Chapter 2
two
Aloo Gobi and Big Life Decisions
There’s absolutely no reason to ruin Patricia Evans. It’s not going to get me the position I want, and it’s going to make way more enemies among the staff. Good luck finding another publication job, Cait.
I throw a Reese’s Pieces up in the air and catch it—almost. It bounces off my chin and lands in my cleavage. I fish it out and stuff it in my mouth as I scroll to the next post on Instaframe.
“Another gorgeous rebind by @CaitsCovers.”
I melt as the image glows back at me. A perfectly staged setting for The Bloodmoon Priestess, a high fantasy romance with fae and vampires.
The velvety crimson cover is stark against a sheer white sheet that’s splattered with fake blood.
A knife, glistening with red, sits beside a goblet full of wine, in perfect juxtaposition to the canted book.
I close my eyes and remember the feel of the velvet as I prepared the space for the gold foil lettering. It was a tricky job getting the cutouts to take to the unique material, but I wanted it just as bad as NikkiNecro did, and she paid me well for it so there was no way I was going to mess it up.
My thumbs ticker-tack across my phone screen as I type out a heartfelt message, and comment on the badassery of her staging.
Maybe I could rebind books full time. Screw the publishing industry and do my own thing. If I charged two hundred per commission, plus supplies, plus extra for really complex asks, I could make…
Not enough to live in my one-bedroom apartment in L.A.
I hold the opening of the candy box to my mouth and dump a few in. The crunching helps me think better. And the sugar, too.
I could always move. Nothing is tying me here but Waldorf Press. Mom and Dad are in Nova Scotia, so phone calls would be the same no matter where I go.
“Bddrrrr-mah!” Oscar cries as he jumps into my lap and immediately starts making biscuits on my stomach.
“Oh, who’s a good boy,” I say, scritching under his chin the way he likes.
“Mah, mah, mah,” he purrs, confirming that he, in fact, is the good boy.
After a few rounds of pets, he turns for the edge of the couch and looks back over his shoulder; his signature move to get me to follow him.
I put my phone down and realize it’s dark in the apartment.
The clock on the stove reads 8:07 and my stomach grumbles.
A pack of candy was not an appropriate dinner.
I follow Oscar to his bowl to see he doesn’t think he’s got an appropriate dinner, either.
The bottom of the bowl is visible between mountains of red and brown kibble he’s pushed to the sides.
I sigh and take the bowl to the kitchen counter and get his food from the top shelf of the cabinet.
I pull out a scoop and sprinkle in a few pieces, then move the rest around until the bottom is covered again.
Oscar looks up at me when I set the bowl down, disapproving, but not outright angry about the tactic.
He eats his kibble, and I turn to the kitchen to find my own sustenance.
The fridge holds no leftovers to easily pop in the microwave, so I move up to the freezer and find a premade meal. VegiStar’s Aloo Gobi with jasmine rice.
I stab the plastic lid a few times—no, I do not imagine it’s Patricia’s face—and toss it in the microwave. Orange light casts across my little kitchen and a deep whir fills the void of silence. I lean against the stove and scroll again.
“Charming fixer-upper bookstore checking with a grand total of $3,396.97, which perfectly covers my bills and my tight budget for the month, and savings, $28,047.32.
“Could I get a loan?”
I scroll down to “Open an Account” and select “Loans.” I select “Business Loan” and there’s a buttload of information that comes up that I need to enter, so I go back and select “Personal Loan” instead.
“If I use fifteen thousand as a down payment, and finance sixty thousand so I’ll have some money to work with for repairs…forty-eight months at seven percent will cut my monthly housing costs by a third.
“But then I have to be a successful business for all forty-eight of those months, or I will go bankrupt quickly.”
I sigh and turn back to my premade meal.
“Am I really considering this?”
I spoon the food around, mixing the curry sauce and rice thoroughly.
“It’s crazy, right?”
“Merrraw meh maw,” Oscar says around a mouthful.
“I mean, we’d be upending our whole lives on a whim and a dream,” I say, then blow on my spoonful.
Dreams are the fabric of the soul, stitched together with will and grit. Denying your dreams is like denying the essence of your identity.
The words from my favorite fanfic tighten like a band around my stomach. I swallow and set my spoon down.
If I say no to this opportunity, am I killing my identity?
What is the future like if I go into work tomorrow and accept the Junior Publicist role?
Patricia will keep stealing my work and getting the accolades I deserve.
I’ll resent her forever. My work will suffer.
My mood will suffer. I won’t have the same passion.
Everything will feel pointless. My soul will wither and die.
But I’ll have financial stability. I could make a two-year plan to get out of Waldorf and into another imprint, back at the mid-level Publicist position.
And I would always wonder what it could’ve been like to run away and chase a dream.
I spoon the curry into my mouth and sigh. It’s delicious, and the rich flavors awaken some fiery thing in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it’s future indigestion, but it feels more like defiance, and hope.
I open my EquiTrust app and pan over to my Waldorf shares. If I traded them all in, I’d get about forty thousand. That plus the loan would be more than enough to get the business off the ground and stay afloat for a year while I battled my way into the green.
I could take donated books in bad shape from libraries around the state and rebind them, giving them a second chance at life.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “Second Chance Fantasy.”
“Mreh mreh!” Oscar exclaims and I agree.
It’s my second life, too. My fantasy.
I’m going to do this.
Dashbern, Wisconsin, here we come.