Chapter 17
I don’t have a solid plan.
Nothing makes sense, except for one fact that is abundantly clear in all of this: I’m leaving the second this boat docks in
the harbor and the event is over.
I’m leaving all this madness behind, and I’m never turning back.
Jack is good with words.
Dangerously good.
It’s why people want him on their side, doing things like representing their books to those in publishing . He is a professional at winning people over to his side.
Which he will try to do with me.
And so I must not give him that chance.
My eyes are glued to the unloading dock in the distance as I grip the rails at the front of the boat, begging it to hurry
up as it moves to shore. The last thing I want is for Jack to see me like this. I can’t fake my fury. And sense of betrayal.
And really... just humiliation.
What else is he lying about?
Our relationship, a lie?
His friendship, a lie?
I knew he was money hungry, and maybe not even that, just obsessed with his work. I thought it was dedication. Before I had
found it admirable that he’d found something he loved so much, that he was passionate about. In a world where so many people
loathe the thing they dedicate such a great portion of their lives to, he was always excited. His passion for his work was
something about him I liked .
I’d seen enough half-hearted agents snatching up far more clients than they could handle just to give them no attention unless their books “went somewhere.” I always liked that Jack didn’t do that. That while he seemed tough and unfriendly at the front end, it turned out his rejection of so many aspiring authors was really a kindness in disguise. And he was willing to be misjudged as that villain; he wasn’t off trying to please everybody because, as he said, “There are only so many people one person can please.”
These were the things I had liked .
But what I didn’t see, the dirty little secret that has been hanging over my head this whole time, is the truth. I’ve been,
from the very start, the naive little girl who can be manipulated to work her heart out and give her words away in exchange
for a little attention. A little hope.
I am exactly who Amelia thinks I am. I’m nothing more than their prized little ghostwriter, sitting up in a castle turret tucked away from
people. Slipping words through the cracks in the door by day while typing away all night.
And all this time, the only difference between the two has been that Amelia is the one who said it, and Jack is the one who
thought it. The craftier one.
And he is on their side.
Her side.
He really is Amelia’s puppet.
That’s what his job is, isn’t it?
Amelia reached her success, and then he was tasked with keeping me from succeeding on my own. All this time he has said he’s
making progress. All this time he has said he’s reaching out, but Water Under the Bridge needs work...
Well.
I’ve been a fool.
I’ve given him all this grace. I’ve shrugged off the times he missed dinner meetings in the past. I’ve always said yes, been agreeable, as he’s talked me into pushing forward another deadline. Working faster. Writing harder. Dropping scenes to suit Amelia’s wishes. Adding scenes when she wanted. Tasked with creating for somebody else an impossible goal of writing “the perfect rom-com.” Even going on this stupid, stupid book tour .
I don’t even realize my cheeks are wet with humiliated tears as the riverboat employee unhooks the lock from the railing and
I am the first to step off.
“You need help walking down, miss?” he says, concern etched across his face. He points down to my heels as an excuse to help
me. A good person. A decent person.
“No. Thank you.” I wipe at my cheeks and pass him a little smile.
“Okay then. You have yourself a good evening, okay?”
I can’t muster a reply and just nod.
The first time I hear Jack’s voice calling me is when my feet are on dry ground. “Bryony!” he calls from the boat.
I hold the hem of my dress tightly in my hands as I walk across the parking lot, not slowing. Not turning back. The heels
are unable to keep up with my pace and I’m wobbly on my feet, my stride awkward as I push myself forward to the bus in the
distance.
For the hundredth time tonight I wish I had taken my phone. My wallet. Anything to make this transition quicker. I could’ve
had an Uber ready to go by now.
My head is whirring, trying to rapidly think up a plan.
“Bryony!” I hear Jack’s voice a bit more urgently now. I speed up.
Thankfully I don’t have many belongings. Another one of the benefits of being an indentured servant in Amelia’s rodeo.
I’m out of breath as I rap on the door of the bus.
It’s humming quietly. The lights on low as it rests in the congested parking lot.
I can see Trina sitting up in the driver’s seat. She jumps in surprise, drops her feet off the dash, and slips her phone back
on the dashboard. Pulls the handle. The door opens.
“Honey?” she says in surprise. “You all right?”
“No,” is all I can manage to say as I get up the stairs, crudely pull off the heels, and drop them on Penny’s seat. Penny’s gone. Every body’s gone, except for Trina. “No, it seems I’ve been a bit delusional, as it turns out.”
She’s up from her seat now. Standing in the walkway. “About...?”
I drop down on my knees. Pull out my little suitcase.
Begin grabbing odds and ends that are still on my bed.
I hear the question in her voice. Is this about that young man you’ve been seeing on the top bunk? Or the crazy lady who lives in the back?
I throw it all into the suitcase. Squeeze it shut. Throw my purse around my shoulders with my phone inside. “About everything.
About it all. And now”—I glance out the window, see Jack halfway across the parking lot, striding quicker now, a stream of
people disembarking the boat behind him—“I just need to get out before they catch me and make it worse.”
“On it.” She’s back in her seat like a pilot given fresh orders.
I feel a jerk as the bus turns on and shifts into gear.
Before I know it she’s peeling the bus forward, toward the entrance to the parking lot.
“Trina?” I say.
To be honest, the whole peeling-out-of-the-parking-lot thing takes me by complete surprise. I had hoped, at best, to duck out and dash out of sight before Jack reached the doors.
But to escape in a bus . Well.
“You always were my favorite.” She glances over her shoulder as she turns the big steering wheel and gives me a big smile.
“The rest of ’em I wouldn’t take a dollar for.”
“No. Stop. You can’t put your job at risk here—”
“Worry about yourself for once, honey. I’m not worried about me at all. Believe me, I can handle myself. Now, where do you
need to go?”
I stumble to reply. Where do I need to go? I don’t have a clear answer to that. “Home,” I say simply.
“How about the airport then? The airport will have to do.”
I nod and sink back into a seat.
As we get onto the main road, she adds, “And I know this’ll be novel to you since you haven’t been able to get in that bathroom because of that vanity hog all week, but you might want to consider changing into something a little less Cinderella for when you get on that plane. Unless you’re going for a girl-running-away-from-the-ball feel.”
The bathroom.
Changing.
Right.
I gather up some jeans and make my way to the bathroom. The tiny bathroom is cluttered with hair spray bottles and lotions
and dozens and dozens of bottles of this and that—vanity creams and foundations and serums and prep sprays, heat sprays, setting
sprays. The room still stinks of chemicals dispensed without care earlier this evening. I barely can move without tripping
over some French label of this or that.
I pull open the door.
Squeeze myself out.
I’m going to Amelia’s room.
I can see Trina looking at me from the big rectangular rearview mirror as she wheels us down the expressway. “Even better,”
she calls out. “You go, girl.”
I open the door and can’t help the sound that escapes my lips.
We have been crammed into pint-sized bunk beds when Amelia’s room has been this ?
Wall-to-wall windows surround a king-sized bed. At least a dozen pillows are strewn all along the bed, swimming in the sea
of duvets and waffle blankets and soft, welcoming white sheets. A white leather couch rests against one wall, covered in clothes.
A kitchenette sits on the other side of the room, also, miraculously, covered in clothes.
And—I gasp as I peer into the cracked door of what I had assumed was one of the many, many closets—she has her own bathroom.
Her. Own. Bathroom.
Curling irons and straighteners and motivational Post-it notes stuck along the mirror and, again, clothes covering the bathroom so thoroughly it looks impossible to step in. It’s like... it’s like she’d rather just leave the mess she made and take over the feeble one we use than deal with the hassle of putting her things on a hanger .
Which, for the record, we didn’t even have the option of.
I unzip my dress and quickly work on changing into the holey jeans and loose graphic T-shirt I’ve owned for so long I can’t
remember. It all slips on like a glove, a welcome, cozy glove that wraps around me and is the first reminder of home. My cozy
little world I left behind.
I look at myself in the mirror as I unpin my hair and let the pins drop to the floor. Amelia will never notice in this mess , is my first thought. And then, of course, comes the second: Who cares?
Who CARES?
I need to stop caring.
I flick the pin on top of a heap and a large strand of brown curls drops to my shoulder.
Penny did up my hair this afternoon. It was a sisterly moment between the two of us. I will miss her.
Eventually I take a look at myself in the mirror, finished.
My hair is still all curly at the bottom of my strands. Dandelions, peonies, roses, and lilies curl up out of little pots
on my T-shirt, each flower labeled in dainty little cursive below the pot. My jeans sag a little lower on my hips—unsurprising
given the number of calories I’ve burned in stress and anxiety over the course of the trip.
I look at my frowning, weary face in the mirror, all surrounded by Post-it notes declaring, THIS IS YOUR MOMENT! and FUTURE
#1 NYT BESTSELLER and REESE WITHERSPOON BOOK PICK and an eerie large X over the name ANNE SANDERWORTH replaced by AMELIA BENEDICT.
It’s pathetic, really.
These are her goals.
The messages on these Post-its are her life aspirations, the “manifestations” she speaks over herself.
This, this longing to take the glory for words she didn’t produce is the best thing she can come up with to hope for in life.
Honestly, it makes me wonder what her childhood was like.
Bryony, please call me.
I see Jack’s text on the bathroom countertop. Consider ignoring it, but the question burns.
I snatch it up. Text like my fingers are on fire. Did you ever email Florence Peters?
There’s a long pause.
The longest pause in eternity as I watch the text bubble go. Then stop. Then go again.
At last the phone vibrates.
No.
Followed swiftly by, But there’s so much more to this. Please call me. Let me explain.
I stare at the chain of texts. Read the sentences again slowly. Slower still.
Jack has just confirmed that he has lied to me. For a year now. Lied straight to my face.
And the reality is, I don’t care what his explanations are.
I don’t care .
It doesn’t matter .
No excuse to justify this matters .
Because he has broken my trust, and mark my words, he will never ever gain it again.
The bus jolts and I lift my chin as I look at myself in the mirror.
Staring back at the girl with the pale face and heart-shocked eyes.
And find myself gripping a little nugget of truth deep in my gut that drives me toward home.
I may not be rich. I may not be powerful. I may not even be wise enough to discern the difference between honest and dishonest
people.
But I have people who love me back home.
And people at home who appreciate me for just who I am.
Who live good, honest, hardworking lives.
And I am smart enough, apparently, to write things people find worth reading.
And I will find another way to get my words out there. For them.