Four
Mia
For the first time ever, I’m avoiding my best friend. It’s been a few days since he suggested we go on a date, and I haven’t
been able to face him. Going out with random guys to get my mind off work was a silly idea. Going on a date with my best friend
to act out a romance trope? Unthinkable. Romantic relationships come and go, but friendships are forever. Romance just complicates
things.
So why did I agree to fake it with him? Desperation, plain and simple. None of the scenes I’d been writing felt right, and
I wound up caving to the temptation to scroll social media, only to discover I’d been tagged in yet another post speculating
about the plot for season four. Once, while tipsy, I’d nearly commented on a similar post, Your guess is as good as mine, lol . Luckily Gavin had intervened before I’d finished typing.
Is a pretend date with him an equally terrible idea? Probably. But I need to write this damn book, and he’d made it sound
so easy.
One date. Pretend to be someone else for a night instead of stressing over deadlines and reader expectations.
But I know the risks. Minimal as it seems after our years of friendship, in books, someone always catches feelings, and that would be worst-case scenario.
Life isn’t a romance novel. Happy-ever-after is the exception, not the rule.
So here I am, hiding out in my favorite stationery store until it’s time to join Evie, my good friend and critique partner,
for our weekly writing meetup. Gavin’s working today and sometimes grabs lunch from the restaurant near the coffee shop, and
I can’t risk running into him before I’ve had a chance to figure out how to back out of our ridiculous deal without making
things weirder than they are.
I’m not saying I single-handedly keep this store in business with impulse buys to feed my penchant for pretty office supplies,
but they did recently add a shelf labeled MIA brADY’S FAVES. Seeing my name on the display gives me a hefty dose of impostor
syndrome. Doesn’t stop me from choosing a geometric-patterned notebook and matching pen from the curated selection.
“Knew you’d love that set,” Amari says, when I take my items to the register. Her name tag is hand-lettered in swooping calligraphy,
the word MANAGER written beneath in neat block letters. I’ve got a hunch she’s behind the fan account that made the viral highlight reel of
scenes from the show titled “Ten Times Sydney and Victor Proved Love Exists (And They’re Adorably Clueless About It),” but
she’s never brought it up and I don’t want to make things awkward by asking.
She scans the bar code, then gasps. “Did I just ring up a notebook that’s going to hold part of Victor and Sydney’s story?”
She clutches it to her chest, dark eyes sparkling. “Those two are the absolute swooniest. I cannot wait to see Robert Cho
in the spotlight. I mean, the stolen glances from last season alone?” She drops one hand to the teak countertop for support,
fanning herself with the notebook.
All signs point to her being invested enough to make that video, and who could blame her?
Robert is every bit that dreamy. The man managed to make spam calls sexy when he played a victim of identity theft in a public service announcement.
Watching him unleash his trademark charm in the role of quippy best friend alongside powerhouse actress Jayla Lewis is enough to make anyone’s heart race.
Amari starts to slide the notebook into a paper sack, but I say, “No need. I plan to put it straight to use.” If I can write
a solid meet-cute today, I’ll be able to call off my date with Gavin.
Passing it over, she says, “Does it sometimes feel surreal to have Hollywood demigods bringing your characters to life?”
“Pretty sure Jayla’s earned full goddess status.” She’s been delivering knockout performances since her early twenties and
deserves a lot more recognition than she gets.
Amari’s eyes practically glow. “You’re on a first-name basis with her? I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re probably on set all
the time.”
Not often, but it has been pretty amazing to get a peek behind the scenes. Hard to believe that several of Hollywood’s reigning
stars occasionally slide into my DMs with questions and updates. I’ll even get to walk the red carpet next month at the season
three premiere, though the idea of seeing the cast and crew in person before I have a good handle on the final book is stressful.
Before I can answer, Amari goes off on another tangent. “Are you writing the next book with the actors in mind? I know the
first book came out years ago,” she says. “But seeing your vision come to life on-screen must have an impact. It’s probably
a lot of pressure, right?”
Pressure is an understatement. Lately I feel trapped between the fandom and my own insecurities, and this conversation is no exception.
Taking my receipt, I back toward the exit, lying through my teeth. “No more so than any book. I always want to do right by
my characters.” The last part is true at least.
She flicks her braids over one shoulder, brows arched in sur prise. “So this is business as usual? No biggie to write a book people are saying might be the breakout roles for two rising stars?” The question hangs in the air like an accusation.
Maybe it’s my inner critic, but I can’t help but feel like she suspects this notebook will sit unused on my shelf, like the
one I bought last week and the week before. That I’ll wind up drowning in a sea of blank pages because I can’t bring myself
to write a happy ending I don’t believe in.
Back in college, when I set out to write a romance novel, I dreamed up two characters who had chemistry galore but, in the
end, Sydney and Victor couldn’t find a way to let go of their doubts and trust love. In the final chapter, their failed relationship
sent them out of each other’s lives for good.
That’s why I shelved that manuscript and wrote them into my next book as side characters. Gave them their own version of happy-ever-after
by shielding them from the inevitable pain of trading the solid ground of friendship for the quicksand of romance.
But now the biggest advance of my career, not to mention my personal sense of responsibility to my publisher and everyone
involved in the show, is forcing me to throw caution to the wind and push these friends into each other’s arms—and beds—for
good this time.
“Yep. Business as usual,” I say, throat dry. “Just me and the story.” I shove the notebook into my tote next to my trusty
character journal. Carrying around multiple notebooks at any given time isn’t unusual. Doubting my ability to fill them is.
Before Amari inadvertently pokes any more holes in my deflated confidence, I wave goodbye and make a quick exit out into the
warm late-morning sunshine.
Hurrying toward the café, I walk past shops, restaurants, and boutique gyms, nose wrinkling at the rotten smell of garbage as I pass an alley behind a restaurant.
The odor seems out of place on this beautiful summer day, but the memory of that scent could come in handy for a future book when a down-on-her-luck bartender steps out the side door at midnight for some air and decides to chuck the eviction notice she tore off her door that morning into an open dumpster.
Cataloging my surroundings has become second nature. I’ve always been attuned to the world around me, particularly people,
but translating my observations onto the page took a lot of purposeful effort. Now I pay attention to things like the grittiness
of the sidewalk under my soles, filing the impressions in my toolbox for later when a scene might require it.
A few blocks down I pass an abandoned lot, overgrown with weeds. Despite the sketchy appearance, it’s prime real estate, near
the commuter line. There have been rumors of a grocery store moving in, but it’s been empty for as long as I’ve lived in town.
A shed with a splintered door hanging off its hinges sits in the far corner. Not the right vibe for my rom-coms, but the perfect
setting for my friend Krish’s psychological thrillers. I snap a photo and text it to him with the caption: Cover inspo?
Krish’s reply comes while I’m waiting by the pickup counter at the coffee shop. We’re texting back and forth about what he’s
been up to since the last time we connected at a book festival when a text from Gavin pops up.
Gavin: Still on for tomorrow night?
Not if today’s writing session goes well. I hesitate, lip caught between my teeth. Hearing my name called for the order, I
stuff my phone back in my bag without replying. Great, now I’m dodging his texts. Another consequence of messing with the
equilibrium of our friendship. But all I need to do is write a dreamy meet-cute and everything can go back to normal.
The hiss of the milk steamer and clink of silverware comes into sharp focus when the steady sound of typing from Evie’s side of the table stops abruptly. I look up from my laptop screen to find her watching me.
“Do you realize,” she says, and I know whatever’s coming next doesn’t bode well for me—her head is cocked, her sleek black
ponytail falling to the side, “that you’ve finished an entire latte without typing a single word?”
A quick glance at the dregs of foam at the bottom of my mug confirms this. We’re at our favorite table in the back corner
of the café. We spent the first half hour of our writing session catching up, per our usual routine. We’ve been cheering each
other on and commiserating over the tough parts of publishing ever since we met in a local writers’ group. She shared a chapter
for critique, and it moved me to tears, some of which fell on the pages, smearing the ink. Embarrassed, I explained what happened,
but she told me it was the best feedback she’d ever received, and we’ve been close ever since.