Chapter 21
It’s a few days later when I bump into Ryan at Piazza’s on Charleston grocery shopping.
It’s a shock to my system because he’s out of place in this setting.
It’s like seeing your doctor at a coffee shop, or your irritating misogynist boss cuddling with his wife at the movie theater.
It doesn’t quite compute. I join him in the produce aisle where he’s loading a carton of grape tomatoes into his basket.
I need to ask him about Elizabeth’s name and between his writing hours and my research hours, a good time to bring it up hasn’t come up.
Particularly since I want to make sure he doesn’t read the editorial review, the one that derides a woman from writing a man’s point of view.
He’s going to be sorry he didn’t go with a man’s name.
So far, if he’s seen it he hasn’t mentioned it.
“Hi,” I say now, sidling up next to him.
“What are you doing here?” he says, with his infamous eyebrow quirk.
“Skydiving,” I deadpan. “You?”
“It’s open-mike night and I’m thinking about trying out some new material.”
Damn, his is better!
“I like doing this,” he says. “What else can we pretend to be doing instead of grocery shopping?”
“Writing?” I snort.
“Writing is hard. You know what’s easier? Juggling apples while riding a bicycle over a tightrope. And the bicycle is on fire. Everything is on fire.”
“It sounds like you mean that. The book isn’t going well?”
I’d left him my notes and they were encouraging.
His opening is excellent, truly riveting, and I don’t quite understand why Kate “hates it.” The truth is she probably doesn’t hate it at all.
Still, I did what I could, adding areas here and there where he could layer in more emotion with his love interest. If there’s anything I agree on with Kate, it’s that those layers seem stilted when compared to the book.
But probably everything does in comparison.
Kate will just need to accept this is a different kind of book and that’s okay too.
He doesn’t reply, simply studies the label on a carton of cotton candy grapes, as if there’s anything interesting to read there. Not exactly riveting material.
“There can’t possibly be cotton candy in here, but why are they so sweet?” He throws one in his basket.
I ignore that because I can’t help. I don’t know why, either, but I add one in my basket too.
“I mean, you can’t have every book be Soulmates. That would be boring. Didn’t you get anything from my notes?”
He nods. “They were good but I’m stuck.”
Hoping I don’t come off like a stalker, I follow him down the fruit section. I start stocking my cart with cut-up melons, pineapple, and peaches.
“You’re going to think this is a weird question, seeing as it’s a little late in the game now. But since I hadn’t read the book when you asked me to be Elizabeth, now I wonder why you didn’t just take on another male pen name? It was written from the male’s perspective.”
“Kate and the publisher thought it might make a more intriguing marketing angle.”
That sounds like a reasonable answer. You could put everything I know about marketing inside a flea’s home, so I can’t argue the point.
It probably was a stroke of marketing genius.
The truth is if Soulmates had a man’s name attached to it, it wouldn’t be called “women’s” fiction and it probably wouldn’t be called a romance, either.
It would be shelved as commercial literary fiction.
Ryan picks up a carton of blueberries. “And Elizabeth Brogan is a family name, so I used it.”
That makes sense, but I admit I expected more information. It feels like Pepper could have told me that, but she didn’t. However, more pressing at the moment is Ryan’s apparent writer’s block, which I dare not mention out loud. He’s the superstitious sort, probably coming from the love of baseball.
“Okay. Get this. I have an idea for the sequel. And I think, if I say so myself, it’s pretty damn brilliant,” I say.
“Excuse me,” a loud voice behind us says. “Are those organic berries you’re standing right in front of?”
It’s only then we both realize we’ve been chatting for far too long.
Ryan is the first to move out of the woman’s way.
I don’t usually have entire conversations with people at the grocery and am in fact frequently annoyed by people who do.
I push my cart to a less bustling section and beckon for Ryan to follow me, which he does.
“The sequel is written entirely from Lula’s point of view!” I hold my arms out like, “ta-da!”
Ryan is pensive for a moment, stroking the beard he used to have.
He’s got stubble again. While I wasn’t fond of the full beard, I have to admit this look works for him.
And if I’m to go by the attention he’s getting from the females in the store, it’s working for all of them under forty.
Even the white-haired woman not far from us is checking Ryan out.
“I mean, it worked for 50 Shades.”
He still doesn’t respond.
“Well, what do you think?” I press when he hasn’t spoken for a few seconds.
“I think it could work beautifully as long as I don’t have to write it.”
But I have my own set of fears that I’ll be able to write something to follow up the success of the book.
“Do you think Kate will go for it?”
“I think anything that means she’ll get a sequel is going to be just fine with her.”
“Don’t mention it until we’ve fleshed out the plot and have a strong beginning.”
“All she expects from me next is my contracted book. The one that isn’t going well.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you get…unstuck?” I gaze at him from the condiment aisle. “Did my notes help at all?”
“They helped, and you’re right. The new book lacks the sentiment of my old book.”
I notice how he won’t even say the title anymore. The distance he’s created is getting wider.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you meant it.”
He looks at me with those unbearably sad eyes, and grief and loss slam into me.
“You helped me a lot the other night when you reminded me we need to write without a safety net. Maybe that’s what’s happening to you now. You’re being too safe. Too cautious because you’ve had such massive success. It’s got to be intimidating.”
I can see he’s mulling over the idea in his mind and I count this as a small victory.
When there’s a knock on my shed door that evening, I’m surprised to find my mother. Since I got back from the store, I’ve been writing, alternatively thinking about Ryan, the Elizabeth Brogan family name, and losing track of time.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Mami scans me up and down.
I’m wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt. It’s my writing uniform and I can do without the judgment.
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s singles night at the parish! Did you forget?” She’s wearing her standard sleek pantsuit, black this time, accentuated with red lipstick, purse, and matching heels.
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to go.” I attempt to shut the door.
She pushes it open. “You said you would come with me. I need you for protection.”
“Protection?” I shove my hands on my hips. “It’s at a church.”
“Protection from myself. You know I make lousy decisions when it comes to men.”
I can’t deny this when my mind goes back to oily Seb.
If I want her to pick a good man who could at least be half the man my father was, maybe I should go along and screen the prospects.
Naturally, as a child, I would have loved to be given a choice.
And I’m always better at doing this for others than I am for myself.
Mami is obviously serious about this. It’s not like she can live her life without a man.
If she’s going to stick around—and maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen—I have to save her from herself.
“Fine!” I throw my palms up. “I’ll be ready in a minute and no comments about what I’m wearing. You’re lucky I’m going to wear real pants. I’m not the one looking to find a man.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever you say.”
I hook a thumb to my chest. “And I get final say on these men or I won’t do it.”
“Yes, yes.”
Once we arrive, park, and walk inside, it’s a good thing I’m not looking to find the love of my life here.
First, I don’t find this romantic in the least. It has the ring of true desperation.
Second, everyone here is much older than me.
They’re using the same room they use for bingo, and the entry fee is a donation for their worldwide charities.
Even though I plan to sit in the wings and judge the men to my heart’s delight, I pay an entry fee since these days I feel like I actually have money.
They’ve got everyone sitting around a large table, and a timer that goes off every fifteen minutes.
I won’t be surprised if the two organizers at the front announce “bingo” at the changing of the guard.
They’re both standing up there looking expectantly at the couples, like someone here is going to stick and they’ll have a wedding soon.
They’re the kind of couple who are so aggressively happy together they can’t stand to see people choosing to be alone.
Like me. At least they are giving them fifteen whole minutes but I don’t see how you can be sure you want to get to know someone better after such a short time.
Still, I want to tell my mother she should simply accept she’ll never find anyone like my father again. She had her love story and maybe that’s all she’ll ever have. Maybe it’s greedy to want more. Anyone else and she’ll have to settle.
My mother turns on the charm to triple wattage and I swear every man she meets is ready to propose marriage tonight.
It would be odd to stand behind her and listen in to the conversation, so for my purposes, everyone is going to be a resounding “no” tonight.
It’s good practice for her in understanding how not to settle.
The timer rings. “Switch tables! Next topic of conversation: Are you a cradle Catholic or a convert? And, go!”