Chapter 37
Scarlett
Ryan doesn’t want to be followed. I know because I’ve been there, and I recognized the look on his face when he left. So, I stay right where I am.
Left alone, I stare into space in silence for a while before ultimately turning on a baking show to at least try to quiet my racing thoughts. When it gets dark, I change into my satin pajamas, put my hair in a messy bun, and curl up under a blanket to watch some more.
I tell myself I’m not falling back into any kind of depressive episode. I’m just watching television like a normal person. Everyone binges shows, right? This is a totally mundane thing to do on a weekday evening when I don’t have work to do in the morning.
No work in the morning. I actually think, for normal people, that would be fun. A reprieve from the grind. But writing was never a grind, even if it was hard to shut it down at the end of the day. It was all the people-facing stuff—the travel, the interviews, the signings. Even those wouldn’t have been so bad if there weren’t so many of them.
Can I really walk away from the magic of bringing characters and scenes to life using only words on a page? That’s what it is—magic. A little kernel of an idea starts in my mind, all tiny and fuzzy at first. It grows bigger and bigger until it solidifies and intensifies to the point where if I don’t get it out, I start to feel like I might crawl out of my own skin. That’s when I pull out the laptop and type like a mad woman late into the night and early in the morning. And when I’m done, there it is—a living, breathing story on the page.
And then Ryan comes in. He tugs and tweaks and asks Why? and What if? He suggests stronger words. He makes it a stronger story. I take it back and respond. It’s a beautiful conversation where we weave thoughts and ideas, we give and take, we help it expand—and it wouldn’t happen if it weren’t for that little fuzzy kernel of an idea. If I never let it grow.
Words on paper. Ink on pages. A whole new world where there wasn’t one before.
Magic.
Always more magical because he was part of it. If I stop now, that piece of us will wither away. That piece of me will, too. There’s no way around it. Can I really let that happen?
We could replace it with a different kind of magic. I press a hand to my abdomen, remembering another tiny thing. It never got to grow, but we could try again. Maybe. If he wants to.
But not tonight. Tonight I’m pretending to be normal. I’m resting. No work in the morning. Ryan and I will talk eventually, when he’s ready. I don’t have to figure everything out today. Which was another one of Dianne’s mantras. I’m starting to realize I haven’t appreciated her enough. I should get her a gift or something.
For a few hours, I watch bakers create beautiful, intricate treats out of disparate ingredients, the flickering light of the screen the only brightness in the room, before my phone dings with an incoming message.
Trina: Thought you might find this interesting.
There’s a link included, so I click on it. When it loads, it’s a social media post about Charles Hall, which is strange. I didn’t mention anything about Charles when we were out for coffee. I had figured his role in this was ultimately unimportant. In the story of my life, he might be a catalyst, but he’s still always going to be just a side character. Nothing was going to change if she knew about it or not, so I didn’t bother bringing it up.
But she’s right. I am interested. Scrolling down a bit, I read the caption.
Charles Hall’s anticipated Midnight on Main Street will be delayed indefinitely. We know this is a hard blow for his fans, but after months of trying to find the right home for it, there doesn’t seem to be a publisher that is the right fit. Alas, we will not give up the fight, dear Charlatans. Onward and upward.
“Does this idiot write his own social media captions?” I mutter to myself as I type out a response to Trina.
Scarlett: He calls his fans “Charlatans”?
Trina: You read that whole post and that was your takeaway?
Scarlett: It means someone who deceives others.
Trina: Seems appropriate to me.
I pull the corners of my lips down and nod. She’s not wrong. But before I can tell her that, she messages again.
Trina: No one is publishing his book.
Scarlett: Yes, I can read.
Trina: That isn’t the least bit interesting to you?
Smiling softly to myself, I glance up as one of the bakers pours batter into a cake pan. Maybe Ryan was right. Maybe the bad guy doesn’t get to win this time.
Wait…
I blink rapidly a few times, trying to convince myself that this is a coincidence. But how could it be? Not twelve hours ago, Charles Hall’s smug-ass face was telling me he got an amazing deal for that book by selling me out. Why did it die today of all days?
Pushing the Call button, I lean forward to mute the television as I press my phone to my ear. It only takes one ring for Trina to answer.
“There it is,” she says, self-satisfied.
“You knew about Charles.”
“Yes.”
“Ryan told you.”
“Also yes.”
“You didn’t say anything today.”
“Neither did you.”
“You got his deal pulled? How did you do that?” I can’t help myself; I’m practically giddy. My knees are bouncing up and down with a sudden energy, and I can feel my body vibrating.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“But then how—”
Finally, Trina jumps in. “Dumbest smart person I know, I swear. Come on, Scarlett. Ryan ran up after seeing you two go at it in the lobby and marched straight into Anastasios’s office. Pretty big deal, if you ask me, since he’s already in some shit for dating one of his authors, or didn’t you notice?”
I did notice, but it wasn’t my biggest concern at the time. “So, what? In some grand gesture, he told Anastasios, who called JMP, and they both decided that they weren’t going to get played by some prick?”
“Pretty much.”
“JMP already gave him a deal for information about me. They wouldn’t just pull it. That’s not how publishing works,” I insist.
“Maybe Anastasios made a good case that some average man thinking he can use an extremely talented woman to further his own mediocrity wasn’t the narrative either of them wanted.” Trina sounds like she’s shrugging nonchalantly, but I can tell this is exciting for her.
“Wow.” I lean back on my couch. All the bakers are putting their cakes in the oven now. “So, what does this mean for me?”
“Nothing,” she says simply.
“What do you mean nothing? Why would you send that to me if it means nothing?”
“You said you were done publishing. Sounded pretty final. This is just interesting information, that’s all.”
This isn’t how it ends, Scarlett. Charles won’t win. He doesn’t deserve it.
Ryan’s words echo in my mind, repeating, growing, gaining purchase. Solidifying.
But you do. Be strong enough to take it back.
I take a deep breath, laughing softly on the exhale. “I need a win, Trina. Can you help me?”
“Fuck yes.” She sounds like she’s punching air. “I knew you’d get there. Let’s do this.”