Eleven
Mia
I stare at the email from my agent. My editor is cc’d. Turns out there is something more stressful than an unwritten book
and a looming deadline, and it’s an unwritten book, a looming deadline, and an unexpected mid-week call about said book.
After replying yes, I’m faced with the daunting task of focusing on writing while I wait for the call. To make matters worse,
whenever I sit at my desk, I think about Gavin scooting his chair closer and his words, low and intentional... You’d surprise yourself with how much you wanted more.
His words unspooled possibilities in my mind, yearnings buried beneath fear and doubt.
But even if I did want to explore the shift in my feelings toward Gavin—and I’m not sure I do—that’s not going to get this book written.
Days of uninterrupted writing time stretch between now and the forced proximity test, and I need to make the most of them.
Deliberately turning away from the extra chair I seriously need to think about reselling, I open my manuscript.
I realized during my last writing session that Victor might have had feelings for Sydney all along. But what about her? Is
she clueless, scared, or ambivalent? Desperate to cling to friendship in the face of the unknown, or simply too happy with
what they have to want more?
My mind is full, but the page in front of me is blank. It feels like a judgment on my abilities as a storyteller. Normally
a few days without writing leaves me cranky and annoyed. Lately, trying to write feels the same. My inspiration has tucked
its tail and run, like love is a big scary thing. I wonder whether it’s Sydney and Victor’s story I’m more worried about or
my own.
Too distracted to finish the scene where Victor almost ruins everything by sending Sydney a bunch of in-character texts that
get read by one of their friends, I search for appetizer ideas to bring to Sera and Joe’s baby shower next month, only to
get a flurry of texts on the group chat that result in a decision to pivot to catering. Faced with proof my procrastination
was doubly useless, I return my attention to the manuscript, trying not to feel defeated.
One scene at a time. But in the midst of writing a funny moment where Sydney scrambles to delete the incriminating texts,
my own phone chimes. I should’ve put it on Do Not Disturb, but it’s too late.
Evie: I’m dying to know how the method acting scenes are going. Send pages if you have them! No pressure. But you told me to ask.
So a little pressure. Like a nudge, not the crushing weight of society’s expectations.
I grin. Evie’s texts read like her novels, off-the-wall in a charming way.
Evie: Also, I have a few chapters to send you, but I feel bad because lately you’ve been reading all my stuff without reciprocity.
Mia: Send away! Giving you feedback makes me feel productive.
My phone trills again, this time with an alert. Time for the video call. I carry my laptop out to the window seat and settle
back against the plush cushions, hoping the comfortable surroundings will help me relax.
I log on and both my agent’s and editor’s faces appear on-screen. “Hello,” they say in near unison, and I know instantly it
can’t be good news.
“Hi, Saheli.” My agent’s Pomeranian jumps into her lap, and she ruffles his ears. I wave at my editor. Her gray pixie cut
is tousled and her fiery orange lipstick is on point. “How’s it going, Claire?” She’s smiling, but her posture is stiff, like
she’s perched on the edge of her seat.
“First off, don’t worry,” she says. Guess that confirms it. “But we do have some less-than-ideal news.”
“Bad news?”
“Definitely not bad,” Saheli jumps in, always diplomatic. “Difficult.”
I wager a guess, wanting to get it over with. “They’re scrapping the fourth season?” I hate how hopeful I sound, but I’m dying
to be let off the hook.
“That would be bad news.” Saheli’s black brows tug together in a frown. “You know I’d never sugarcoat things.” Face framed
by a wavy bob, she meets my eyes, and I brace myself. “They’re moving up the filming date by six months.”
Before I can react, Claire says, “Apparently, Robert has a conflict with the next film in his espionage series.”
“What does that mean for me?”
Saheli nudges her dog gently away from the teacup he’s sniffing. “They need the story sooner than expected, in order to have time to adapt it.”
“Or else...” I prompt.
“Or else they’ll be within their rights to create their own series finale.”
The implication hits home. Exactly the outcome Ted asked me about a few weeks ago. “So my extension—”
“Sorry, this isn’t coming from us,” Claire says, meaning the publisher. “The studio is forcing our hand, but if you want this
to be your story, then you’ve got to finish sooner.”
“How much sooner?”
“End of August.” That’s the same week I fly out for the premiere of season three in LA. “We can push the manuscript through
copyedits, but they need something readable by mid-September.”
“A month?” My voice startles a pigeon who’d landed on the ledge outside the window. “That’s sooner than my original deadline.”
So long, extension.
“Five weeks,” Saheli says, like that’s much better.
“Five weeks to write a whole entire book?”
“You haven’t started?” Claire’s head tilts, green eyes sharp behind her bold red glasses.
Oops. “No, I have. Of course I have.”
Saheli’s expression is full of concern. “Mia, how bad is it?”
I can’t bring myself to divulge the whole truth. “It’s bad enough that I can’t make any promises.”
“How much time do you need?”
Three to six years? A lifetime? An eternity?
I’m quiet for so long that Claire leans forward, close enough for me to see the smudges on her lenses. “If you don’t think
you can deliver, the show’s writers know the characters—”
“I don’t want that.” The screenwriters adapted my previous three books and stayed true to the bones of the stories.
I even got to weigh in on some of their stylistic choices, which is kind of unheard of.
But the idea of them crafting Victor and Sydney’s story from start to finish?
The two characters most precious to my heart?
I can’t let that happen. “Tell me you didn’t imply I’m leaning that way,” I say to my editor.
“I would never,” she says. “This is your story. But it’s also Hollywood, and they have their own rules. If you don’t produce
the manuscript on time, they’ll make sure someone else delivers the story.”
“I just feel a lot of pressure to do right by them. Not just the characters, but the actors, too. This is their time to shine.”
There’s no question of recasting at this point. To most people’s minds, Jayla and Robert are Sydney and Victor. “This is different than all my other books, and now I’m expected to rush it?”
“You’re a fast writer. How far along are you?” Claire adjusts her caftan casually, but her brow tightens in a way that suggests
she’s nervous about my reply.
I usually produce about three thousand words a day. More than some writers I know, far less than others. Everyone has their
own pace, but mine is quick and steady. Right now I’ve got the opening chapters. Less than a typical week’s worth of work.
“I’m not going to lie. It’s not coming easy.”
“Want to talk about why?”
Avoiding the weight of her speculation, I track the progress of a squirrel navigating the leafy branch outside. “I don’t know
that there’s anything to talk about. I just can’t find the glue to make their relationship stick. That’s why I asked for more
time.” Humiliation, wasted.
“And I hate rescinding the extension, but this is out of my hands,” Claire says.
Saheli’s dog jumps down from her lap, and she leans on the desk, deep brown eyes sympathetic, but wary, as if she’s more worried than she lets on.
“From what I’ve heard, Roan Watkins asked for Robert personally.
” The acclaimed director is synonymous with box office success.
“Robert wants to stick with the show, but he made it clear the film will take precedence.”
I don’t blame him. A spy thriller with the legendary Roan Watkins could be a career maker. But the timing is immense pressure.
Maybe I should bow out. But that would mean letting someone else have the final say on the fate of my two favorite characters.
Stories are remembered for how they end, and I want the last word.
“I’ll make it work.”
“Knew you would.” Claire smiles warmly. “I know it must be throwing off your creative process to have so many people involved.
Do your best to tune them out.”
Saheli nods in agreement. “It’s your story, Mia. Tell it.”
My story. That’s the problem. It’s too close to me, or at least the me I was before I realized friendship is no basis for romance.
But at the end of the day, it’s not actually my story. It’s Sydney and Victor’s. And I don’t need to convince myself their
happy ending is real, I just need to convince readers.
Five weeks to get this done, minus an afternoon in an escape room. But it’s for the good of the story, I tell myself. Anything
to justify my sudden craving for time alone with Gavin where the usual rules of friendship don’t apply.