Chapter 11
Dumped by my fiancé.
Living in my abuelita’s shed.
No more ghostwriting gig.
When I wake up hours later after a nap, the shadows of the dipping sunlight are dappling through my only window, but nothing else has changed. I’m still pretending to be Elizabeth Brogan, and I’m no longer writing for Desdemona.
There’s something I’m in the habit of doing every time I’m too upset to read or write.
I drive to a bookstore and browse. And then I browse some more. For hours. Doesn’t everybody? Maybe I’ll pick up a book or two, maybe five, because I have the store discount. But I always make myself stop at ten.
Grabbing my keys, I drive to the local bookshop an hour before they close.
Yes, I’m grumbling while I do. Something along the lines of how no good deed goes unpunished or other cliches, which exist for a damn good reason.
They’re true. I no longer have a secure and stable writing job due to a favor I’ve done for my employer.
Fine. That’s okay. I live in a shed in my abuelita’s back yard, so expenses are low.
The salary Ryan will give me for becoming Elizabeth might actually be enough to carry me for a year if I’m careful.
And after this summer pretending to be a published author, I might find other ghostwriting work.
I can copyedit, find another research assistant job, teach, or go back to work as a barista.
There are options. None of these are ideal, but even if I’ve relied on the Desdemona books to make me feel like a “real” author, this doesn’t mean my world has ended.
I still have my book. The book I’ve been revising for what feels like forever, and maybe it’s time to finally start another round of querying agents. All I need is a little inspiration.
Inside the bookstore, I take a deep breath of the inky, slightly dusty smells of my youth.
I haunted this shop as a child, hiding in the cozy corners filled with chairs and strategically placed soft pillows.
A few years ago, the shop changed ownership and the pandemic nearly put them out of business.
But the new owner bounced back, pulling in on each one of her many resources.
She hired young people and asked them to curate sections and advertise the books they love.
I find my way to the rows of romance books, sliding my finger gently down the spines, taking one out and reading the back cover copy, then reverently putting it back.
In honor of Ryan, I move from my usual contemporary fare to historical women’s fiction.
Picking up a Kristin Hannah book, I reread the back cover of Nightingale, a book I devoured years ago, and I decide this edition needs to go into my keeper collection.
There are some periods of history too important not to be tragically memorialized.
The book made me cry but it also stayed with me for weeks, and even to this day.
It doesn’t go back on the shelf.
Maybe I can convince Ryan to try his hand at a historical romance, merging together the best of his two worlds.
I don’t understand his resistance to writing another romance, considering how well received his debut has been.
Unless of course he fears, as so many authors do, that he’ll never be able to replicate the first success.
Even in my position, I understand this. I have a healthy fear of both failure and success.
I’ve been so intently reading the back copy of another French resistance romance book with an amazing cover, that it takes me a minute to catch the image of a figure in the periphery of my vision.
But there’s no mistaking the man sitting in one of the chairs the owner has deposited in various corners, his attention riveted to the book in his hands.
His legs are crossed, a man deep in another world.
I recognize the look. Once more I find his powers of concentration enviable.
For a moment, I enjoy watching this man who is at once so puzzling and yet also somehow so familiar. As if he senses being watched, Ryan glances up from the book. His brow furrows in confusion and it’s almost as if his mind is swiftly making connections.
“Oh hey, I know this person. Maybe I need to stop reading and be a human. Converse. Relate.”
I can practically hear his synapses firing and I can’t stop smiling.
Still gripping the book, he uses a finger to hold his place. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself. You come here often?”
His lips quirk. “Almost never. Actually, this is my first time.”
“Well, let me be the first to say ‘welcome in.’ I see you found a book there.” I nudge my chin in his direction. “More historical fiction?”
“Guilty.” He shuts the book. “I should probably be trying to expand my horizons, but when I’m feeling out of sorts, I go to the familiar.”
“Same.” I hug the book to my chest. “You can probably guess why I’m here, too, seeking comfort.”
He nods. “And I’m sorry again.”
“It was just a ghostwriting gig.” I shrug.
I try to minimize it, the way I do with everything. No big deal, move on.
“But you enjoyed it. The work meant something to you.”
“Maybe. Or maybe my sense of pride was misplaced.”
“Not at all. They might not be your characters, or your world, but they were your words.”
I know he’s right and I’ll miss giving my own voice to that world. But it has never been mine.
When I don’t say anything, Ryan asks, “I looked up Desdemona Hill’s catalog. How many have you written?”
“Ten.”
“Impressive.” He nods. “I know I shouldn’t really be asking this question, but my book was a complete fluke. Maybe you can tell me. What is it, exactly, about romance books? Why are they so popular?”
Funny to have to answer this question for Ryan, but I’m up for it.
“I think each of us are sixteen years old again when we first fall in love. Yes, as we get older there are further complications of becoming an adult. But hearts are always, always young.” I have much more to say on the subject.
“And connections. It’s the human condition.
These books represent the life and relationships we all want but are afraid to demand.
Family, love, friendship. It’s easier to just say they’re about sex and demean the genre as nothing more than mommy porn. ”
Ryan winced at the term. “I wish critics wouldn’t make fun of those love scenes. They’re difficult to write. I feel like every writer should have to try at least once. It’s an education.”
“Preaching to the choir, buddy.” I elbow him.
It’s meant to be friendly, casual, but when my body buzzes at being so near, I really wish I hadn’t touched him at all.
Ryan gives his usual half smile but he doesn’t seem to be as thrown by the touch as I am. “So, what are you going to do next, now that you’ve lost the ghostwriting gig?”
“I’m making a new plan,” I say, because this is mostly true. “Still evolving.”
He quirks a brow. “Does it involve writing your own books?”
“Without a safety net,” I say, borrowing from the phrase of earlier this afternoon and turning it into a metaphor.
His lips quirk into a smile as if I’ve spoken in his secret code. “That’s the very best way to write.”