Chapter 3
Scarlett
I know it’s ten o’clock in the morning on a Wednesday in April. I don’t care. My pajamas are comfortable, and there’s a holiday baking competition on a streaming service and a spot on my couch that’s calling my name. Curling up with my softest blanket and a mug of hot coffee, I start the first episode.
Baking competitions are a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine. Actually, I shouldn’t say “guilty.” I feel absolutely zero guilt about it. But I love them probably more than a reasonable, well-adjusted adult should. Though the jury’s still out on whether or not I’m reasonable or well-adjusted.
All of this is to say that I could—and sometimes do—spend an entire day binging baking shows, especially between writing and editing projects. This particular season has haunted me since I got serious about finishing the draft of my book in November. I told myself I wouldn’t watch it until the draft was finished. By the time I’ve gotten to the fourth episode and downed another cup of coffee, I’m settled in with my reward, and it feels so sweet. Pun intended.
That is, it’s sweet until a banging sounds at my front door. It surprises me so much that I jump and hot coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug and onto my soft, white blanket.
“Son of a bitch,” I curse, holding the mug up as if that’s going to help anything and shaking my free hand to soothe the sting caused by the coffee.
The banging comes again, more urgent this time. My heart starts racing; I don’t think I’ve scheduled anything for today. In fact, I know I didn’t because I was very serious about my date with the holiday baking competition. But I also notoriously need a calendar. Or an assistant. I used to have both, but now that I haven’t done anything of note in a while, I haven’t seen the need for either.
“Open up, Scarlett. I know you’re in there. I can hear the baking show,” Trina shouts from the other side of the door.
I breathe out a sigh of relief at knowing who is out there before tensing up again because what the fuck is Trina doing at my apartment at two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon without scheduling an appointment?
Gingerly, I remove the coffee-soaked blanket from my lap and set my mug down on the end table before marching the few steps to the door and throwing it open as violently as I dare. The poor thing isn’t really meant for aggressive gestures, and I can’t afford a new front door.
“There she is,” Trina says with fake cheer, tilting her head to the side and smiling so wide, her signature bright red lips pull tight over her teeth. Platinum-blonde hair falls over her shoulder with the motion.
It only takes a second for her manufactured smile to turn into a very real frown as she takes in my pajamas soaked with coffee and my messy, dark hair that I’m sure looks like a rat’s nest.
“In my defense,” I jump in before she can criticize me, “I spilled the coffee when you scared the shit out of me by banging unexpectedly on my door.”
Those red lips pull to the side as her hazel eyes narrow on me. “Why are you still in your pajamas?”
“Because I finished a draft of a book, which was a monumental thing. And then I cleaned my apartment, went grocery shopping, and showered every day this week, Mom .” I don’t mention that the last three things also felt monumental. Finishing my book and sending it to Trina gave me a lot of pride, but it has also left a void I’m not sure how to fill yet. Making myself do anything normal these past few days doesn’t give me the same dopamine hit that writing has. And while that does feel depression-adjacent, I’m not in a full-on depressive episode. I’m even still remembering to take my meds, which admittedly doesn’t always happen. I just wanted to take some time off. Hence the pajamas.
Trina peeks over my shoulder and into my apartment. “You cleaned?”
I roll my eyes like a petulant teenager and open the door wider so she can see. She doesn’t waste a minute, brushing past me and waltzing right into the kitchen. I do say waltzing almost literally; she’s wearing one of her brightly-colored, flowy skirts that kicks out around her ankles as she moves.
She inspects the kitchen for a few moments, even opening cabinets and my fridge. Apparently satisfied, she folds her arms over her ample chest and stares at me in silence.
“I wasn’t lying,” I grumble.
“Sometimes you lie,” she retorts.
I open my mouth to reply but then close it. She’s right. I know enough to know what looks bad, and I try to tell people what they want to hear to avoid their concern. It’s been a while since I’ve done that with Trina, but I can’t really blame her for not fully trusting me.
“Why are you here?” I ask instead.
She eyes me up and down. I uselessly try to smooth my satin sleep shirt into something more presentable under her scrutiny.
“I scheduled you an appointment at the salon, so I’m here to take you there.” She can barely hide her disdain.
“What? Why?” My hand floats to my hair, which feels dry and brittle to my touch. Grimacing, I add, “Don’t answer that.”
That, at least, pulls a trill of laughter from her. She leans a hip against the counter, and her hands land on the curve of her hips. “Casey requested the full manuscript. He’s going to love it, and we are going to meet with him to talk marketing before signing anything.” She waves an imaginary circle in my direction. “So this depressed-writer chic isn’t going to work in our favor.”
“You seem awfully confident that they’re going to make an offer.” It’s not even a protest, but I can’t get my hopes up the way she can. It’s never been real for me until the offer is signed.
“They will,” she says simply. “Now, get dressed. On that note, do you have anything business-y you can wear to this meeting?”
My eyebrows inch up my forehead, and I feel something crusty stick in the creases. I might look worse than I thought. “The meeting we haven’t been invited to yet?”
“The meeting we will be invited to within the next couple of days. So, do you?”
I squish one eye closed in thought. “Um…”
“Right. We’ll hit up the store after the salon.” She pulls her phone out of a pocket in her skirt and taps a few things into it as she chews on the side of her mouth. “Go get dressed. Our appointment is in twenty,” she says distractedly.
I stand there, staring at her dumbly. “Why did you do this for me? If you had told me to go get a haircut and some clothes, I would have.”
Without looking at me, she tips one of her shoulders up. “Would you have?”
“Yes,” I insist. When she doesn’t respond, I add, “I went grocery shopping when you told me to, didn’t I?”
Her gaze pops up from her phone screen. “You did.”
“I would have done this, too. You’re my agent, not my assistant. It’s not your job to make sure I’m presentable.”
“No, it’s my job to sell your book. And that’s going to go a lot better if you don’t look like you’ve spent five years avoiding the world and holed up in your tiny apartment like a hermit.” A tiny smile plays at those red lips, and her eyes sparkle. “I am your agent, but I also like to think I’m your friend, Scarlett. This is me being a friend.”
“That’s…” I trail off and swallow against the sudden lump of emotion that has lodged itself in my throat. “That’s really nice of you, Trina. Thank you.”
She breaks the emotional moment by waving her phone at me. “I also booked an appointment with your therapist for you just in case this thing goes sideways, which is definitely more of an assistant move. So don’t get used to it.”
My heart starts pounding again of its own volition, and my mouth goes dry. Apparently, I had gotten accustomed to her bravado. “Do you think it will go sideways?”
“No,” she says with what I think is real confidence. “But I also believe in being prepared. Which, frankly, you could learn from. Now, get dressed or we’re going to be late. And you know I hate it when people are late.”
I make my way to my bedroom to hastily dress and brush my teeth. I don’t bother trying to do anything with my hair since a professional will be attacking it shortly anyway. When we leave the apartment, Trina links her arm with mine in a gesture of solidarity that fills me up to the brim. Knowing she’s got my back goes a long way toward making me feel like this is all going to turn out the way she says it is. It feels almost as good as finishing that draft did.
Almost.