Two #2
She clicks her tongue. “Do you really think that?”
“I know that.” Friendships endure. Relationships are a gamble, and so far, a losing one. “Right now, dating is the last thing
I need on my to-do list.”
Rising, Kim says, “Dating isn’t something to put on a checklist, so if you’re feeling that way, it makes sense to take a break.”
She starts emptying the next shelf, placing books in the box at her feet. “How’s the draft coming along? Wasn’t sure if you’d
make it today with your deadline coming up.”
When I’m getting close to turning in a book, I need a lot of uninterrupted writing time.
My family and friends used to try to coax me out of the writing cave, but now they know what to expect.
Doesn’t stop them from showing up on my doorstep when I forget to answer texts, but these days it’s to bring a meal or make sure I’m remembering to hydrate.
But my deadline isn’t as close as Kim thinks. I haven’t mentioned that I asked my publisher for an extension. Partly because
then she’d assume my schedule is open, and extra time or not, I need to focus on work. Also, I’m feeling pretty discouraged
about needing to ask for one in the first place. “About as well as a book I never should’ve agreed to write can go.”
I don’t pitch a book unless I know I can execute it. But in this case, the Hollywood producers who’ve done an incredible job
adapting my most popular series came to me with a pitch of their own that filled me with misguided belief in my ability to
create chemistry between two characters whose story I abandoned years ago.
My bestselling bookish-themed contemporary romance trilogy is now a hit show, and I agreed to write a bonus book to please
fans who wanted to see the best friend side characters get their own happy-ever-after.
Before the publication of the trilogy, I’d had consistent sales, but whether it was the concept or the chemistry, readers
fell hard for the series centered around characters in the publishing industry. The rights sold to a big-time production company
who greenlighted the project right away. Before the final episode of the second season aired last year, fans were already
clamoring for a fourth season, this time featuring the lovable side characters, Sydney and Victor.
“I figured this one would be a cinch to write since you’re so familiar with Sydney and Victor by now,” Kim says.
I’m familiar with them all right, because what no one besides Gavin knows is they were the main characters in my first manuscript,
the one I shelved after my breakup with Ted.
The front door slams and saves me from coming up with an excuse for why I’m struggling to get a handle on this book. Gavin’s deep, familiar voice calls out, “Who’s hungry? I brought doughnuts.”
“About time you got here,” I yell back, even though I’m honestly surprised he found a parking spot this quickly.
Kim winces at my shout. “Mia.” She gives me a big-sisterly glare to act right, but Gavin and I always mess around. “Tell him
the plates are packed, but there are some napkins on top of the fridge.”
I heave myself up off the bare floor and head out to the entryway, where Gavin is inspecting a hole in the drywall. “Should’ve
brought my putty knife to patch these.”
“Pretty sure Ted won’t appreciate you doing more than you already are.”
His brows tug together. “We care what Ted thinks now?” In true best friend fashion, he holds a worse grudge than I do. He
would’ve never brought his truck to help them move today if it weren’t for me asking on Kim’s behalf.
“My sister does, so I do.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Passing me a box of doughnuts with the logo of the shop at the end of the block, he leans in and lowers his
voice. “Are we mentioning the extension?”
I blow out a breath. “I haven’t yet.”
“You’re being proactive, Mia. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Proactively stuck.” I bought myself two months of extra time—now I don’t need to turn in the manuscript until late fall—but
so far, breathing room hasn’t equaled inspiration.
“Proactively making time for yourself to get unstuck,” he says. “This book could tank, and you’d still be a huge success.
Just give it time.”
“Not sure time will help.” But I’m not giving up. One of these days I’ll find a way through. Until then I’m sticking to my
schedule, even though lately I end up deleting most of what I write. “Doughnuts might, though.”
Cradling the box of sugary goodness, I scoot past boxes on the way to the kitchen.
Kim comes in a moment later, no doubt lured by the sweet tooth we share. “Thanks for helping out, Gavin.” Ever the polite
one, she stops to hug him before descending on the doughnuts.
“No problem,” he says. “But with you leaving Chicago, where will we crash after a night out?”
“What hypothetical nights out?” She takes a doughnut topped with ganache and curls of chocolate. “It’s been forever since
y’all went out in the city. Lately all I get from Mia are texts about what shows she’s bingeing. She’s spending too much time
with fictional men.”
“Literally my job,” I tell her.
“Writing is a convenient excuse to stay at home,” she says.
I thought we’d moved on from this. “She doesn’t understand how much of a chore dating is,” I tell Gavin, who’s used to our
bickering. “Pretty sure she wants me to start looking for a boyfriend again.”
He pauses mid-bite, his expression going blank. Not meeting my eyes, he chews carefully, staying quiet. Probably doesn’t want
to get in the middle of it by siding with me.
“Maybe that’s why your inspiration is lacking,” Kim says, napkin held underneath her doughnut to catch the crumbs. “Getting
out there might spark some ideas.” That’s the least logical conclusion ever.
I swallow a bite of strawberry-matcha doughnut before answering sarcastically, “Because real men are so inspirational.”
“Hey,” Gavin protests.
“I meant in the context of dating,” I tell him. “You’re exceptional.” I stand on tiptoes to ruffle the hair that flops over
his forehead, enjoying how his nose scrunches up.
Kim jumps on the chance to get him on her side. “Don’t you think it’s weird she’s this meh about dating when she writes about
love for a living?”
Before Gavin can answer, I say, “I’m not writing a relationship column or giving dating advice. I write about fictional love.”
“But your books speak on a lot of real-world issues,” Gavin says.
“They do, and I’m not lessening the impact of fiction.” I take another bite, grateful for the sweetness of the strawberry
filling to balance out this unsavory talk of love outside the pages of a book. “But my imagination works just fine. I don’t
need to subject myself to blind dates for source material.” Yet another stereotype about writing romance that’s totally false.
“Plus,” a voice says from behind me, “I’m pretty sure that’s unethical.” Dammit, why am I cursed by Ted’s terrible timing?
My sister doesn’t miss a beat, though. “I’m not saying you should model the book after a real-life relationship. But a good
date or two might reignite your passion to write about the magic of romance.”
Ted spots the open box of doughnuts and makes a beeline for it. “You’ve got writer’s block?” As far as I’m concerned, he lost
out on the right to ask me anything about my profession when he referred to the romance genre as “fluff fiction.”
With a sigh, I reply with the bare minimum. “My characters just aren’t cooperating at the moment.” An understatement. Pushing
these fan-favorite best friend characters together feels like a doomed endeavor. All I see in their future is a broken friendship
and loneliness. Real warm-and-gooey stuff.
“Does the show have a contingency plan?” Ted asks around a gruesome mouthful of red velvet fritter.
Sometimes, I cannot believe this man’s nerve. “To what, move on without me if I don’t deliver?” Of course they do; they’re
money people. But I’m not clueing him in on how I’ll be cut out of the process if I can’t finish the book.
Gavin casually slides the box of doughnuts toward himself as Ted reaches for another, and my brother-in-law must get the message because he says, “Not that you won’t finish on time, but surely they have writers on staff—”
“Screenwriters will adapt my work, yeah,” I say. They’ve done a phenomenal job staying true to the spirit of the books while
adapting the pacing for TV. “But this is my series, and I’m not going to let someone else write the final chapter.”
If my favorite two characters are getting a happy ending, I want it to be my own vision. A vision with the clarity of swamp
water at the moment.
“Mia always delivers,” Gavin says, with all the confidence I don’t feel. Gesturing toward the hallway filled with boxes, he
asks Ted, “What’s going in my truck? I brought some tie-downs.”
They head out, and Kim bends to put her napkin into the black trash bag on the floor. “He’s a keeper.”
“Good thing, since you signed on for fifty years to life,” I say, grinning.
“Ted, too. But I was talking about Gavin.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Dating apps aren’t the only
way to start a relationship, you know.”
I brush crumbs from my top, ignoring her pointed look at the mess. “Let’s pack up the rest of your library.” I turn the faucet
on to full blast and wash my hands, putting an end to the discussion.
Dating Gavin is out of the question. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our friendship. Romance? That would ruin everything.