Chapter 19
Bryony,
Terrific! As it stands, I have this afternoon wide open.
I grin as I type a quick reply.
The email conversation moves at a text-like speed as we go back and forth, each sentence relaying new information regarding
her hopes and thoughts about the potential of this meeting. And with each new tidbit of information, my grin widens as I translate.
I have this afternoon wide open.
Translation: Either I am at all times swamped under a pile of emails and papers and can use this as an excuse to get out of
anything I want to, or I am “free as a bee,” which means absolutely nothing will stand in my way to stop this meeting. Meeting with you has become top priority because I see something of potential value
in you.
I’m free until 5.
Translation: I’m not even going to bookend my afternoon with pretend obligations that could become useful as an excuse for
skipping out early. I believe you to be so normal and such a person of interest to me that I have no fears that you will suddenly
terrify me with a secondary personality or prove to write one-dimensional plotlines with puppetlike characters.
3pm at The Terrace work for you? My son has violin practice at 5 I’ll need to scoot out for.
Translation: I’m sharing randomly-thrown-in personal details with you in hopes of proving to you I am a normal person and
we are close. Look how close we are now. We’re connecting ! We’re practically friends! And friends absolutely want to work together. I’m so much more wonderful than any other editor out there with zero personality and zero connection.
Can’t wait, Bryony.
Translation: You are not just a random person to me. You are Bryony . We are first-name-basis people. And we are close .
See you soon!!—Flor
I gulp at the last line.
“She used a double exclamation point. A double exclamation point, Gloria. Do you know what this means ?” I’m shaking her elbow excitedly as she looks at the phone in bewilderment.
“Um...”
“She’s completely thrown down all barriers,” I say. “I mean, the vulnerability . She’s just laid it bare . Right there. She’s practically begging to sign me.”
“And you get all that...,” Gloria says dubiously, “from... two exclamation points—”
“And then she says Flor !” I cry, jabbing my phone with my finger. “ Flor! We’re already on nickname basis! She’s dropped her official titles entirely! We’re practically best friends !”
“Ooookay.” Gloria takes the phone from my hands. “Terrific work, Bryony. You’ve got that meeting all set up. Time to put the
phone away before you do anything drastic. Like, I don’t know, invite her on a friendship cruise for two.”
She’s right. I know she’s right, which is why I tuck the phone back into my pocket and nod fervently as we walk across the street. Gloria has agreed to walk with me all the way to the restaurant, partly because she is afraid I’m “emotionally unstable” after everything that’s happened and partly out of morbid this-is-why-I’m-a-court-reporter-I-want-to-hear-everything curiosity.
The jitters nearly take me over as I stand in front of The Terrace and spot Florence’s back against the glass.
I turn to Gloria.
“Don’t be getting nervous on me now, Bryn.” Gloria gives my back a little push.
“I know.” I inhale a breath. It’s crazy to get the jitters to this degree now , but I can’t help it. Seeing her—it just cements that what’s happening is real. The truth is, as best as I can see, this quite literally is my last chance. For The Bridge. But also, more than likely, for me. A chance like this won’t come again.
This interview hidden beneath a thin veil of croissants and sandwiches is truly at its core an interview. And quite frankly, it’s all I have from my years of service to Amelia Benedict (et al.). I don’t have more contacts I can lean on. I don’t have more emails I
can send. I don’t have more information I can give.
It’s reminiscent of that first pitch session with Jack and a reminder that all of what I do, this entire life of a writer,
is insanity.
If the road to publication means going back to square one and doing all that I did at that pitch table, then writing feverishly
for two more years, to get to this moment... I’ll just give up. I’ll quit.
Choose a path more sane.
More feasible.
Maybe law school.
Med school.
Aerodynamics.
My fingernails claw into my palms as I ball them up at my sides.
This is it .
And I feel myself on the brink of an all-out panic.
Florence is going to see me like this.
She’s going to see me panicking and then everything really will be lost.
I hear Gloria behind me.
“All right, Bryony. It’s your big interview and I know this is the one. So buck up . Pull yourself up by those bootstraps. Slap that proposal—more or less—on the table. And get back on that horse because you
are going to have a rootin’ tootin’ good day, ya hear? This is it . I can feel it in my bones. If the creek don’t rise, I reckon you’re fixin’ to be in high cotton any moment now, and whatever
anyone else says about that don’t make a hill of beans a difference.”
I turn around. Gloria has her phone out now. And with a grin, she’s reading off some old iPhone note from two years ago. Despite
myself, I feel the ice breaking, the anxiety cracking within me as I let out a jittery chuckle of disbelief.
Turns out she did it again.
She nudges me toward the doors. “Now go on,” she says in her exaggerated Southern voice. “You did it once. You became that
1 percent. All on your own. And you can do it again.”