chapters and an outline.
Before I can second guess myself, I blob out a basic outline of the rest of the story and draft a quick email.
Dear Henri,
I didn’t mean to submit something for this, but somehow, I accidentally wrote four chapters. I guess that means I did want to—
No, that’s dumb. I delete it.
Dear Henri,
Check out this proposal and tell me what you think.
A
She doesn’t deserve a bunch of chatting and explanations. She’s clearly not my friend. If it’s about the money for her, well it can be about money for me too. Let her make of that what she will.
My finger’s hovering over the send button when I notice a new email I somehow missed.
Probably because it’s so ubiquitous as to be almost invisible—my daily Publisher’s Marketplace email with deals and announcements. I delete it unopened most days, but this morning a name stands out to me.
Patrick McCleve.
My ex.
I can’t keep myself from clicking on it to read the full text.
Patrick McCleve’s NEVER EVER AGAIN, a literary thriller about a San Francisco power couple that uses a surrogate for their first child, until the wife discovers her husband is a spy for a foreign government and must decide what matters most to her, sold to Martin Lewis at Hachette in a significant deal.
Significant.
I hate Publisher’s Marketplace and their stupid code words. Significant deal means Patrick got somewhere between two-fifty and five hundred thousand for his new book. Which means his last three have continued to sell as well as his first.
While I still haven’t sold a single new manuscript since my abysmal attempt to write literary fiction. The worst flop of all time. I can still quote the worst of the editorial reviews.
Both forced and contrived, the best part about Maggard’s foray into literary fiction was when it blessedly ended. I only wish it had done so more quickly.
A tear leaks from the corner of my eye and rolls down my face, and I delete the email to Henri with the click of one button. Why was I so excited about an IP project, anyway? It wouldn’t even have my name on it, which might be a good thing, actually. Because the name Anica Maggard isn’t one that means anything in the literary world. Not anymore, anyway.
I flop back on my bed and finally drift off to sleep.
A persistent buzzing near my elbow finally intrudes on my dream, and I claw my way upward through the fog. Bright light and a ringing phone. I rub my eyes until I can read the tiny little time on the top corner. Just after noon. Which means I’ve slept… almost five hours.
It’s Barbara calling, my new boss, but by the time I try to click talk, it’s already gone to voicemail. She doesn’t leave me a message, but I get a text message a minute later. YOU ARE SO GOING TO HATE ME. BUT ANY CHANCE YOU CAN COME IN TODAY? I SWEAR WE DON’T USUALLY HAVE SO MANY CANCELLATIONS. FLU IS STARTING EARLY THIS YEAR.
In late August? I’d guess it’s more of a rash—of flaky employees.
SURE, I text back. IF I COME IN TWO HOURS IS THAT ALRIGHT?
OR EVEN THREE. YOU’RE AN ANGEL.
I shower and make a half-hearted attempt at some kind of makeup, that dumb story about the altruistic doctor rumbling around in the back of my head the entire time. It hardly seems necessary to look my best for work, but it doesn’t help my tips to look too haggard. At least our only uniform is an apron. I slide into my favorite work heels—a three-inch wedge that’s made of some kind of dark rubber so they’re as springy as flats. My calves look great, and my feet don’t complain at the end of my shift.
I glance at my clock. I don’t have a ton of time, but she did say three hours was fine. I could write a few pages before I leave, if I settle for a protein bar on the way to work, maybe.
I sit down and even though I know this story isn’t substantial, even though it’s definitely just fluff, I enjoy writing the next scene. By the time I finish the fifth chapter, the hunky doc has realized that he’s been trying so hard because something is missing in his life, which is the first step toward fixing himself enough to be ready for real, lasting love.
I’m grinning as I jog down the hall.
A knock at the front door startles me, but I remind myself that it’s not my house. If I ignore whoever it is and sneak out the side door, I won’t be late.
The door opens. “Anica?”
It’s Trudy, so she knocked and then let herself in with the keypad, like usual.
“Hey, there,” I say. “I’m just headed out the door.”
“Where?” She glances at my purse. “Shopping sounds fun.”
I shake my head reluctantly. “Not fun, no. I’m headed to work. They have another server who’s out sick so they need me to cover. If you ask me, they ought to hire another new waitress and fire Karina. She cancels more than she works.”
“Ah, work drama. It’s almost the same no matter what you do.”
“Mary’s in her room, I think,” I say. “And Amy and Chase were in the backyard playing with play-doh on the picnic table.”
“Oh, I didn’t come for them,” Trudy says. “I came to talk to you.”
Huh?
“Mary told me she’s taking the kids to the park later, but I thought you had the day off. I was going to see if you wanted to get a pedicure.”
I glance down at her feet reflexively and she shoos at me with her hands. “Don’t look at my toes! They look horrifying. Didn’t you hear me say that I need a pedicure?”
Her polish is a little chipped, but clearly her standards are much higher than mine. “I’d love to go,” I say, flattered she thought of me. Actually, shocked might be a better word. “But I already told Barb I’d go in.”
Trudy sighs. “Oh, alright. I should have texted, I know, but I was driving.” She smiles. “Next time?”
“Absolutely.” And I mean it. Geo is almost unbearably pretty and driven on top of that. Mary’s perfect and beautiful and unfailingly kind. Brekka is brilliant and rich and cultured, plus gorgeous and petite. And Paisley is already best friends with every single person I’ve met in Atlanta. If I’m being honest, they pretty much all intimidate me.
But Trudy . . . she has been divorced, has a kid, and acts like a real person, but she’s also smart and funny. I could actually see myself spending time with her without wanting to cry myself to sleep every night over my failings.
“How about early next week?” I decide I should be more proactive so she doesn’t think I’m just being polite. If my former brother-in-law’s sister-in-law makes the effort to drive over and invite me to get a pedicure, it’s probably my turn to take a risk. “I’m working lunches next week. Could you go after work?”
Trudy smiles. “Paul’s not out of town, so I can totally do that. I love that place over by the new frozen yogurt shop. Maybe Tuesday?”
“Pedicure and a treat?”
“Even better!” Trudy swipes on her phone and taps on the screen, presumably making note of our agreed-upon girl date. “I’ll pick you up—is four-thirty alright?”
“Perfect,” I say. “I look forward to it.”
“Good luck today. A Saturday dinner shift can’t be good.”
I shrug. “It’s a diner. Could be slammed or kind of slow, depending on how fancy people decide to be.”
“Well, good luck getting whichever you prefer.”
“Right now, I need tips,” I say, “or Mary will be stuck with me forever.”
Trudy frowns, but I can’t stick around to figure out why. I wave and duck out. The diner is a madhouse when I get there and Barbara sighs when she sees me. “You’re a sight for tired eyes.”
My eyeballs are actually burning from lack of sleep. I don’t do well without a full eight hours, which I know about myself. But another day’s tips put me closer to that deposit, so it was the right call. I barely have time to take a bathroom break until around four-thirty when the oddball late lunch rush finally hits a lull.
“You look like you need a coffee and a stack of pancakes,” Barbara says.
I laugh. “How did you know I missed breakfast?”
She hands me a plate of pancakes she must have told Ulysses to make and sets a coffee next to it. Then she shimmies. “I hope a man was involved.”
If I’d already taken a swallow of coffee, I’d definitely have spit it out all over her. “After a manner of speaking there was,” I say. “I spent the night with a super hot doctor who just returned from a tour helping repair cleft palates in Mongolia with Doctors without Borders.”
“I thought you weren’t working today.” Ethan’s standing in the doorway. “Someone else came over after I left?”
How did I miss the door jangle? It must have happened when I was laughing. My cheeks heat immediately, and I want to dive behind the counter. Maybe he won’t notice.
“I’ll let you two talk, but for the record, I called her in last minute.” Barb disappears into the back, and I totally want to follow her.
“A doctor?” Ethan frowns. “Are you serious?”
I laugh. “Not really, no.”
“You made up some guy?” His eyebrows draw together.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I pulled out my laptop.”
“Chatroom?” Now he thinks I’m a real loser.
“You have got to be kidding,” I say. “It’s not 2002. No, the doctor I spent all night with is a fictitious character I made up for a book I started writing last night. I wrote four chapters before I finally fell asleep sometime after sunrise.”
As realization dawns, his entire face lifts. I should be annoyed, but I can’t manage to pull that off. It’s too adorable that he was jealous—of a book character I’m writing. He steps closer to me and his eyes drop to my mouth.
“Does it help if I confess that my super hot, charitably minded doctor looks a lot like a certain boxer I know?”
His grin is almost predatory.
“Or maybe you’ll be happy to know that I think it’s your fault I couldn’t sleep.”
He kisses me then, but I don’t miss the jangle of the bell this time.
“Working,” I mumble against his mouth.
He swears under his breath. “I was here first,” he says. “So I better get the corner booth.”
I roll my eyes, but he gets the corner booth, and he orders two cheeseburgers again. “Really?” I ask.
“I’ve been eating the same things on my burgers for a decade,” he confesses sheepishly. “When I find something I like, I don’t get tired of it.”
I guess that’s comforting in the grand scheme of things. I’m smiling when I take the other customer’s order. By the time I bring Ethan his food, he has spread papers out all over the table, and he’s working on reports of some kind on his laptop. He camps out in the corner booth until close—alternating between ordering coffee and pie whenever Barb threatens to kick him out. “I’ll tip enough to cover it,” he says. “Or I can pay a booth fee.” He winks at Barb and she giggles as she walks away.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t forget my tipping etiquette lesson.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “I took up one of your tables all night. If I consumed enough food to make up for that, there’s no way I could keep the washboard abs you seem to like so much.”
He has a point there. “You can’t camp out here every night.”
“I know,” he says. “But I wish I could.”
My heart flip flops in my chest. “And I’m too exhausted to do anything but head home and collapse head first into bed right now.”
“Me too,” he says. “I didn’t sleep well either.”
“Family drama?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I blame a girl.”
I hang up my apron.
“She’s got the palest cornflower blue eyes. Sometimes they’re nearly white.”
I blink.
“And the daintiest hands. Sometimes I wonder how she can type fast enough to be an author.” He insists on walking me out to my car.
“I’m not much of an author right now,” I say.
“Says the girl who stayed up all night and wrote four chapters.”
“My ex just landed a huge book deal.” I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not cool to talk about exes this early on in something new. “Never mind.”
Ethan wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes gently. “Who cares?”
“Huh?”
“You sound upset that your ex is doing well.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “But his success doesn’t impact you at all. The woman I’m looking at is doing great, given what life threw at her. Look around at other people less, and worry about your own progress more.”
“Do you do that?”
“Professionally?” Ethan asks.
I shrug.
“I’m good at doing that professionally.” He smirks. “Less so in my personal life, so don’t think I’m lecturing you as some kind of expert. I’m giving you the advice I try to follow myself whenever possible.”
I shift and lean my head against his very solid chest. Some of the tightness in my heart eases. “It’s good advice.”
“People want their exes to do poorly—and I even get that—but it’s actually better if they do well. It means you had good taste.”
I shake my head. “Oh, he was a catch alright.”
Ethan smiles. “So are you. Today. Right now. Waitress Anica. Once you realize that, you’ll be an even better catch.”
“Good to know.”
“Are you feeling caught yet?” His head lowers toward mine.
Like a glow stick that’s been cracked, a feeling of giddy joy spreads through my entire body, spiraling outward from my heart. A thrill shoots up and down my spine and then flies out toward my toes and fingers. And then his mouth covers mine and all that bubbly light explodes. My hands reach around his neck and my fingers curl against his slightly shaggy hair.
His lips press against mine eagerly, more insistent than yesterday, and I wish I wasn’t quite so tired.
A tiny beeping sound that signals a car unlocking from behind me jolts me back to the real world. “You two are adorable,” Barb says.
“I’d better head home before I’m so tired I swerve into oncoming traffic and die,” I whisper.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been more wide awake in my life.” The warmth of Ethan’s breath against my face sends a shiver up my body and my head trembles like a leaf in the gusty fall wind. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Not working here.” Barb winks at me and closes the door of her car.
“I guess nothing,” I say. “Although I probably ought to try and write at least a little bit.”
“About the hunky doctor?” He lifts both eyebrows.
“Right.”
“I suppose I can support that. Any chance you’d send me what you’ve written?”
I stumble backward, my backside bumping into my car. “Are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He lifts one eyebrow.
“You do know I write romantic comedies.”
“You said that, yeah.”
“I doubt that’s really your typical genre.”
“It’s not my usual selection,” he says. “But if you’re writing it, I’d love to read it.”
I gulp. “I never let anyone read what I’m writing when I’m still writing it.”
“That’s a shame,” he says. “But I’ll survive. I’ve got three other books to read, after all.”
I freeze, my arms suddenly heavy, dread sinking into my belly. “What books?” My voice is higher and squeakier than it should be.
“Yours, obviously. I ordered all three of them this afternoon. I’m a little embarrassed it took me this long.”
“You can’t read them,” I blurt. “You can’t.”
He steps back and sits on my hood, his jaw jutting out defiantly. “Why not?”
“I don’t want you to.” I cross my arms. “Isn’t that enough of a reason?”
“You wrote two best-selling novels and a third book in a completely different genre in the year after your sister died.” He frowns. “You really don’t want me to read them? More than a hundred thousand people read your first two books.”
“Women,” I say. “A hundred thousand women.”
“Last night, I was thinking to myself that I wish women came with a manual.” He drops his voice until it’s barely more than a whisper. “See, I didn’t want to do anything stupid to mess this up.” His hand brushes my cheek and I melt. “And then today I realized that this woman does come with a manual. Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve literally written BOOKS about relationships. If I can’t learn something from them about how to make you happy, then I really am a dope.”
He might be the most adorable guy I’ve ever met. “Fine. You can read the first two.”
“Why not the third?” He straightens. “I’ve lost someone too, remember? Maybe your book will help me. The blurb says it’s about an adopted girl who discovers that although her adoptive parents are idyllic, her birth mother has died, and she spins out.”
I nod numbly.
“That sounds fascinating, honestly.”
My voice is flat. “Kirkus said, ‘Maggard’s prose proves as fascinated with its own importance as a Millennial in a hand-painted scarf.’”
“Who’s Kirkus? He sounds like a moron.”
My laugh comes out more like a sob. “Publisher’s Weekly said, ‘As impeccably flat as her romantic comedies were effervescent with life.’ And—”
Ethan grabs my hand and spins me in a circle. “Stop.” He presses a finger to my lips. “No more.”
