Romantic Friction

About the Author

It’s a commonly held belief that in order to be a good author you have to be drunk or tortured. To be a great author? Both.

I am a great author. I am occasionally drunk (though not at present). But I am not prone to sprawled-on-the-bathroom-floor

bawling. I have not, nor will I ever, utter the phrase: “Please don’t make me adult today.” And I am not the least bit disturbed

by crawling into a king-size bed alone.

All that’s to say, I am not, nor have I ever been, tortured.

But there truly is a first time for everything.

The bookstore buzzes like an active hive. Beyond these rolling partitions masquerading as shelves, cushioned folding chairs

cradle bums of all shapes and sizes and stages of cellulite. They are here for me. As I am here for them. This is my hometown.

And this is the bookstore in my hometown that Jocelyn and Torrence and Callum and little Vance built, word by word, page by

page, chapter by chapter, book by book. That I share with no one.

I am not a charity.

My coattails are not for riding.

Tell that to Lacey, my publicist for the last ten years. I already did. Multiple times and with only one expletive. (Which

honestly is the definition of restraint .) And yet, I am here. Because Blaire, my agent with a heart mushier than a ripe peach, intervened on Lacey’s behalf and asked

me to be.

Listen, that this industry is harder to navigate than Gen Z slang is not lost on me. I’m not completely averse to the idea

of paying it forward, even though when I was starting out no one gave me so much as a linty nickel. But you can be damn sure

that if a bestselling author who helped to define my genre had invited me (via said publicist) to a bookstore celebration

of their blockbuster series, I’d have been on time.

Not late. By twenty minutes—and counting.

I reach for the partition cordoning off this back room, my rose gold bangles clattering as I wiggle free a chapter book—a

tale about monsters hiding in school cubbies that must be the bane of every kindergarten teacher’s existence. A ghost of a

smile plays on my lips, affection for my kindred spirit of an author who came up with this. I set the book aside and peek

through the slim gap.

Heart-shaped helium balloons kiss the ceiling, “library” candles that smell of old books and lavender flicker on the windowsills,

and my favorite cushioned armchair beckons from behind my usual signing table, an old desk with legs fashioned out of stacked

books. Hanging above the register is a poster of the first nine titles in this series I nearly gave a kidney to make happen

(don’t ask).

The dozens who have traveled from as close as Boston and as far as Iowa wait with more patience than me alongside half the

residents of this small seaside town.

With so many bodies, the room temperature rises. The air turns electric. And I come alive. I wriggle my head out of my introverted shell and gorge myself on the energy of the crowd. I’m no longer a little girl with debilitating stage fright, convincing my teachers I’d been bitten by a squirrel or had a seven-foot-long tapeworm in my belly to get out of an oral report. Turns out I’ve always been good at lying.

Lies, fibs, fabrications, tall tales. That’s all writing is, really, being good at making things up, convincing others that

a little boy with freckled cheeks and a mop of carrot-colored hair can bend universes in one breath and giggle at fart jokes

in the next. Ah, little Vance—everyone’s favorite character. Which is why he had to die. My socials will be flooded with heartbreak

emoji and death threats when fans get their hands on this last book.

My god, do I love my job.

“Sofie, our little Sofie.”

I would take these words as a slight, given my five-foot-stature, if they weren’t coming from a woman slipping behind the

partition with arms outstretched, a half dozen tiny pencils poking out of her salt-and-pepper bun, and a “Roxanne (as in Bel Canto !)” name tag on her ample left breast (the right is ample too, but there’s just the one name tag).

“Sofie Wilde, the hero of the harbor.” Roxanne repeats the same refrain each time I enter this store, be it through the back for an event like today or the spontaneous (read: always-staged) drop-ins through the front to “casually” browse and be photographed with some new release Roxanne’s exuberance and penchant for underdogs caused her to overbuy. She posts them on the store’s Instagram. Knowing this, some of the younger authors, freed from the decorum handcuffs of my generation, have been bold enough to send extra copies of their books to the store. The feed for Harbor Books is the only place you’ll see me posing with a novel that isn’t mine. It’s my rule. Roxanne, somehow, over all these years, remains the exception.

“Tell me,” Roxanne says, wiggling her phone and pressing the side button to shut it down. “And not even Instagram will hear.

Will Vance be able to restore the cosmic balance in time for Jocelyn to choose Torrence? Because she will, naturally. It must

be Torrence.”

My face remains hard as steel.

“Sofie,” Roxanne coaxes. “It’s me. We did this together. We built this store as a team. This is ours.”

Roxanne also has a penchant for hyperbole.

Still, these days, my fantasy romance series—what this Gen Z, grammaphobic world now calls “romantasy”—is a New York Times bestseller, and I have more than half a million followers on social media. But fifteen years ago, I was a thirty-five-year-old

woman with mousy brown hair, clear plastic-framed eyeglasses, and self-made bookmarks rolled off my laser printer in need

of a yellow cartridge. A self-published author without the financial means to promote myself. That’s when I met Roxanne.

When I walked through the door of Harbor Books with my sack of sad-looking bookmarks and shoddily glued-together manuscripts,

Roxanne didn’t even wait for me to finish my plea to support a local author. She was already slapping price stickers on the

back and arranging them in a three-foot-tall window display. Hers was the first store to stock my books. She was the first

bookstore owner to host an event with me. In return, I’ve held every launch party here, and Harbor Books is the only store

where readers can preorder signed copies with one-of-a-kind swag. Whenever I have my last launch (a very, very, very long

time from now), it’ll be here.

Roxanne bats her eyelashes. “I can better serve you and the book if I know how to respond to customer inquiries.” She gives me that syrupy smile we both know is exaggerated. “Truly, there were no advance reader copies printed? Not even for Jenna? Reese?”

“Not a one,” I say, firmly, though of course there were. Stripped of the cover with confidential and sharing prohibited upon penalty of death written across the front (though, as I think about it, no one ever confirmed the use of that perfectly reasonable suggestion).

A small number of advance reader copies are always necessary in this industry that relies on prepublication buzz to anoint

its bestsellers, and my publisher plays the game well, distributing copies to high-profile outlets for review. I could have

secured one for Roxanne, but Vance’s death is the surprise of the series and she’s terrible at keeping secrets. A photo of her still hangs on the wall of shame at the single-screen

movie theater across the street for telling everyone that Bruce Willis’s character in The Sixth Sense is actually dead. (Ooh, did I just pull a Roxanne? Whoops.)

A ding announces the opening of the front door. Roxanne peers around the partition to confirm it’s her.

“Break a spine!” Roxanne says, whooshing out.

Instead of following, I pause to peer through that tiny gap on the bookshelf.

My “invited” guest, the author who will ask me a few questions and then moderate ones from the crowd, hovers at the front

of the store, seemingly unsure, eyes scanning the room. Silver hair past her shoulders, flowy cotton skirt, well-worn canvas

tote bulging with what can only be useless buttons and cheap pens and glitter tattoos she paid for herself. She has no marketing

budget for swag or anything else. She’s only here because of me.

No one had heard of Hartley West until a month ago. As happens (usually thanks to a hefty Venmo transfer), an influencer “discovered” Hartley’s self-published debut, Love and Lawlessness . That influencer gushed about it and set off a trend among her fellow movers and shakers—leaders of the “next wave” of how

books are found, even branded as such by an article in the New York Times . Like a snowball, more and more readers “found” and recommended Hartley’s book. Said it reminded them of me.

The next Sofie Wilde . That’s what they’re calling her. Over my dead body.

“Ms. Wilde?”

I turn.

“Are we missing anything?”

The bookstore employee—Amy (as in Little Women !) according to her name tag—lifts a large wooden tray as if making an offering to the gods. On it are three black Sharpies

with an ultra-fine tip, a pad of sticky notes (blue), six peppermint-flavored lozenges, two glasses of water, no ice, and

a bottle of hand sanitizer disguised as hand lotion.

I’m not a diva. (Despite how it sounds.) I’ve simply paid my dues. I’ve earned the right to be here, to be doing this, and

I intend to do it well.

“It’s perfect, Amy,” I say just as on the other side of this partition, chair legs scratch against the floor.

I return to my peekaboo window. Hartley West has circled the table. She drops her bag on the seat of the armchair. The single armchair. The chair that is mine. She puts her back to the room. Her eyes are closed. Her hand presses against her breastbone, and I wonder if this is her very first event. I’m positive it’s her very first event like this. I remember the feeling. And by feeling I mean fear. Maybe that’s why she was late. I feel a momentary surge of empathy toward her, understanding what it was like to be just starting out, to be hoping and praying to all the gods and no particular god (to cover all the bases) for the doors of publishing to open even the tiniest crack.

I watch Hartley’s chest inflate and deflate, and suddenly I feel like I’m intruding. I lower my gaze, but I can still hear

her on the other side, the faint mumbling as she repeats her pitch one final time. Rehearsing the quippy soundbite that we

authors spend more time writing than the actual book. We are actors without training. Performers without a safety net. We

are thrust into the spotlight despite our desire to avoid it being what led most of our introverted selves to become writers

in the first place. When we stand before a crowd, be it one or one thousand, we must be witty and wise.

I am.

Is “the next Sofie Wilde”?

Honestly, what is that? Is it supposed to be a compliment? Me being replaced? Isn’t that called a coup?

Flump.

Flump, flump, flump, flump.

I resume my spying. Hartley West is plopping stacks of bookmarks on the table beside a two-foot-tall tower of books that she

must have pulled from her Mary Poppins tote.

She then reaches into that bag and draws out a single sheet of paper. I watch as she carefully folds it in two. Printed on

the front, in big blocky aquamarine letters, is her name and underneath: CO-PANELIST.

I text Lacey: Hartley West, what did you say to her?

Lacey: She’s late, I know. Roxanne’s been hounding me.

Me: She’s here. With a “co-panelist” name card.

Lacey: WTF?

Me: My thoughts exactly.

Lacey: Looping in Blaire.

But Blaire wouldn’t overstep. She may have a heart that bleeds so much she needs daily transfusions, but she defers to Lacey

on all things publicity related. Lacey started as my in-house publicist, working for a publisher where she had more authors

to handle than romance authors have euphemisms for penis . Lacey hung out her own shingle after helping me hit the New York Times bestseller list with book four, and I became her first client.

Blaire: It must be a misunderstanding.

Lacey: Damn straight, because if you look up the definition of limelight, you will see Sofie right here and now. Not Sofie and Hartley

West. She came out of nowhere at the pinnacle of Sofie’s career. Sofie cannot validate this flash in the pan at her own event.

Sofie: Isn’t that what I said to you? Right before you hit “click” on the posts promoting this entirely predictable debacle?

Lacey: I’ll fix it.

Lacey could talk a lobster into a pot of water—then get it to use its own claw to turn up the heat.

And yet... in exchange for a blurb, I once offered to donate a kidney to a bestselling author on dialysis (I said not to

ask). I had to fight for every reader at the start.

Just like “the next Sofie Wilde.”

And if karma exists, I need it on my side. Today marks the beginning of the end for Jocelyn and Torrence and Callum and little Vance. I mourn them. A part of me always will. They’ve rented space in my head for more than ten years. I know what they eat for breakfast and what they’d wear to a funeral and the fears that paralyze them. Things I barely know about myself. But it’s time to let them go, and along with them, shifting universes and alternate dimensions and three-headed beasts. At least for a little while. I’m not leaving romance behind—I may have my flaws, but self-sabotage is not one of them. But the idea of penning a meet-cute that doesn’t involve fantastical elements like a talking dolphin or a sidekick with yellow feathers makes me all warm and fuzzy (though honestly, that could also be the hot flashes).

Hartley West places her name card in front of her, testing its ability to stand on its own. I see Roxanne with her phone to

her ear, Lacey surely on the other end. Roxanne’s lips thin, and she marches forward, a tiny pencil falling to the floor behind

her.

I calmly roll the partition aside. I step forward, cutting off Roxanne, secure enough in my books and my fans and the legacy

I’ve built to, just for tonight, share this table in this bookstore in my hometown. I face the crowd here to celebrate with

me. And stand behind the table next to Hartley West. Solidarity, women supporting women, one of us rises, all of us rise—yes,

yes, yes—all things touted by filtered faces and artsy quotes on Instagram.

Yet if it turns out that this woman is trying to make a name for herself by mooching off mine, I’ll consider it a declaration of war. And Hartley West won’t write

so much as a grocery list.

Hartley presses her forearms hard against the table. Wishing she could push through and disappear into a portal that leads to another realm. Or maybe that’s just me. Because this is more awkward than I anticipated.

Grooves darkened with time and dust line the top of the wooden table. Amy hurriedly brought in an extra chair, but it’s one

of the folding ones and the height is a mismatch for the table. I need to scoot to the edge just to land my feet on the ground.

I can’t see readers beyond the first row, which means they can’t see me. But they can see her.

Hartley towers above me, even though we’re both seated. She has yet to look at me. Not a word of gratitude. No visible appreciation

for how rare this is. No acknowledgment of the shift from announcer to co-panelist. (Though “co” is generous any way you slice

it.)

Hartley chews on her bottom lip, unaware that the hem of her blue-flowered skirt is caught beneath the leg of her chair, tugging

the waistband down. The top of her underwear is showing. (Red, for the record.) Her brown crocheted cardigan hangs half off

one shoulder, the fuzzy pom-poms at the hem dangling like rabbit tails. She’s hippie meets prairie with a dash of disheveled

that many authors exaggerate to seem more relatable.

I don’t think she’s exaggerating.

My go-to event outfit is black pants with a hint of sheen and a crisp white blouse. Varied only by a scarf that matches the

color of my latest cover. Today it’s aquamarine. In honor of the tenth and final book in my series, which officially releases

next week.

On the table, a single wireless microphone lies between us. I don’t need it. Early on, I was plopped onto hard-core sci-fi and fantasy panels stocked with men and their bassoon voices. A bloodbath for the meek. It was survival of the loudest, so I hired a voice coach. Now, my voice can project to those seated in the cheap seats of auditoriums and ballrooms. It most certainly reaches all who await in this crowd that stretches to the back of the store and halfway down the stairs to the bargain basement where unsold books live out their final days.

I signal to Roxanne with a tilt of my head that I’m ready. She stations Amy at the register and weaves her way through the

crowd. A hush swathes the room. Her arms cradle a book-shaped rectangle wrapped in aquamarine paper. It is the magnet that

drew everyone here. (And the words you’re searching for, Hartley, are thank and you .)

“Welcome to Harbor Books,” Roxanne gushes. “Weeks away from St. Paddy’s Day, but the luck of the Irish who founded this town

is with us.” Roxanne raises the gift-wrapped book, and clapping strikes like thunder. A hoot or two (okay, three) echoes off

the shelves.

I can feel the table shift as Hartley drives her forearms into the top. I don’t swivel my neck. I don’t let my eye slide even

a millimeter in her direction. I don’t allow the humble half smile I’ve perfected to slip into resting bitch face. The internet

slays you for that.

Roxanne raises her hand to settle the crowd. “Now, she needs no introduction, but—”

I clear my throat, and Roxanne pauses. She forgot Hartley, and let’s just put “forgot” in quotes. Roxanne isn’t one to eschew

potential book sales, but Hartley bringing her own books without discussing the terms first means Roxanne might not get the

cut she rightly deserves for providing this customer base (though technically, I’m providing it).

Roxanne nods to Hartley. “But first, a Harbor Books welcome to Hartley West, another local author our great state has birthed!”

Roxanne faces me. “And a fan of the woman we are here to celebrate. Now, she needs no introduction, but I’m giving her one anyway because she deserves it. She also hates when I make a fuss.”

I don’t.

“Our very own Sofie Wilde has graciously agreed to let our little store make history. And to let you all be a part of it.”

This is my cue, not planned by Roxanne but internalized by me. “To be fair,” I begin, and I swear there’s an awed gasp from

the self-help corner. My adrenaline surges. This feeling, addictive and inimitable, is why I do this. There is no point without

it. “Casinos are bigger than this town. And it’s February. Tonight, our local events calendar consists of this or an iPad

class at the senior center.”

Laughter rattles the windows framing the carnival cutout in the shape of a lobster across the street. My fans make much use

of it, filling their social media feeds after every event with faces flanked by red claws and topped with pointy antennae.

That fish market owes me kickbacks.

Roxanne gives the spiel she has memorized, light on the years spent with dirt under my fingernails clawing my way up the ranks,

heavy on the weeks atop list after list.

Hartley listens, a somewhat glazed look on her face as if Roxanne is describing what a landline is to a seven-year-old. But

Hartley must be about my age, meaning she’s also newly obsessed with the weather and with identifying birds (is that a black-capped

chickadee?). She’s old enough to understand the difference between how it was and how it is—and that means she should be kissing

the ring my finger would be wearing if it weren’t for this goiter-like arthritic bump at my knuckle.

I sat in fungus-scented elementary school gyms with a table of my books beside women selling homemade penguin-shaped candles and men hawking neon cephalopod fishing lures. My first series was about a scorpion-loving peasant growing an army of the venomous arachnids to seize the dying realm from an even more poisonous queen. It did not garner me an agent nor a traditional publishing deal.

I self-published in the days when it meant running off copies in Staples. Before it saw the first wave of authors who earned

themselves a solid payday and a foothold in the industry. I watched as self-publishing gained a get-rich-quick-on-grammatically-mangled-drivel

reputation, experienced the rise of e-books, muddled through the inevitable oversaturation and the back-and-forth of it being

“the” place to be or the death of publishing, praised and maligned in equal measure for years. The controversy has largely

gone the way of video stores and dial-up internet. Self-publishing is now acceptable for authors big and small. A new breed

of hybrid authors extols the virtues of releasing books on their own as well as through traditional publishers.

I am part of that species, thanks to my fans. My scorpion-loving peasant has had a resurgence despite the oft-cringeworthy

dialogue and derivative world building. Along with my two standalones and one mediocre series that attempted to invent a brand

of superheroes born of constellations.

Roxanne smiles warmly. “Sofie Wilde put our little town on the map.”

Well, me and the four miles of unspoiled coastline.

“She built this bookstore.”

Not literally. Not with brick or drywall or even the numbers in my bank account.

“She treats us like family.”

I’m not even sure I treat my family like family. I just don’t understand the word all without in trailing it. Deadlines and touring rule my life. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Roxanne comes to the end of her introduction and taps the gift-wrapped book she’s still holding. “Now, as you already know, these treasures are under lock and key in our storeroom until next week—”

A bit of grumbling and a “we won’t tell” come from the crowd.

Roxanne talks over them. “Even so, Sofie has planned something special as a thank you for being here tonight.”

And by that she means Lacey planned it.

Roxanne continues, “Anyone who preorders the final book will receive a one-of-a-kind bookplate designed by the cover illustrator,

which Sofie will sign and personalize to you tonight! These won’t be available anywhere else and will be included in addition

to our exclusive Harbor Books swag.” A roar of applause. “And as always, Sofie is happy to sign any of her other books, which

are also available for purchase.”

Roxanne has a bookshelf dedicated to my past titles that she’s planning to roll out right before I begin signing. How convenient.

Because like some decree chiseled in stone and adhered to with more fervor than any religion, publishers only release books

on Tuesdays. But this Tuesday, for the first time, I won’t be in my hometown.

This year on release day, I’ll be in Chicago hanging with the Obamas and hunting down the Bear (the cutie who looks like a

young Gene Wilder, not the footballers or the actual carnivores who we’ve apparently trained to eat from trash cans).

My loyalty to Roxanne, her launch sales, and her Instagram feed is why we’re here tonight for what we’re calling (or rather

what Lacey is calling) a “Celebration of Sofie Wilde.”

And, apparently, Hartley West.

Roxanne spreads her arms and gestures to the room. “We here at Harbor Books are honored to welcome Sofie back, in celebration of Light As , the final book in her Weight of Feathers and Stone series . Tonight, our every question will finally be answered—unless it spoils the book, of course,” she adds, winking. She directs

that saccharine smile at the prize nuzzled by her bosom. “My heart has never beat faster. Inside are the words that will either

set it soaring or shatter it to pieces. But I, like all of you, will love it and her either way. She’s the reason we are here.”

Roxanne turns toward me, this a planned cue, but just as I begin to rise to my feet, a soft bubble of words releases from

the chapped lips of the woman beside me.

“Quite literally,” Hartley West says. “She saved me. Sofie Wilde saved my life.”