Chapter 28
Scarlett
Five Years Ago
Tired. So, so tired. It’s the only word my overworked brain can focus on when I’m not writing or interviewing or signing. There are probably more accurate or descriptive words to express my condition—stronger words, as Ryan might demand—but I’m too tired to think of them.
Every day should feel new and exciting, but it doesn’t. If I had been asleep at all, I wake up, write, prepare for whatever event is on my calendar, write more, talk to Ryan, write even more. Eventually, someone from my team reminds me I need to get on a plane to fly to the next thing.
Four days. I’ll be home in four days. Ryan can hold me. I can eat something that isn’t in a takeout container. I can rest.
Sort of. Trina told me JMP is very interested in signing me on for more books, and I need something to show them.
I love writing. If writing were the only thing, I could probably do it forever. Maybe I’d even be able to write something that wasn’t absolute shit if I weren’t stretched so thin. Yet as I stare at my screen, trying to make sense of whatever I typed at three in the morning, that doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon. In a fit of desperation, I highlight the entire chapter and hover my finger over the Delete button.
My phone chirps from the nightstand in my hotel room, and I blink rapidly. Where am I? New York? A glance outside at the gorgeous view of the Empire State Building that I haven’t been able to appreciate confirms my location. In the Time Before was a book club pick for a huge daytime talk show—one of the ones where five women sit around a fake kitchen table and talk. I’m slated for an appearance with them today, then a late-night show in two days. Then home.
The chirping sounds again, and I realize that’s my ringtone. “Saved by the bell,” I tell the jumble of highlighted words on my screen as I make my way over to my phone to answer it.
Great, now I’m talking to myself.
“Hello?”
“Good morning,” Trina says rather loudly.
I pull the phone away from my ear to turn the volume down. “Hi.”
She cuts right to the chase. “Got any pages for me to look at today? JMP is very curious what you’ve got up your sleeve, and honestly, so am I.”
“I did,” I grumble, poking around in the cabinets in the kitchenette for some coffee. “I read through it just now, and it’s garbage.”
“Scarlett, we’ve talked about this,” she admonishes. “You are a best-selling author. Your books have won awards. You are about to appear on two major television shows because your books have become pillars of contemporary literature. Your writing is not garbage.”
“No pressure,” I snipe, finally finding a coffee pod and tossing it into the machine.
“There is some pressure,” she singsongs. “JMP wants something to look at. Send me what you’ve got. I’m sure Ryan and I can put some makeup on it or something.”
“Terrible metaphor.” Apparently, my exhaustion has reduced me to responding in two-word phrases.
“Well, fine. I won’t be the one fixing it up. But send it. Please?”
The coffee machine burbles to life, dripping weak-smelling liquid into the nondescript mug below it. “Fine,” I say, but only because I’m too tired to argue.
“Great. I look forward to seeing those soon. Gotta go, but let’s do dinner when you’re back, okay?”
“Sure,” I say before we both hang up.
No sooner has the coffee finished brewing than my phone rings again. I’m filled with relief at just seeing his name on my screen. Somehow, that makes me even more tired, as if I’ve been a house on the shoreline held up by twin stilts of anxiety and desperation, and the flood of relief has washed them away.
I press the phone to my ear. “Hi.” Even I can hear how happy I am to talk to him.
“Hey, beautiful.” His deep voice is a balm, soothing over the debris in my heart. “Three more sleeps until I can hold you.”
Every day that I’m gone, he greets me with how many nights until I’m his arms again. I love it for its simplicity, for the way it anchors me in space and time. I’m here now, but soon, I’ll be there.
“I’m ready to be home,” I sigh as I curl myself up on the hotel bed with my mug of coffee. “Ready for some time off.”
“Three months,” he says, and I love him even more for memorizing my schedule. “I hope you know I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
I laugh, the sound foreign to my ears. “For three months? So you’re not going to work either?”
“It was hyperbole.” He chuckles, then puts on what I imagine he thinks of as a professor voice. “An extreme exaggeration.”
I roll my eyes good-naturedly. “I know what hyperbole is.”
“I know you do. Look, I have to get going, but I wanted to wish you luck today. I can’t wait to watch it.”
Ryan still watches every televised interview. He reads every review and article and sends me snippets of all the good ones. He’s one of the first people to like every one of my social media posts. If there were an entry for Most Supportive Boyfriend in the dictionary, his picture would be the definition.
He’s in my corner. That’s what matters. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when things get particularly difficult to manage.
A sudden emotion takes hold of me. This perfect man has chosen my imperfect self to love, and he loves me in the most perfect way. “Thanks, Ryan,” I choke out.
“I’m so proud of you, beautiful. You’re going to be great. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, still holding back tears. We hang up, and I’m left alone once again.
I finish my weak coffee as I stare blankly out at the view beyond my window. One of these days, when I have time, I’d love to actually see some of the cities I visit for press. For now, the view will have to do.
After I dump my coffee mug in the sink, I send Trina what I’ve been working on before I can think too much of it. But not before I delete whatever that shit was that I wrote last night.
I should look at the questions, but every interview is the same. Arrive, green room, seating area offstage, smile and wave while I walk on, answer the questions, leave while they break for commercial. The questions are always the same, too. Summarize the book, talk about my process, flash an apologetic smile when I can’t tell them anything about what’s up next for me. That last one is in my contract not to spill the beans. Not that I have any beans to spill since it’s all garbage anyway.
“Oh, wow,” says Kathy or Kelly—I can’t remember which—her blonde hair teased as high as it can go, and her pink lips making a little O shape. “You are just living the dream of every little girl who carries around a notebook to write about her imaginary worlds, aren’t you?”
“I sure am.” If every little girl’s dream is to live in a constant state of stress and exhaustion.
“And you have a looker of a boyfriend, too,” says Janice or Janie from the other side of the kitchen table set. Where is this coming from? God, I should have looked at the show notes more carefully before leaving the hotel this morning.
Taylor chimes in. “She’s got it all.” I know her name for sure. I think.
I flash a tight smile and nod, forcing myself not to look off-camera to the director. Where the fuck is this going?
“We found a picture of you two on your social media. Can we show it?” Kathy-or-Kelly asks someone with a headset. “Oh, there it is.”
The studio audience coos as a picture from six months ago flashes on a screen behind us. It’s a sunny day. My hair is in a thick ponytail, and my sunglasses are on top of my head. I’m squinting up at Ryan who has his arm around my shoulders. He’s looking down at me with absolute adoration all over his face. He looks so happy. And so do I—happy and healthy. I added the tank top I’m wearing in that picture to the donation pile before I left for New York because it started to hang off me.
Because the picture is behind me, I have to twist uncomfortably to see it, and I’m glad I’m not facing a camera when I do because my smile falters. Was this in the show notes? I feel like I’d remember this.
“Ohh, you’re so cute,” Janice-or-Janie croons. Fuck, her name is Jackie. “He looks about ready to propose here. Don’t you think?” The other women hum and nod in affirmation.
“Thanks.” I fix my smile back on my face and turn around so I don’t have to see that picture anymore. It’s a nonanswer, but I’m frozen, completely unsure of how to proceed. Of course I see myself married to Ryan, expanding our family, reading and writing and loving each other forever. If only I could find the time to start that chapter of our lives.
“Is it true he’s your editor? How romantic,” Taylor swoons.
“Uh, no. Sorry.” Why am I apologizing? I blink a few times, giving myself a moment to recover. “He works with my publisher but not officially on my books.”
“I bet he works on them unofficially.” Jackie elbows me playfully.
Is that some kind of innuendo? “He reads every word.” I grin harder, hoping this segment is almost over. Talking about my personal life is almost never allowed, so I’m not sure how this slipped past everyone whose job it is to approve interview questions.
“So lucky,” Kathy-or-Kelly says. It’s unclear if she’s referring to me or Ryan.
“And with that, it’s time for a commercial break. We’ll be right back.” Taylor smiles into the camera. We all pause for a moment until we get the all-clear. They usher me off-camera, remove my mic, and I’m free to go.
Three more sleeps. Then three months off. I can do this.
After that interview, I task Trina with making sure I won’t be ambushed with any more personal questions. She assures me I won’t. Ryan calls, and he laughs a bit about the whole thing, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. He didn’t sign up to be in the limelight, though I guess it’s at least a little inevitable. Then, I write some more and end up passing out in my clothes sometime around one in the morning.
The next day, I write and write and write. I have a rare day between interviews with no obligations, and I intend to use it. JPM wants pages, and I’m determined to give them something that isn’t absolute shit. I don’t realize I’ve forgotten to eat until my phone rings yet again. A brief glance at the clock tells me it’s past two in the afternoon. My stomach rumbles.
Pushing myself up from the table, I look around for my phone, but it’s nowhere to be found. The ringing stops, then starts up again from the other side of the bed. Right. I put it in my purse so I wouldn’t get distracted.
I flop onto the bed and grab my purse to rummage through it. Wallet, lipstick, tissues, a couple of mints, pads and tampons, a granola bar I was saving for later. Phone. There it is.
In the span of a few seconds, the phone goes silent, and I go still. My stomach drops.
Pads and tampons.
I brought them with because I was supposed to start my period almost as soon as I got to New York a week ago. Frantically, I dump all the contents of my purse onto the bed until I find my packet of birth control pills. I’ve never been good at remembering to take medication, but with the exception of those stupid placebo pills at the end of the month, I’m usually pretty good about taking these. Because there is absolutely no way I could handle a baby right now. Not with this schedule. Not with this pressure. No matter how much I want a kid somewhere down the line.
But sure enough, I missed a few pills this month.
It’s hard to fill my lungs, almost as if the air in my hotel room is suddenly thin. Okay, Scarlett. Don’t panic , I try to tell myself. There’s nothing to do but make sure. It’s probably nothing. Stress can cause you to miss a period. So can weight loss.
I shove everything into my purse and hurry out the door.
Two lines.
Two fucking lines.
My phone rings yet again as I’m standing in the bathroom, holding the positive test. Instead of the relief I usually feel when I see Ryan’s name, my heart starts racing. Am I supposed to tell him I’m pregnant over the phone? How is he going to react? Is this something he wants? Is this something I want?
Yes. With him. Eventually.
Not now. I can’t right now. This is going to change everything, and not in a magical way where everything will be fixed. In an awful way where I will have a baby and still need to fulfill my contracts with JMP.
With a shaky hand, I answer the phone and bring it to my ear. “Hey, you.” My own forced cheerfulness makes me wince, but Ryan doesn’t seem to notice.
“Hey, beautiful.”
Two words.
Two lines, absolute panic, and two words have me bolstered. It’s Ryan. This is what he does for me, to me. He gives me strength to keep going without even knowing I needed it. Maybe without even knowing he’s doing it.
Could we do this? With him in my corner, the impossible feels possible. And it’s something I want eventually. Janice-or-Janie-or-Jackie’s unapproved question made me realize that earlier. Maybe it was a sign.
I don’t know what kind of mother I’d be, but I know without a doubt that Ryan would be an incredible father. I wouldn’t be alone in this. I’d have him. We would do it.
Gathering my confidence to get it over with and tell him right now, I suck in a deep breath, but he speaks before I get a chance.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day. I have some amazing news.”
That breath leaves me like a deflating balloon. “Oh yeah? Well…I have news too.”
“I want to wait to tell you in person, though.”
In person. Yes. That’s the best way. That will give me some time to figure out what I want to say, and I’ll be able to gauge his reaction better. No one wants to have a conversation like this over the phone.
“Same.”
“Okay, I have to go. I just wanted to hear your voice.” He sounds rushed, and there are voices in the background. “Two more sleeps. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Two lines and two more sleeps. I close my eyes and try to breathe deep.
Another green room. This time, there is a bouquet of flowers waiting for me with a note.
One more sleep. I’m so proud of you. I love you.
Another fake smile. Another round of questions. I don’t really hear any of them. I don’t really know how I respond, either, but it must be okay because no one seems to be looking at me like anything is wrong.
If only they knew everything is wrong.
But I smile through it. Answer the questions. Go to commercial. Leave.
One more sleep, and I’m no closer to knowing what to say.
I actually fall asleep when I get back to the hotel, but it feels more like my brain is shutting down than anything restful. Sometime in the middle of the night, I’m jolted awake. For a moment, I’m not sure what woke me. But then, pain lances through my lower abdomen. I double over, waiting for it to pass. When it does, I stumble to the bathroom.
There’s blood everywhere. Much heavier than a period, and it hurts . It’s so painful that I sit on the toilet and cry. I clean up as much as I can before bundling up my satin pajamas and shoving them into the tiny bathroom trash can.
I call the after-hours number for my doctor’s office. They explain what’s happening. Words like “miscarriage” and “pain management” and “watch out for excessive bleeding” float through the phone, but they only half register. I thank them and hang up.
I want desperately to call Ryan, but what am I supposed to say? I was pregnant with your baby. Now I’m not. And to top it off, I’m not sure which of those sentences I’m supposed to be happy about? No, I can’t do that. And besides, it’s late. He’s definitely sleeping.
A hot shower. That would feel good. I run the water as hot as I’m able to stand and step in. As the water splashes over my flushed skin, relief comes with it. I lean my forehead against the cold tile. I couldn’t have had a baby right now.
But right on its heels is a rage hotter than the water running over me. Why shouldn’t I have a baby if that’s what I wanted? I’m in a stable relationship. I have plenty of money. There should be room in my life for the family I want. Yet if things keep going the way they are, I’ll never have that. Where is a baby supposed to fit between writing, editing, and endless press?
The next day, I pop some painkillers, wrap myself up as best I can, and board the plane. But it’s not the relief that comes home with me. It’s the rage.
“I thought Ryan was going to pick me up,” I tell Trina as she tries to play Tetris with my suitcase and the boxes of books she has in her trunk.
“He’s at the JMP offices waiting for us.” She flattens her bright red lips. With a grunt and a shove, the suitcase finally slides in. “We’ve got news.”
“Yeah, I heard.” I get in the passenger side and try to swallow my disappointment at not having Ryan here as Trina jogs around to drive. I had hoped for at least a few minutes with him before this meeting Trina had scheduled. Though maybe it’s for the best. I wouldn’t have been able to tell him anything in a short car ride.
She drives the twenty minutes to JMP in silence, but I can feel her excitement practically vibrating off her. This is always what she does when she has something she wants to say but can’t for some reason. But somewhere over Ohio, my rage gave way to numbness, and I’m having a hard time pretending to give a shit about whatever Trina and Ryan have been evading. I’m still bleeding.
We pull into the parking garage next to the building housing JMP’s offices. Trina leads the way to a conference room, and when she opens the door, there are six other people sitting around a large table. Ryan is to my left, and I almost run to him before I remember we’re in his place of employment and that would be inappropriate. Next to him is Lori, the publicist I’ve been working with. Then the two editors who worked on both my previous books. And the CEO and publisher, Mark.
Holy shit. There are a lot of really important people in one room. They’re all smiling at me, so I must not have done something too terribly wrong.
“Please, sit.” Mark waves at the two empty chairs in front of us. I slink into the one next to Ryan, my heart beating in my ears. Trina sits on the other side of me, and for some reason, I feel like I’m being flanked by soldiers, ready to go to battle.
“Hey, beautiful,” Ryan whispers.
I glance sidelong at him. “What is this about?”
He just smiles at me and winks.
Mark draws my attention away from Ryan by clearing his throat. “Welcome back, Scarlett. We trust you had a productive trip.”
Productive . Not nice or fun . Because that’s what it’s about, right? Writing and selling and selling and writing. All work and no play…
“Yes,” I say tersely. Trina kicks me gently under the table in what I’m assuming is an unspoken reminder to be more personable, but I’m not giving anything away until I know what the hell is going on.
Mark raps his knuckles on the table. “Good. I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve asked you here today, so I’ll go ahead and say it. We want to sign you on for three more books in two years.” He slides a small stack of papers in our direction.
Trina takes them and skims, nodding approvingly as she does. “This all looks in order.” She hands them to me, beaming.
I pretend to look, but my ears are ringing, and the walls feel like they’re closing in on me. Three more books. More than one per year. I can’t handle the two I have out and the one I’m working on. In what world could I do this three more times? We knew they’d make an offer. Trina was confident about that, but only for one, and then we figured I could leverage my success for more time between releases. Three is unfathomable.
The words “one-point-five-million dollars” cut through the buzzing in my ears.
I shake my head, trying to clear it to no avail. “I’m sorry, what?”
“They’re offering you seven figures for three books!” Trina exclaims quietly, though there’s a terse edge to her voice as if she’s willing me to get it together.
“The money is reflective of the work you’ve been asked to put in,” Ryan says a lot more calmly.
My gaze slides to him. “The work I’ve been asked to put in, or will be asked to put in?”
The room goes quiet. One of my editors cracks open a bottle of water and gulps it loudly.
Lori is the first to speak. “We’d like to do another comprehensive press tour for each book, as outlined in the contract.”
Once she breaks the silence, people start talking rapid-fire. It’s hard to believe anyone is listening to each other with how fast they spit out questions and answers. Trina interjects a few times. No one asks what I want. They all just assume I’m on board.
And why wouldn’t I be? A million and a half to write books is a dream.
My pain killers must be wearing off because a cramp builds low in my abdomen. I can feel the color drain from my face.
“Hey, beautiful.” Ryan’s voice is so close to me. So soft. I want to curl up inside it and stay there until it’s all over.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Are you okay? I thought you’d be happy about this.”
I turn my face toward his, like a flower seeking the sun. Only, his expression is stormy. Pinched. Concerned.
“This was your idea?” I ask. No one else is listening to us anyway.
He nods, but his brows stay tightly knitted together. “You’ve been working so hard. I thought maybe if you were actually compensated for that, it could help—”
“No.” It’s so quiet, even I can barely here myself.
His heart is in the right place, but mine is currently crumbling into pieces in my chest. A million dollars can’t fix it. Not even Ryan can put the pieces back together this time.
“No,” I say again, stronger this time. I press my palms into the table and stand on shaky legs. I suck in a breath as pain lances through me. “I don’t want this,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Scarlett,” Trina pleads through nervous laughter. “Please, sit back down. What’s going on?”
“I told you. I don’t want this. I want to go home”—my voice cracks on the word, knowing already that I won’t allow Ryan to come with me—“and sleep.”
“Oh, honey.” Trina clicks her tongue. “I’m so sorry. I know you’re tired after that trip.” She looks around the table, wincing in apology. “We should reschedule.”
“No.” The more times I say it, the easier it becomes. “I won’t sign this. I’m done.”
And then I turn on my heel and walk out the door before anyone can persuade me otherwise.
I don’t cry. Not one tear as I make my way home. Ryan tries to follow me, but I tell him I need some time alone. He calls, but I ignore it. Instead, I call Mandy. She just signed her deal with a smaller press a few months ago, so I’m sure the pressure is on. She’ll get it. She has to.
But when I get done explaining everything to her, there are no reassurances. No condolences. Only silence.
“Mandy?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“I don’t even know what to say.” The anger in her voice could cut me in two. “Do you know how many people would kill for a deal like that?”
My mouth gapes open, then closed, then open again. “Did you miss the part where I am having a miscarriage?”
“You said yourself you were relieved.”
I throw up my hands, then let them smack on the couch next to me. “That’s the point. I shouldn’t have had to be relieved. I should be able to do this job and have a relationship and kids if I want.”
“Poor you. You can’t handle a seven-figure deal and a perfect relationship. You made a choice, Scarlett. I guess you’ll have to live with it.”
“What the fuck, Mandy?”
She scoffs. “I can’t feel bad for you. You had everything offered to you on a silver platter—”
“I worked hard. Too hard. That is the point.” I spit the words out of my mouth like they taste bad.
“I’ve been working hard, too, and what do I have? A low five-figure advance and a promise that my paperback will be in a couple of stores. Certainly not a perfect boyfriend who is going to rush in and fight for a deal. And I’ll tell you what—if I did what you did, I’d do him a favor and never speak to him again. He’s going to be in deep shit with JMP for talking them into this.”
Admittedly, I had been angry at Ryan for suggesting this deal, but Mandy is right. He’ll likely get it from both sides now. We were never super private about our relationship, but if Mark puts two and two together, they might assume he was taking a risk that he wouldn’t have if I weren’t his girlfriend.
“You really fucked up, Scarlett,” Mandy is saying. “This could be damaging for anyone who is connected to you.”
She’s talking about herself now. Clearly, she thinks I’m in the wrong here, even though I don’t know how I could be. I didn’t get myself knocked up, I didn’t cause the pregnancy to end before it could even really start, and I didn’t ask for this deal.
So much for my best friend.
“Yeah, message received,” I snap at her. “Sorry I called. I won’t make that mistake again.”
I hang up and throw the phone angrily onto the couch. But I lie there well into the night, contemplating what she said. Ryan is going to be in deep shit, and he loves me. That’s a dangerous combination. He loves me enough to give up his career, and I can’t let him do that. And as my abdomen contracts painfully, my old friend rage returns. No one is strong enough to deal with all of this at once. If he had asked first, I would have told him everything.
No one asked. They all assumed I’d take the money, shut up, and sell more books. Ryan included.
In my research for my second book, I read all about the stages of grief. It’s comforting to know that I can settle into this anger for a while. But eventually, there’s acceptance, and the sooner I can accept that Mandy is right, the better. They’re all better off without me for now. It’s better if I just disappear.
That’s when I do cry. Through my tears, I block Ryan’s number. If he calls again, I’ll answer, and I know he’d do anything for me, including commit career suicide. I can’t let him do that, no matter how angry I am. I love him too much.
But there are so many memories of him in this place. I can’t stay here. So I pack a duffel bag, then call a ride to the airport.