Chapter 48
Andi
The headlines have come out this morning, officially linking my pen name to me.
Inevitably, Mom called. Her reaction was as expected. She was scandalized and surprised, but mostly offended that I kept my writing a secret. To be honest, I think she was just impressed by the whole deal announcement. I told her I’d provide her a redacted copy of the book, minus the steamy bits.
Mom isn’t the only one who’s surprised. Laine comes over, which is unexpected.
“So you actually wrote the book?” Laine asks the moment she steps into my apartment.
“Yeah. I did,” I say, managing to maintain eye contact with an iota of confidence.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, not bothering to take off her shoes or coat.
“I’m sorry, Laine. I didn’t tell anyone, especially not people I work with. I couldn’t afford to have people not take me seriously.”
Her brows draw together tightly as she leans against the wall in the entryway. “Okay, but I’m not just some person you worked with. We’re supposed to be best friends. You know everything about me.”
I don’t really know how to respond to that. “Are we, though? I mean, I barely see you.”
“What? We hang out all the time. I invited you to my wedding.”
“I know. But we only see each other a couple times a year,” I counter, the sting of distance between us palpable. “You hang out with your work friends all the time and never invite me. And it’s been that way ever since I started working for Gretchen.”
“Because we work together. It’s easy to go for drinks after work.
I’m sorry. I figured you wouldn’t want to be invited.
It’s not like you really like hanging out with them, and you have nothing in common with them.
And then there’s the Hunter thing. Most of them are friends with him and I figured it would be awkward for you.
” Her reasoning makes sense, but it doesn’t ease the hurt.
“Honestly, I’ve felt like we haven’t been nearly as close over the past few years,” I admit.
“So that’s why you’ve decided to have a whole secret life behind my back?”
I squeeze my eyes closed. She’s right. “No. I didn’t tell you because if I did, you would have judged me. Hard.”
“Why would you say something like that? Is that really what you think of me?” she asks, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“Yes. All you used to talk about was serious literature. You turn your nose up at rom-coms. You called them trash. Remember?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Exactly,” I interject, folding my arms tightly over my chest.
“I wouldn’t have said something like that if I’d known,” she says regretfully.
“See? If you’d known,” I point out. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.
I was ashamed and I shouldn’t have been.
That was on me and my own insecurity.” If anything, I’m the one who refused to see my writing for what it is.
Not just salacious stories filled with steam, but stories about love and all its intricacies—something people universally long for.
She takes a step closer. “Andi, I’m sorry about all of this. I’m sorry we’ve gotten distant over the last few years. I’ve missed you a lot, you know.”
“Really?”
“Every time I stay late at work, I think about our intern days. Sending each other code words over internal messenger whenever Raj would bring up his master’s degree from Queens.”
I snort. “I miss that, too.”
“And all the days exploring Ottawa when we were new to the city.”
“Remember the time we accidentally took the wrong bus to the Bayshore mall and ended up in Orléans?”
She snorts, finally kicking off her shoes. “Oh my god. Don’t remind me.” After waiting at the bus stop for forty-five minutes, we gave up and took an Uber back downtown and got gross ramen at some random dive.
We spend a solid hour on the couch reminiscing about old times before Hunter picks her up.
When he arrives, she spins around. For a heartbeat, we watch each other, slightly teary, before she comes in for a hug. It’s not just a quick, casual, see-you-later hug. It’s heavier. We hold it for a long time, because I think we both know this is it.
I settle into her embrace, our friendship playing out in my mind.
At the same time, I’m starting to realize that not all friendships are built to last the long haul.
Like romantic love, friendships evolve, too.
Sometimes too many things happen. Too many hurts.
Sometimes you lose what you had in common to begin with.
Or your lives simply aren’t in sync anymore, causing you to drift away.
And that’s okay…I’ll always treasure her role in my life—making me fall in love with this city.
This job. Pushing me out of my comfort zone.
Despite everything that happened, Laine was one of my best friends. I still care about her deeply. That will never change, even if things will never be like they were.
· · ·
I save the hardest conversation for last: Gretchen. A couple months ago, I’d have rather defected to another country than have this discussion. But thanks to Nolan, I feel brave.
I wait a week or so until the media frenzy is over. This week, they’ve moved on to a new scandal.
Despite the slowed media attention, my presence still turns heads. The moment I walk through the staff door, it’s clear everyone knows. It’s a lion’s den of judgmental eyes and whispers, reminiscent of that first day the headlines exploded. But today, I hold my head high and walk with purpose.
Nolan’s words echo in my mind, giving me strength.
I shouldn’t be ashamed of my writing or my books.
I’ve brought happiness and escape to so many people.
There’s been a lot of luck and timing in my success, but I’ve worked hard.
I’ve written those books, and people have connected with them in ways I never expected.
They’ve found joy, hope, and even solace in my words.
When I step into Gretchen’s office, she’s reclining in her chair, her brow raised like she’s been expecting me.
“Eric and I are separating,” she blurts out.
“Wait—what? Is this about the book?” My voice cracks with the shock of her words.
She nods, her face a mask of tired resignation. “Yes.”
“Gretchen. Wait. I can explain. I am so, so sorry for all of this. Mostly I’m sorry for lying to you and to everyone about being the author.
I was…embarrassed. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I promise I was never harboring any weird fantasy or crush.
It was just something that was easy for me to write.
Either way, I understand that this is detrimental to Eric’s shot at reelection later this year, so I’m going to resign. ”
She holds her hand up. “I read it. Your book,” she says. The room goes quiet, except the thud of my heart. “I’ve never read anything like it.”
I lower my head, the shame creeping back in.
“I’ve never read a romance, especially not one with steam,” she adds.
“And I found myself bingeing it in one sitting. After it was done, I was crying. Not because I thought anything in there was real. The characters were all completely different, which I appreciate. But what got me was that I’d never read about a man who was so considerate, so caring.
I’d never read a description of such sex or a man putting a woman first in bed.
Those things just aren’t in movies and TV.
And I realized that Eric and I had that. ”
“You absolutely did.”
She sniffles. “But we haven’t in a long time.
Over the past four years, we stopped putting each other first. We stopped prioritizing uninterrupted quality time, without one of our phones going off and distracting us.
I stopped laughing at his jokes. We stopped touching.
And mostly, we stopped dreaming together.
And before you ask, we did try. We knew what the issues were, and we couldn’t fix them all these years.
No matter what we did, we ended up at square one, every damn time. And it’s exhausting, you know?”
I sit there in complete silence, taking it all in. Of all the things I expected her to say, this was not it. “You and Eric seemed so in love. I had no idea you felt so alone.”
“I thought maybe he wasn’t trying hard enough. Or maybe it was me not putting in the effort. But I realized after reading your book that the reason we couldn’t fix things was simple: We’re not in love like we used to be. At least, not in the way either of us wants to be loved in the long run.
“I want what’s in this book to last. And I know it’s fiction.
I know it’s an idealistic portrayal of love.
I know the characters will go on to have struggles offstage that we don’t see.
But I just can’t give up hope and settle.
I don’t want that for myself, or for him.
So I decided I’m moving out by the end of the month,” she continues, a hint of finality in her voice.
“Really?”
“I want you to come with me,” Gretchen says, her gaze steady.
“Wait, I’m not fired?”
“Why would I fire you for writing a romance novel? You’re the best PA I’ve ever had, Andi.”
My first instinct is to say, “Yes! Of course.” But I think about my conversation with Nolan.
For the first time, I have the luxury of choice.
The ability to ask myself whether this job is really something I want.
And when I think about it, I’m not sure it is.
I’m not sure I need the approval anymore.
“Gretchen, I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re going to say yes, aren’t you?”
“I—I was actually planning to write full-time,” I tell her. It feels oddly liberating to say that out loud, even though I’m fairly certain I’m about to break out into full-body hives.
She watches me with an expression I can’t decipher.
“I feel terrible leaving you, Gretchen. Especially now,” I add.
“No. It makes sense. You should move on. We both have to move on. And it would be selfish of me to take you when you’re capable of so much more.”
“Thank you,” I say, even though I don’t feel like I deserve it, coming from her. As I turn to leave, a mixture of relief and dread drops in my gut. At least now there’s some understanding, even if it doesn’t erase the complications or the hurt caused.
“You’re going to change the world with your words, Andi,” she tells me, her tone sincere before I cross the threshold. “You’ve already changed mine.”
I nod, feeling a lump in my throat. As I leave her office, the weight of the decision settles in my gut, but there’s something else there. A sense of possibility. Of excitement that I haven’t felt since I wrote that first line in my first book.
I already can’t wait to write the next chapter.