Chapter 5
Dominic
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
Being a literary agent has changed me.
Where I used to merely enjoy stories, now I live them. I see them in my head, and create them for the strangers I interact with.
The harried barista at the coffee shop on the corner closest to my apartment?
She's a young mother. Of twins! And she's raising the toddlers by herself, because her husband abandoned her.
Wait, no. That's too predictable. And it leaves the door open for him to return in the third act, and nobody wants that jerk. He died! Hit by a bus, the poor fellow.
On and on I do this. A hefty portion of my job is reading manuscripts, and some days, separating fact from fiction is too demanding. Reality might be tangible, but fiction is a shapeshifter. After a while, when you live story and breathe words as I do, the boundary line becomes permeable.
This (not at all) lauded talent has allowed me to compartmentalize my disaster of a date eight months ago with Cecily Hampton AKA the Wicked Witch of the West. Literally.
She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona. The West's Most Western Town.
I don't know who appointed it the title, but signs around the downtown area declare it as such.
High on the excitement from having secured Klein a meeting with a publisher, I'd said I wanted to take Cecily out for a drink to thank her for her contribution to Klein's burgeoning career.
Things were going well. Or so I thought.
Cecily is beautiful, but she's a lot of other things, too.
Witty, which I'm a sucker for, but the kind of witty that calls upon my own cleverness.
Her personality sang to mine in the oddest way.
Sure, she was physically attractive, but I was mentally attracted to her, too.
And then she ghosted me. I've rewritten the true story of what happened on our date to include sudden onset illness, followed by a head injury on the way home that kept Cecily from remembering we went out. Nothing tidies up plot confusion like conveniently placed short-term memory loss.
What else could explain the events of that evening? We'd been having a good time, I stepped away to answer a work call, and Cecily disappeared. My text messages to her were not delivered. She blocked me.
Was I the only person feeling the chemistry between us? Am I really so out of touch that I detected and defined her facial expressions and mannerisms in an absolutely, totally, unbelievably wrong way? The thought of the disaster tinges my vision red.
Maybe I haven't compartmentalized the catastrophe as neatly as I'd like.
It doesn't matter. Cecily didn't tell Paisley anything about the date, which means Klein has no knowledge about the date, which means I can go on and lie to myself about the date.
Hello sand, here's my head.
Sally, an associate agent at the lit agency, sails into my office like someone has invited her. She does this often, and she also starts conversations as if we were in the middle of one already.
Her corkscrew black curls bounce around her head as she strides up to my desk in her striped leggings and corduroy skirt, theatrically dropping a coil-bound printed manuscript on my desk.
It lands with a dramatic thud, blowing two Post-it notes onto the floor.
"It might not be your usual taste, but you should take a look at it.
" Her arms cross, her gaze flicking down to the stack of paper.
"What is it?" I ask. Sally is also known for her use of the unspecified subject. Drives me crazy. I'd like to take a red felt-tip pen to every sentence Sally speaks, marking up the surrounding air.
"The man-u-script," Sally says, looking at me like I'm the one who's hopeless.
I sit back, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. "As much as I enjoy the syllabification you're doling out, you've made multiple errors, the first of which is walking into my office like you own it."
Sally arches an eyebrow.
Dammit.
She doesn't own anything, but her mother does. Sally is here because her last name is Whitaker, and this is Whitaker Literary Agency.
Nepo baby. And a recent college grad in need of a job.
I tap a finger on my thigh to keep myself from pinching the bridge of my nose. The last thing I want is to show this near-child she has riled me.
Tucking back my sigh, I look down at the printed manuscript.
Last Things First.
Was I drunk when I requested the full manuscript from the author? That title is terrible.
"A western horror," Sally explains. "Love the concept."
Now I remember this garbage. I didn't make it past page four before I tossed the brick of paper into the slush pile yesterday. But here the manuscript is, pristine and in front of me like it never met the shredder.
I smell a rat.
"The writing is sophomoric," I tell Sally, keeping my tone measured.
Her eyes harden. "It is not. I think it's really good. Maybe you're too old to understand how people of this age communicate."
Now it's my turn to narrow my eyes. Thirty isn't old. I could be offended, but I'm too busy sniffing out a ruse.
"Why did you tell your friend I'd look at their manuscript?" It's a hunch, but I have good instincts. It's part of what makes me a great literary agent.
Sally's lips sew shut. She knows I'm on to her, so I continue.
"Why did you print out the manuscript and put it on my desk yesterday?
" It's unlikely I would've requested a full manuscript of this book from a query letter.
The only way this made it to my desk in physical form is if it was placed there.
There it is. A slight movement in her jaw. A flicker of fear in her eyes.
Now I feel bad. Not bad bad, but enough to be done with the accusations.
Pushing the manuscript across the desk, I say, "Tell your friend nobody wants to read that many adverbs and alliteration in the same sentence. The exposition was boring and redundant. Large blocks of text are mentally exhausting for a reader."
Sally frowns. "There is no way you read the entire book."
"Didn't have to. Your friend didn't magically become a better writer on page five."
Her frown deepens. She takes the manuscript, arms dipping with the weight before hauling it up and tucking it into her chest. "You're arrogant."
"Whatever gets the job done," I respond, already turning my attention to my computer screen.
Sally doesn't stomp from my office, because that's not her style, but she mumbles on her way out, something that sounds like I feel sorry for any woman dumb enough to date you.
The door closes behind her, and I run a hand over my forehead. I shouldn't allow the opinion of a twenty-three-year-old to bother me, but her comment lands, settling somewhere near my solar plexus.
No matter how many times I tell myself the story I've made up for Cecily, I'm tender.
Not for any deep, dark reason other than our connection felt instantaneous and rare, something I would've fought for if given the chance.
Cecily got under my skin. The work I've done to pigeonhole her actions that day, and her motivations behind them, was for nothing because I've ended up right where I was at the beginning.
Angry.
And, ok fine, hurt, too.
My phone dings with a text message from Klein.
Klein: Vegas, baby.
Dominic: I'm listening.
Klein: Joint bachelor and bachelorette parties.
Dominic: Is that wise?
Klein: Anything else would be unwise.
Dominic: Fair point. Tell me more.
Klein: I'll send you the info. Just be available in a month.
Dominic: You, me, and Paisley?
Klein: No, jackass. A group.
I flop back in my desk chair, pinching my lower lip as I re-read Klein's text.
A group? Will that group include Cecily? I have to imagine it will. She might be Paisley's employee, but from what I understand, they're good friends, too.
I can't ask, because Klein is annoyingly perceptive.
He'll want to know why I want to know. And then it will be a whole thing.
It does not need to be a whole thing. It doesn't need to be a fraction of a thing.
It is, in fact, a non-issue. I can be around Cecily and not demand to know why she ghosted me mid-date.
Dominic: Cool. I'm available.
Klein: We're all wearing dumb shirts to the pool. I already ordered them, so you can't say no. Yours will be there before you leave.
I'm already bobbing my head in anticipation, drumming my fingers on my desk.
I haven't taken a proper vacation in three years, I'm embarrassed to say.
A quick trip here and there, usually home to visit my parents and Klein, though probably not as often as I should.
It's a long flight from New York City to Phoenix, especially when it's only for a weekend.
Another text comes in from Klein, delivering dates and times.
Before I can forget, I shoot an email to my boss, Dee, letting her know I'll be taking a few days off.
I'm tacking on some time in Phoenix to see my parents after the weekend in Vegas, since I'll be close by.
I reserve a hotel room, then spend twenty minutes searching for the best deal on flights, book those also, and bada bing my day is looking up.
Dopamine floods my system, as if I'm already walking the casino floor.
Whiny, entitled benefactor of nepotism sneaking a steaming pile of literary muck on my desk? Gone.
Stunningly beautiful and charming woman performs a vanishing act mid-date, and now I'll be subjected to her presence? No sweat.
The bright, blinking lights of the Vegas strip beckon me, the scent of the perfumed air pumped into the casinos already creating that euphoric cloud.
I text the group chat with my mom and dad, telling them the dates I'll be coming to town.
Mom: Can't wait to see you!
Dad: We should put some money on the ponies while you're here.
Mom: Ron! Do not say that to your son!
Dad: What? He doesn't care, do you, Dominic?
Mom: Of course he cares!
I sigh. They can't help it. That's what two years of therapy has taught me.
Mom will never stop reprimanding Dad as though he is a child, and Dad will never start acting like an adult.
He will always be bad with money, chasing the next get rich quick scheme.
Invariably, these schemes involve gambling of some sort.
Dom: I won't have time for that on this trip, but it will be nice to see you both.
Clear boundary lines, just like I've learned. They keep me from feeling resentful. I'll have to extend the developed skill to my interactions with Cecily in approximately one month.
Dad: Looking forward to seeing you, bud.
Mom: I'll make your favorite coffee cake!
I huff a laugh at the exclamation point at the end of her sentence. At the end of every one of her sentences. If one of her sentences weren't exclamatory, I'd be worried.