7. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Emma
I stare at the computer screen, willing my brain to produce something—anything—worthy of Agnes’s time.
“Come on,” I mutter at the computer. “Bring the words together, make it come to life. You can do this!”
Nothing. I’ve written three chapters, but my fingers itch to delete every word and start over. I’ve been stuck in this cycle all day, and honestly? I don’t have the energy to rewrite it for the thousandth time.
“It’s terrible,” I groan, banging my head against the table. “I might as well kiss The New York Times best-seller list goodbye, because I won’t be getting anywhere near it with this piece of garbage.”
“Not with that attitude, you won’t.” I hear someone chuckle behind me. I’m not surprised to find Jonathan in our home. Being our neighbor means seeing him every day, and he always shows up with the silliest excuse. Just this morning, he came over for a cup of sugar, and I notice he’s holding the very same cup he had this morning.
“Did you run out of sugar again? Are you baking for the entire town?” I ask, making him laugh. What is with him and laughing these days?
“No, I need oil apparently. I’m baking chocolate cake for the first time and imagine my surprise when I found out you’re not supposed to use butter in it, only vegetable oil.”
I roll my eyes. “I’d love to see how that cake of yours turns out.” I grab the cup from him to go fill it with some of Reed’s vegetable oil. I wonder if there’s actually a chocolate cake, or if he’s just finding excuses to speak to me.
I return with the cup filled with oil. “Here you go.”
But I find him crouched in front of my laptop, a serious expression on his face as he reads my very horrible first draft.
“Hey!” I yell at him. “I didn’t give you permission to read that!”
“It was open, Emma, and there’s a limit to how much I can control myself. Let me finish reading this chapter,” he says.
Annoyed, I plop into my chair and watch him, my stomach knotting with anxiety. Jonathan’s face remains unreadable as his eyes scan my words with intense focus. The lack of reaction makes my nerves worse.
After he’s done, I say, “You really shouldn’t have read that. It’s so bad.”
“Yeah, it’s bad,” he says bluntly.
I blink at him in confusion. “Geez, way to lay it down gently.”
Jonathan replies, “I don’t believe in sugarcoating words, especially when it comes to constructive criticism. It is bad, you said it yourself, but that doesn’t mean you can’t fix it. Change a few things, and it’s good. The plot seems interesting so far and the intro is attention-grabbing, don’t get me wrong.” He pauses.
“But?” I ask, my hands shaking. I’ve never been good at accepting criticism. This is why no one reads my work unless I’ve edited it at least a dozen times. It makes me nervous, and I feel like hearing someone else’s advice too early in the process will just make me want to scrap everything and go die in a ditch.
“But there’s some work needed on the dialogue, and in a few other places.” He highlights the faulty sections, which I notice take up almost the entire draft.
I start getting defensive at how much he thinks I’ve done wrong. “And what do you know about writing that warrants me paying attention to your advice?” I ask angrily.
He replies, “I don’t, but I know how to read, so I’m offering you this advice as a consumer. And also, I noticed a repetition of a trope you used in The Untimely Death of the Count , which seems repetitive, and…why are you looking at me like that?”
I blink rapidly at him. “I had no idea you read my work.”
“I own every single book you’ve published, Emma. My favorite is Murder in Paris .”
“We barely sold any copies of that book,” I say. I had no idea he even knew that book existed. It did so badly that most copies had to be taken off the bookshelves.
Jonathan looks away. “I loved it. I can’t begin to explain how brilliant it is, and it bugs me to know that it’s not as successful as your first book. I mean, I understand the appeal of The Talking Gun, it’s a classic, but nothing beats your last two publications. And this…I just know this will blow me away.”
My heart soars at his words. I had no idea Jonathan knew my books so well. I feel like I’m about to cry.
“Maybe you’re not as annoying as I thought,” I say, smiling. Jonathan smiles back before grabbing a pen and paper to write down what he thinks of my work so far.
Surprisingly, all his points are valid, and I’m already picturing how I’ll make the dialogue sound more natural.
“Jonathan, if I had the money, I’d hire you to be my editor,” I say, meaning it truthfully.
Jonathan laughs, his eyes twinkling. “It’ll be an honor to work for you, with money or not.”
My heart does the stupidest thing right then—it bursts into a million tiny butterflies, and I can’t begin to explain why.
***
Mia thinks it’s a good idea to go wedding dress shopping instead of settling for the first wedding dress I see. She doesn’t want any reminders that it’s all fake, because to her, it’s still her best friend’s wedding.
“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” I groan, following her to another dress shop.
“Didn’t you have a dream wedding dress when you were younger?” Mia asks, and I nod. She knows I did.
I stomp my feet like a child. “But this is different! It’s not a real wedding, so I’m not going to treat it like one.”
Mia pauses, frowning. “Why not? It’s still a wedding. You’re getting married, so your dress will be in all the photos, and your loved ones should see you in something beautiful.”
“I could count my loved ones on one hand,” I mutter, barely audible. But Mia hears. She always does. Her smile turns soft, tinged with sadness.
“I love you, Emma, and I wish you could just make the best of what you have and enjoy this! Think of it as a rehearsal for your real wedding.”
I smile. That does make the whole thing sound better. “I think I really wanted a huge, puffy ballgown when I was younger, but now I’d rather have a slender one that fits like a glove.”
Mia grins, happy that I’m finally leaning into her vision. I let myself pretend that I’m marrying the love of my life instead of Jonathan—a mysterious, handsome man. I can’t imagine his face, so for now he looks just like Jonathan.
I imagine how he would look at me when I walked down the aisle. Would he cry? I don’t like being emotional during weddings, but if he cried, I wouldn’t be upset.
“Earth to Emma! Are you having second thoughts or something?” Mia asks as she rifles through a rack of wedding dresses.
“Do you ever randomly just feel very lonely?” I blurt out without really thinking.
“What do you mean?”
I sigh, my eyes going misty. “Do you ever have this huge hole in your heart that can only be filled with the presence of a loved one who isn’t alive anymore? And suddenly you’re inconsolably sad and you don’t know what to do?”
Mia knows exactly what I’m talking about. We both lost our parents around the same time, and we leaned on each other for support. That kind of loneliness never leaves you, even after years pass. And when a huge moment in your life occurs and you realize they aren’t here to see it, it makes you want to cry.
“Oh, Emma,” Mia coos as a tear slips down my cheek. She rushes to me and pulls me into a hug. “You’re thinking about your parents, aren’t you?”
I laugh hoarsely despite myself. “I know I should grow up. It’s been ages since they…you know. I should be over it, right? It’s just that moments like these remind me of my parents. My mom won’t get to see me in my wedding dress, and my dad…my dad won’t be able to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day.”
Her hug is tight as I begin to cry silently, just letting the tears out. I know this wedding is fake, but I wish my mother and father were here for it anyway.
“Reed will walk you down the aisle,” Mia says, and I smile. “And I know they’re looking down from heaven, proud to see their baby girl getting married.”
“Oh, I hope not, or that means they know it’s all fake,” I say, causing us both to laugh.
“They would be appalled,” Mia points out, face red with laughter.
“Absolutely,” I agree. Just then, a dress on a mannequin catches my attention. It isn’t a traditional white wedding dress, but it’s gorgeous.
It’s a floor-length emerald green dress, with sleeves that look like vines wrapping up the arms. I stare in awe at the dress, loving every little detail, from the shine of the fabric to the sequins. It looks like a gown straight out of a fairytale.
“It’s beautiful,” Mia comments, and I nod. “Do you want it?”
I shrug. “It’s not white, so I’m not sure I can get it.”
Mia stares at me incredulously. “You’re the bride! You get to pick whatever dress you want! Besides, this dress will make your eyes pop. And combined with your gorgeous red hair? There will never be another bride as stunning as you!”
I smile. “You’re right, I should totally get it! It feels too perfect not to.”
“Exactly.” Mia grins.
Jonathan has given me his black card, which doesn’t have a limit, so I don’t have to worry about the price. To my shock, when I try on the dress, it fits like a glove.
“Just perfect.” The woman attending to us smiles widely. “It looks like this dress was made just for you! You wear it so well.”
“Fits like a glove,” I mutter while smiling at my reflection. Mia is giggling next to me, too happy to even articulate her thoughts in words.
We find Mia’s dress next, but it doesn’t take long to find what she wanted: a gorgeous red dress that simply screams her. We spend the rest of the day shopping for other things and going out for dinner.
“Is it crazy that I want to see you walking down the aisle and just pretend it’s real?” Mia asks, and I groan.
“I wish I could just pretend, but it’s Jonathan. I can’t stand him, and he feels the same way about me. The universe is playing a cruel joke on me by bringing us together for this fake marriage.”
Mia gives me a dubious look. “l don’t think you should blame the universe for this, considering you were the one who agreed to it.”
I shoot her a glare and she giggles before leaving me by the bus stop to head home.
Clutching my wedding dress, a startling thought takes root—I wish this wedding were real. The longing is so deep, so unexpected, that it catches me off guard. But wishes don’t change reality, no matter how much I want them to.