Chapter 2
Ryan
There’s nothing on my computer screen worth looking at. And yet, I’ve been staring at it for the past four hours, idly clicking on emails and opening documents only to close them and try something else.
Actually, that’s probably not true. I’m sure some of these manuscripts could be really wonderful books. I’ll probably even make offers to acquire some of them. I’ve edited some interesting books into shining stars over the past few years, but none of them have felt special.
“Anything?” I ask my intern, Margie, as she sinks into the armchair facing my desk. I know better than to get my hopes up, but I need to find something with a spark and fast. Slowly dying inside as the publishing industry passes me by was not on my bingo card for the latter part of my thirties, but here we are. More and more lately, I find myself longing for the days when I was fresh out of college, working my way up to senior editor at John Monroe Press where I got my pick of fantastic books and even more wonderful authors to work with. But somewhere along the line, either I got jaded or the manuscripts got worse. Or both.
Either way, now I’m relying on interns and slush piles. And that’s after I made a desperate move to JMP’s newly acquired imprint. I thought it would shake some things up for me. No such luck.
“There’s a shorter book about…” She trails off and checks her notes, which isn’t promising. We need books that stick with the reader long after the last page, not ones Margie needs to consult her notes about.
“You know what?” I hold up an impatient hand. “Never mind.”
She slumps even further in her chair, pursing her lips to the side and regarding me with her wide, young eyes. A tiny little pang of regret hits me like it always does when I remember I’m supposed to be inspiring the interns, not dragging them down with me into the pit of despair I can’t seem to dig myself out of.
I scrub a hand over my face, unintentionally upsetting the glasses on the bridge of my nose. There’s a distinct possibility that I’m losing my ability as an editor if I even let a sentence that cliché pass through my brain.
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Whitlock. Maybe you can give me a few more specifics about what you’re looking for, and I can try again?” She straightens in her seat and poises her pen over her notebook, ready to write.
Leaning my forearms on my desk and clasping my hands in front of me, I regard her for a moment. “Did any of those manuscripts make you feel anything, Margie?”
She tilts her head and pinches her brows slightly. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
I shove off the desk to tip back in my chair. “Sometimes, identifying a winning manuscript is about a feeling. In your gut. Or in your heart. You read it, and you just know, even though you can’t explain it.” Sure, I’m trying to turn this into a teachable moment to assuage my earlier guilt over dragging down the intern. But maybe it’ll help.
“Okay.” She draws the word out and taps her pen against the edge of her notebook.
“What was the last book you read that moved you?” I ask her.
“Like, to tears?” She scrunches up her face. “I’m not much of a crier.”
I huff a laugh. “Tears are a good signal, but it doesn’t have to make you weep to make you feel.”
One of the other senior editors, Casey, appears in my doorway. He leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. “Are you lecturing the interns again, Ryan?”
Margie pops up even straighter in her seat. “Oh, no. He was asking me about the last book that made me feel something.”
Casey cocks an eyebrow and smirks at me. “Really? Well, I’m interested. What was it?”
“Um,” Margie hedges. “Well, if you’re asking me the first book that comes to mind… We read In the Time Before in our contemporary literature class last semester. By Scarlett Frye. Have you heard of it?”
My mouth goes suddenly dry, and I blink rapidly a few times. Casey pushes himself off the doorframe as his smirk turns to a look of concern. I try unsuccessfully to swallow, then clear my throat.
“Yes,” I rasp. “I’m familiar.”
Casey’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.
Margie seems completely unaware as she continues on. “Well, I loved it. It was super emotional. Is that what you mean? You want me to find a book like that one?”
There is not, nor will there ever be, a book like that one. Scarlett Frye is a paragon in the literary community. Her ability to develop multifaceted characters and carve meaning from not only their misfortunes, but from the very words themselves is—as of yet—unparalleled.
In short, she is a literary genius. Or she was. And I remember her well.
Dark hair fanned out on the pillow around her pale face as she held pages up over her head to read them aloud to me. A smile, her dark eyes glittering. Somehow, that smile meant more from her, was more beautiful on her than on any other human alive.
“You like it?”
She didn’t need my approval. She knew what she was capable of. But I gave it to her anyway. I always would.
“It’s breathtaking.”
Did I mean her or her writing? It didn’t matter. She and her words were always one and the same. I hoped she’d never run out of them. Never stop sharing them with me. Never stop letting me see the inner workings of her big, beautiful brain.
“Ryan?” Casey’s voice interrupts my sudden memory, and his short, black hair and dark skin replace the long, dark tresses and porcelain complexion from my vision.
I shake my head a little, if only that could dispel the thoughts. “Sorry.” I give Margie an apologetic smile and idly scratch at the sleeve covering my right forearm. “That book holds a lot of memories for me. But yes, if you could find a manuscript that makes you feel something like In the Time Before did, that would be a good start.”
Margie shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Okay.” Her gaze bounces back and forth between Casey and me. “If that’s all…?”
I give her a curt nod. “Yes. Thank you, Margie.”
She wastes no time unfolding herself from the chair and breezing out of my office. Casey’s gaze tracks her hurried movement down the hall. Apparently satisfied, he plops into the now unoccupied seat.
As another transplant from JMP, Casey and I have been working near each other for a long time. His move over to Anastasios Press surprised me, but he assured me that the water over here was warm, and it was enough to get me to follow. That and I needed a change. I was drowning in memories over there, and I had to get away. Casey has done exceptionally well for himself here. I wish I could say the same. Though that might have something to do with the fact that his heart hasn’t shriveled into some numb version of itself like mine has.
He crosses one long leg over another. “Are we going to talk about what just happened?”
I eye him over the black rim of my glasses. “I was reminded of a time long ago. Nothing to talk about.”
“Wasn’t that long ago.” He looks at me pointedly. “And it looked like more than just a little reminder.”
It was a straight-up fucking flashback, but I’m not about to unpack this with Casey. Even though he watched me obsess over that same manuscript and that same woman, and then her next one, too. Even though he suggested I fight for the offer we eventually made. Even though he watched the aftermath of that offer being thrown back in my face.
No. I’ve come a long way in the five years since. And even if I didn’t come out of it with my heart intact, I still have my job.
I offer Casey a shrug and nothing more. He narrows his dark eyes at me, and I can feel the trepidation leeching into my skin.
“So, then maybe you’ll tell me what that was all about with Margie?” He makes it sound like a question, but it isn’t. Casey is nothing if not persistent, and I’m not getting out of this without answering him.
“Margie wanted to know what to look for in the slush pile,” I say.
“And what did you tell her?”
“I was trying to get her to understand the feeling when you find something worthwhile. That punch-in-the-gut beauty of even a single line that makes the work promising, makes it something we want to spend a lot of time with before publication.” I eye him over my glasses again. “You’re not my boss, you know. What’s with the third degree?”
“I’m not your boss,” he agrees. “But I like to think I’m your friend.” When I dip my chin in a nod, he continues. “What’s going on with you? You haven’t seemed excited about this job in a while. Time for a career move?”
“This was the career move,” I mumble. When Casey doesn’t say anything, I finally give in. I wave at my computer screen. “There are some really good submissions here. But none of them are… They don’t strike me. There’s no connection to them. I just want to find a manuscript that makes me feel something.”
“Again,” he finishes my already complete sentence.
“What do you mean?”
“You want to find a manuscript that makes you feel something again . Because I know for a fact there have been feelings about manuscripts you’ve worked on in the past. But I’m going to tell you that you’re not likely to find that same feeling again, and you should probably stop chasing it.”
He’s right, of course. When words and books are tied up in bodies and souls to the point where you don’t know where one ends and the other begins, there’s not anything out there, no matter how good, that’s likely to bring that level of emotion back to my life.
Maybe that’s my problem. I got too high, and now nothing will compare. That’s certainly what it felt like, working on that book. Being with her. Like a drug, injected directly into my veins. And silly me, I let myself get addicted to the feeling, thinking there was nothing that could ever come between us. Nothing that could ever stop her words.
I was so young. Now I know better. Not just because of her, but because this industry can, and does, tear writers down more often than it builds them up. I should have seen it coming. No one can fly that high forever.
When I don’t respond, Casey inhales sharply, pushing forward in his chair so his elbows rest on his thighs and his hands meet between his knees. “I got a call from Trina McBryde today.”
Back when Trina was representing Scarlett, she used to send all her new manuscripts to me. Since Scarlett disappeared five years ago, she started working more closely with Casey. It hurts, but I can’t really blame her. In this business, loyalty is worth almost as much as a good book, and I know she will always be loyal to Scarlett, even if she’s long gone.
“And?” I ask, trying not to show how affected I am by hearing Trina mentioned in quick succession with Scarlett.
“She’s got a new book. Swears up and down that it’s brilliant. I read the first few chapters, and there’s definitely something there. How did you put it—a punch in the gut?”
Casey waits for my reaction, but I don’t give him one. I’ve become very practiced at shoving my emotions into the abyss where they belong, even if he constantly wants to try to get a rise out of me.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask instead.
Regarding me carefully, he takes in a deep breath through his nose. “It’d be good for Anastasios if we took it on. I can feel it .” He emphasizes the last part as a nod to my sob story from a few moments ago.
I raise an eyebrow. “Good for the press or the man?”
“They are one and the same, in this instance. Regardless, I don’t have time. I just signed three debuts that are going to need a lot of time and attention. And hand holding.” He rolls his eyes at this.
I chuckle. “This one isn’t a debut?”
“Oh, it is. The author’s name is S.J. Falmouth. But it doesn’t feel like a debut, if that makes sense. She’s been around the block a few times. Maybe this isn’t her first manuscript, just the first she’s put on submission.” He shrugs. “Who knows. But I think this might be just the one to get you out of your little slump.”
I scoff. “Little” is the understatement of the century.
There I go with the clichés again.
“Look,” Casey continues. “Let me send over the chapters. Read it with an open mind. See if you feel something. If you do, it’s yours. If you don’t…well, I’ll leave that up to you. But if you could trust me and fake it, I’d owe you one.”
“There’s no reason why I can’t at least take a look,” I say.
“Great,” Casey says as he stands. “I’ll send it over. Trina mentioned this author is a little skittish, so if you think there’s something there, let’s have the initial contact go through me. We can do a virtual or in-person meeting, depending on the author’s schedule, to introduce you before we really get started.”
“Sounds great,” I say to his back as he hustles out the door.
As I click through some more emails waiting for Casey to send the document over, I can’t help but hope he’s right about this one. I could really use the win.