5. Now
Now: September 16th
T here’s a long mirror propped into the corner of my room in my office nook. It used to be Mom’s, and it’s one of the few things of her’s I’d kept. Dad kept her favorite chair, but not much else of her exists in the house anymore beyond that.
For six months, the ghost of her lingered in the house. Her presence could be felt in every room. I think Dad and I were frozen in time. A small part of me thought maybe, just maybe, I’d see her walk back through the front door. After all, she was notorious for leaving, and she always returned.
Eventually, piece by piece, every little trace of her had been erased. As if she never existed in the first place. Now, all we have left are the memories, a few pieces of furniture, and a journal she’d given me ages ago that I can’t bring myself to look at.
I’m jerked out of my daydreaming by the sound of soft, instrumental music playing. It takes me a moment to register the familiarity of the tune. Oh, right, my phone is ringing. Someone is calling me.
Before I even glance at the caller ID I know who it is. I say her name without missing a beat.
“Wendy. Hi,” I say in a rushed huff.
She lets loose a laugh on the other end. There are only a handful of people who even have my cell phone number. Wendy, my editor/agent, and Janie, my publisher. Dad has it too, of course, but I don’t expect any calls to come from him.
Our relationship may seem a bit odd, but somehow it works for us. He gives me the space I need, and I give him his. I’ve come to realize that time on this planet is far too short, and I’d rather remain here, where it’s safe, than somewhere else completely out of my control. I do love my dad, I just think sometimes we aren’t quite sure how to express that love to one another.
Wendy and I have worked together for ten years. I wrote and published my first book a few years after I graduated college. It wasn’t much but helped dip my feet into the water. It was a crime novella I’d started writing right after I graduated high school and hadn’t picked up again until years later, after completing a few college writing courses.
The novella, Murder at Midnight, hadn’t won anything in the writing competition I’d entered, but Wendy, one of the judges, wrote to me personally after the winners had been selected and encouraged me to keep writing. She said I wasn’t quite there yet but knew someday I would be. She’d given me her email address and told me to reach out to her after I’d written my next novel. I’d kept it on a Post-It note stuck to a corner of my desk as a reminder. I’d doubted her then, but she hadn’t been wrong. She’d somehow been able to see past the first, awkward story I’d written and recognize the author I’d grow to be.
A year later I wrote my first, full-length novel, Life in the Dark, about a blind teenage girl who finds love and hope despite living in a world of darkness. It was a genre I had never written before, but something had drawn me to it. Like a moth to a flame.
I came in third place this time, and Wendy reached out to me immediately, practically pleading with me to allow her to be my editor and agent. And the rest is history. Ten years later, and with twenty-five novels on the shelves, it’s safe to say that Wendy is my closest friend.
Besides my dad, I don’t have anyone else.
Wendy is shuffling what sounds like a stack of papers or something in the background. “Hi, Nicki. Did I catch you at a good time?”
I have nothing but time these days. When I’m not pouring myself completely into my writing, which is pretty much all the time, I pick up a book and read. Write, read, write, read, repeat.
“Now is good,” I say.
Wendy is someone I can be straight with. I’m often short and to the point, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Wendy is a bit of a talker, and if I don’t shoot her straight she’s likely to launch into a twenty-minute story that I’d rather not have to listen to. No offense, Wendy.
She softly smacks her lips and I can picture her wedging the phone between her shoulder and chin, as she often does whenever she has to take a call when we’re together. Unlike mine, her phone rings a lot. She has a very busy career, and she’s always putting out fires, planning events, and handling whatever else she has on her plate.
“Okay, perfect. So, first of all, happiest of happy birthdays! I’m bringing you a cake later. Don’t say no! And, secondly… your latest masterpiece. Oh my, just wow. Absolute perfection. It’s the perfect ending to The Honey Sisters trilogy. I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever read one of your books! The moment you sent it to me I started reading it, and I couldn’t put it down. And yes, I cried at the end! I was telling Rick last night?—”
I cut her short. I have to or she will spin into a long-drawn-out tale about what her husband thinks about my novel. I know she means well, but right now I’d rather her just say what she’s called me to say.
“Thank you, Wendy. Really. That means a lot. I’m glad that you enjoyed it. Was there something else you needed to tell me?”
“Oh, yes! Sorry, I should know by now that you hate when I start rambling, which I seem to do all the time. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
It’s hard to tell if she’s rambling because she’s nervous to tell me something, or if she’s talking fast because she’s excited. Either way, I need to help her slow down a bit or she’ll never get it out.
“Relax, it’s okay. I’m not that scary am I?” I force out a laugh and sit down gently on the edge of my bed. The mattress is several years old, and the springs squeak underneath me when I sit.
She laughs again. Her laugh is quaint and petite, like herself. Her hair is darker than mine, almost a violet-blue-black color that never goes past the edge of her chin. She’s no more than five feet tall and bounces lightly when she walks. Opposite of my five-foot-six frame with long, lanky legs. My mom used to teasingly call me Spider-Girl because of my spider legs.
“No, no, of course not. I’m being silly. It’s good news, don’t worry. You may not think it at first, but it is good. I promise.” She pauses for a second too long, making me question if it is good news after all. I wait with bated breath, allowing her the chance to finally spit it out.
“I’vebookedyouforasigningnextmonth.” It comes out in such a rush all of her words run into one another.
Wait, what did she say? If she said what I think she said, there’s no way I’m agreeing to this. No way.
“Wendy, slow down. What did you just say?”
She sighs and repeats herself, slowly this time.
“You have a signing next month. At the new Books and Beyond store that just opened up downtown . Believe it or not, they reached out to me, begging me to set you up with an in- person signing! Once a month they pick an author to spotlight, and they would love for you to be their first! I know your newest book won’t be released for a few more months, but it’s still a great opportunity to introduce them to the first two books of The Honey Sisters trilogy, and people can always sign up for pre-orders. I know what you’re thinking right now, but this is going to be a great thing for you, Nicki. You’ll see.”
She probably does know what I’m thinking. No way! But she’s wrong about the other thing. This will not be a great thing for me. I haven’t gone to a public book signing in years. I simply don’t do them, and she knows this about me. Why does she suddenly expect me to be okay with the idea now ?
I still haven’t responded, and she begins nervously shuffling something again. Did she expect me to jump for joy and say Yes, thank you so much, Wendy. Let’s get started campaigning for this event right away!
“I’m not doing it. You’ll need to call them back and cancel,” I say flatly, twirling a piece of my hair around my finger.
She lets loose a long sigh. We’ve gone through this before. She knows why I don’t want to do this. At least part of it.
“Look. I had a feeling this is how you’d take the news, but I think it’s important for you to get back out there. Your books are selling, yes. You’re still making the charts and your fans love you. But they also want to see you. People can’t connect with you behind a screen. Not really. Please say you’ll at least think about this.”
Wendy isn’t usually one to push my buttons, but when she’s determined to change my mind about something, she’s adamant about it.
I don’t want to give in and tell her yes, but if I at least give her something, maybe she’ll leave it alone for the time being. I’ll call the bookstore myself and cancel if I have to. I’m not doing this. No matter how badly she may try and convince me otherwise.
“Okay, sure. Fine,” I say to get her off my back.
“Sure, as in you’ll think about it? Fine, as in you agree with me?” She sounds hopeful. Too hopeful.
“I’m not agreeing to anything, but I’ll think about it.”
She squeals into the phone, a little too loudly.
“Oh, yes, of course! Okay, I’ll check back in with you in a couple of days so if you say yes we can get this ball rolling.”
I thank Wendy and we say our goodbyes.
As much as she’d like to believe I’m ready to meet the public again, she has no clue how terrible of an idea that is. I won’t tell her no today, but it’ll come soon. Today, we can both dream about the idea of what could be.