Chapter 27
When the day of the book signing arrives, I’m so nervous I arrive three hours ahead of schedule.
As the date neared, Ryan and I talked about this book signing while we worked. He too had no idea what to expect since his own signings have historically not been well attended.
“I can always count on my faculty staff, a few of my students, and two die-hard fans that like anything I write,” he said.
“Two?” I gasped. “There have to be more than that!”
“Nope. Just because a reader buys my book doesn’t mean they want to leave their home, drive across town, and find parking just so they can get a signed copy.”
“And meet you in person!”
He shrugged. “I don’t blame them. It’s hard to get me to attend my signings.”
My entire family plans on making an appearance, but they will arrive at the regular time like normal people.
Ryan assured me he’d be here for moral support.
He can simply wait for me in the bookcases and send me his rays of support via his expressive eyes.
Just knowing he’s here is enough. That’s all I need.
Chris, of course, will show when he shows and it hardly matters. He believes I wrote this book in the six months he was gone, not that he’ll ever read it.
He texted me earlier:
Good luck, babe! You’re going to kill it. I want a signed copy.
We’re not anywhere near “babe” status again, but I ignore this.
A few days ago, he sent me flowers. I can’t begin to describe the confusion on the face of the 1-800-Flowers delivery guy when Abuelita pointed him in the direction of the shed.
The gesture was nice, but roses are not my favorites, something Chris should know by now.
Yellow daffodils are my flowers because they’re so bright and hopeful.
Kind of like me when I arrive and there’s no line of readers waiting to see Elizabeth Brogan.
“Hi,” I say to the bookseller, a woman about my age. “How are you?”
“Oh, hello,” she says, giving me her full attention. “May I help you find something?”
For one terrifying moment, I think I’m in the wrong place on the wrong day. Worse, I’m not early, I’m late. It’s already happened without me.
“I’m here for the book signing?” Damn, I wish I wouldn’t have made that into a question.
Her eyes widen and she glances at her watch. “Well, you’re a little early. It doesn’t start for another three hours.”
“I wanted to get here early because I’m so nervous.”
She hesitates for a moment, when her entire demeanor switches into “hostess” mode, and she presses her hand to her chest.
“Oh, you’re the author? Forgive me, for a moment I didn’t recognize you.”
I smile a little sheepishly. “It’s the airbrushing.”
Honestly, in my official author photo I look a little like Taylor Swift. I mean, that’s how good their art department is. Still, today I’m wearing the same dress and signature red lipstick so I’ll at least look a little like I do in the photo.
“I was just going to arrange the seating,” she says, walking to an open area near the front window.
“Let me help you.”
I need to do something to slay these nerves.
But my nerves are not at all beaten into submission when I notice the big display in the window.
Certainly they’re on the alert and ready to have a party with their friends.
It’s much like the first one Ryan and I saw at my neighborhood bookstore, but on steroids.
There’s a huge photo of me, one of the ones taken by the photographer before the morning show.
It’s incredibly intimidating that I don’t even look like myself, or my pseudonym alter-ego.
Far more intimidating is the enormous stack of hardcover books they have available for sale. What if I only sell half of those? What happens to the rest of them? Are they shamefully returned to the publisher? If I sign them all so the bookstore can’t return them, will I be sued?
Once we’re done setting up, I have nothing to do with myself.
She suggests I find a cozy corner in the back and wait for people to start arriving.
I settle in the historical fiction section and find one of Ryan’s earlier books on the shelf.
He will be excited to know it’s the only one left in stock.
Flipping to the back, I study his author photo.
The black-and-white photo is of him outside at a patio table.
I notice a photo credit to Millie Brady.
She certainly got a good angle of him, and the photo is so similar to the Ryan I know I’m sure he wasn’t airbrushed.
They probably don’t airbrush male authors and a spike of unsettling indignation courses through me.
Sure, I’m no Taylor Swift but I think I look fine without airbrushing.
I’ve got a few freckles and that teeny-tiny scar from the time I fell off my bicycle but that’s no crime.
I text Ryan to commiserate:
I’m waiting in the histfic area and picked up your book. It’s the only one in stock. *You* don’t look airbrushed.
Ryan replies:
I’m probably not, whatever that is. You’re already there? You have two hours to go.
Me:
I was nervous so I got here early. When will you be here?
Ryan:
I’ll be there before it starts. Promise. Save me a seat near the front.
This means he’ll be here beforehand to give me a hug, hold me, encourage and assure me. It would be too odd for any of this to happen without him. Besides, I want him to hear all the praise for the book because this is his baby.
There are a few customers in the shop who drop in and out during the three-hour wait and ask about the signing. Some pass by me and give me a patient look, as if I’m taking up too much space. I move when someone reaches for Ryan’s first book, The Brother’s Spy.
“That’s a very good one,” I say. “You’ll like it.”
It’s the only one I’ve read other than the book and I can no longer tell if my feelings for him are affecting my thoughts about the book.
“He’s my favorite author and I’m catching up to all he’s ever written.” The woman beams, pressing it to her bosom. “It’s like he sees me. Pain on every page. So cathartic.”
“Yes,” I say, biting my lower lip. “You can say that again.”
I want to tell her he’s also funny, self-deprecating, and the most intelligent man I’ve ever known. She’s going to be thrilled if she stays for the signing because she might actually get to meet him.
“Stay for the signing,” I say. “He’s a friend and might drop by.”
“Really?” she gasps.
I nod, though I don’t want to jinx myself. Of course he’ll be here. He said he would be.
Sofia and all the cousins arrive and she finds me in the back.
“Good luck!” Her tight hug is what I needed. “Is it okay if I film this and share in on social media?”
“I’m sure the publisher wants all the publicity we can get.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll edit,” she promises then looks to the front. “I think we’re starting. No nerves! Remember, you’ve got this.”
I grab her hands before she goes. “Did you see Ryan out there?”
“I didn’t, but the place is jam-packed so I could have missed him.”
“We have a full house?”
Sofia smiles. “Actually, there’s a line out the door to get in.”
It feels like all the breath leaves my body and I’m sure my smile freezes in place because Sofia’s eyes narrow. I do not want to disappoint all these people. It would be tragic.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m f-fine.” Though I would very much like Ryan to be with me at the moment. “If you find Ryan, could you send him back here?”
“Will do!” She has to pry my fingers off hers and gives me a thumbs-up.
But before Sofia can fetch Ryan, the bookseller finds me. “It’s time!”
I follow her out on my shaky knees and find my spot on the dais next to her chair. She introduces me to the audience as the bestselling author of Soulmates and explains I’ll do a short reading, then take any questions from the audience.
I’m prepared and pull out my copy with the scene I’ve chosen.
It’s a touching scene in which Grayson decides he must let Lula go.
It’s effective and I hear several sniffles as I read.
When I look up, I see my mother and Eddie sitting together, beaming, Abuelita next to my mother.
All of my tios and tias are here, with their adult children.
No wonder there was a line out the door.
My family alone could fill this room. I relax, knowing I’m in a safe space.
They love me, no matter what I do or how hard I might fail.
Eddie has talked about an impromptu karaoke party to celebrate but so far I’ve avoided him.
It’s enough that I’ve given my blessing for him and my mother.
I shouldn’t have to suffer through more karaoke so soon.
But as I take questions from the audience, I still can’t locate Ryan.
I do see someone else I know, however. Someone I didn’t expect to be here, though I now wish I’d been far more in touch.
She’d sent me one other email I hadn’t replied to in which she asked again why I couldn’t at least share I had a contract without the particulars.
There’s no excuse for being a bad friend and in that moment I realize that’s exactly what I’ve been. Far too caught up in Ryan, this opportunity, then my mother and Eddie. The whole secrecy of the project. But none of that matters. No excuses. I’ve failed in the friendship department.
Holly is seated in the first row.
She’s got a copy of Soulmates in her lap, and I swear I can see the whites of her knuckles as she clutches it.
Most of the questions are run-of-the-mill and fully expected.
Everything from how long I’ve been writing to how I came up with the idea.
Pepper and I have gone over these at length and my answers are easy and ready.
Then it’s Holly’s turn and she stands.
I give her a smile and wave, something I haven’t done with anyone else. It’s an “I see you, please forgive me. I’ll do better,” greeting.
She doesn’t return the smile.
“So,” she says. “Elizabeth Brogan is a pen name, right?”
“Yes, true.” We’ve never represented anything else. “I also go by Luci Santana.”
My abuelita beams from her seat, nodding.
“I thought so.” She sets her book down on the chair.
“Everyone, Holly is my long-time critique partner and a friend.”
There’s a murmur among the crowd as they turn to Holly, giving her their attention.
Holly seems to sag a little but my acknowledgment is not enough for her. “It’s just, as you know, I’ve read your earlier works and this…it just doesn’t sound like your voice. The tone is different. The word choice.”
“It’s a stylistic choice that seemed appropriate for the book.”
“Yes, but you’re a ghostwriter, so I wonder if you hired one for this book?”
I clear my throat. “You know that if I had I couldn’t reveal that to you anyway.”
“What do you mean?” the bookseller says, scanning the room nervously.
She’s probably never had an author accused of this in her bookstore.
Sofia is filming, but she stops, giving Holly a look through narrowed eyes.
“I guess what I’m trying to ask here,” Holly says, meeting my gaze with nothing short of contempt. “Did you actually write this book?”