Chapter 3 #2
“I’m not worried about work. Are you sick? Do you need anything?”
“I don’t need anything from you, Professor,” I say in my snarkiest tone.
“You should call me Ryan. I’ve been meaning to say that.” If he gets the message that I now hate his guts, he ignores it. “If you’re sick you need soup, decongestant, cough drops.”
“No, I’m not—”
“I’m coming over to bring you some chicken soup.”
“That’s not—”
“You should have chicken soup. It’s no problem, I’m in the area,” he says. And then after a beat asks, “Where do you live?”
“Honestly, you don’t need to come by. I’ve got soup.”
“I’m coming by.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not? Do you think I’m trying to put the moves on you? Luci, I’m not. I would never make you uncomfortable. I’m a professional.”
A professional what I want to ask. A professional asshat?
But not only do I hate every fiber of his being, I haven’t finished the speech. I don’t really want Mr. Bra—Ryan to know I live in what amounts to a hovel. He’ll think my giving up the generous salary he’s paying me foolish, given my situation. Maybe he’s right but that’s hardly the point.
Then again, if I ever want to be on even footing with him, I’ll be more at ease in my own place.
Small and efficient, but my territory. I’ll give him the speech and then hustle him out the only door.
No need to come in Monday, giving me more time to hit the ground running for a new job.
Maybe Desdemona’s estate will give me a raise. I’ve never asked so it’s worth a try.
“I need to talk to you about something. It’s urgent and time sensitive,” Ryan says.
“Is this about work?”
“Well, yes. In a way. Let me bring you soup. Please.”
“Okay, fine, but just for a few minutes. Come in through the side gate of the backyard and don’t bother anyone in the main house. You may as well know, I live in a garden shed.”
I quickly give him directions and while I wonder what could possibly be so urgent, I rush to tidy my corner of the world.
I’ve worked my magic to make the inside of my space cozy, filling it with bright colorful prints on the walls and flowery pillows on the faux love seat.
The one bookcase I could fit in here is stuffed with papers and books of all genres.
Ryan arrives sooner than I anticipated, and I’ve only just completed the second draft of my resignation speech.
I could use another read for proper word choices.
When resigning from an award-winning author, I’d like to use the strongest words.
Irritation pours through me, but I open the door and there he stands with a plastic bag from Chef Chu’s.
“I have your soup.” He hands it to me, then gives me a long look, like he’s seeing me for the first time. “You look…different.”
Maybe it’s because I didn’t primp for this meeting. “Of course I look different.”
“Yeah, that’s not it.” He cocks his head, studying me. “Something’s changed. You’re not, you know…” He draws his arms in a circle to encompass all of me. “Happy.”
He doesn’t think I look happy because I’m wearing ratty jeans with holes in the knees and a loose gray T-shirt?
This is a new setting, so naturally I look different.
Perhaps more fearsome and intimidating and in full control.
Like a lioness in her den. It occurs to me I should have dressed properly for the speech I plan to give him, but I’ve spent all the time on the speech itself.
It’s good, too, and I think I’ll get all the points across.
I’ve started with a brief history of romance since history is his jam, including Jane Austen, often believed to be the first romance novelist.
Ryan scowls. “You remind me of war-torn France. Kind of sad and…defeated.”
“Gee, thanks. You sure have a way with the ladies.” I wave him inside. “It’s good that you’re here. We need to talk.”
“Yeah, no doubt about it, someone punctured a hole in your happy bubble.”
Oh, he has no idea. Two of his kind have popped my happy, but at the moment he will bear the brunt of it all. For all of the patriarchy. For all mankind.
“What’s this emergency? What’s so urgent about research that it can’t wait until Monday?”
“It’s…another type of emergency.” He drags a hand through his hair.
I wonder when he stopped combing it back like in the video and whether I should tell him the beard makes him look older, more seasoned. Now that he’s clean shaven he looks younger.
“Are you stuck in a scene? A bit blocked?”
“I wish it were that easy of a problem. That’s not it. This is something…well, it’s something I can’t do. I couldn’t do it in a million years. It’s…impossible.”
I smirk. “I see…and you think, of course, that it’s possible for me. Because I’m a woman.”
“Exactly!”
“You better not need help with your dry cleaning.” I cross my arms.
He blinks. “Why would I need help with that?”
“Never mind. I’m glad you’re here. You and I have a little problem.” I gesture between us.
Closing the distance, I place one hand on each of his shoulders.
This near to him, I realize that though of average height, he looms over me. I stand on tiptoes and strain to meet his eyes. They are an interesting shade of dark and icy blue and I’m determined to ignore the fact there’s a deep sadness in them.
“You said some terrible things and I’m having a tough time forgiving you.”
“When? I don’t think I cursed, but the last time you were in, when I was arguing with my agent…it’s because this…well this problem I have is primarily her fault.”
“What’s her fault?”
“The reason I need a woman.”
I quickly remove my hands from his shoulders and quirk my eyebrow. “You need a woman.”
“No!” He throws his hands up. “Not like that! I don’t need ‘a woman.’”
“You better not. At least not around me.” I shake my finger at him.
“So.” He runs a hand down his face. “I can see this isn’t going well.”
“You’re a genius. Nope, not so far. And it’s about to get a whole lot worse.”
“Would you please tell me what I did to you that was so horrible?”
“I don’t have to tell you, I’ll go ahead and show you.” I grab my phone, open the app, scroll to the video, and hit play. “This.”
The video plays and the moment it does, Ryan’s entire demeanor switches. He closes his eyes, slumps, and rubs the back of his neck. He’s never looked happy, but now he looks like someone who’s been given a few months to live. He becomes, for lack of a better word, gray.
“We…we tried to have that taken down but it’s still out there.”
“Yes, of course it is, and you owe an entire industry a huge apology for being such…such a…dick!”
I gasp at my foul language, which is uncommon for me. This is why I prefer to communicate through the written word where I can revise each word in each sentence until it’s perfection.
I hold up my finger and reach for my speech. I’ve memorized part of it:
Mr. Brady, you offend me. Love stories are about far more than romantic love or sexy times. They’re about hope, rising stakes, and growth, and how falling in love with the right person can actually help you find the best version of yourself.
“That was recorded three years ago when I foolishly thought I’d made it.
” He holds up air quotes. “I’d just separated from my wife and I was probably not in the best of moods to think of romance as believable.
Okay, so I was an idiot. A jerk. And of course I apologize.
I can’t apologize enough. I’ll never be done apologizing. Will I?”
“Well, probably not.”
Hearing that he once had a wife sets me back momentarily with some sympathy for the devil. But this blue-eyed demon won’t get off that easily. I flip through the pages to find my speech.
“I’m actually glad you found that video, because that’s what I need to talk to you about.”
“You were going to tell me about this video? Why would you do that? You had to know I’d be angry and want to quit working for you.” I hand him my handwritten speech.
“What this?” He flips through the pages, five all together, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“My resignation.”
“No! You can’t quit. Please don’t quit.”
“I can’t work with someone who has such low opinions of romance writers. That’s my tribe, sir. You have no respect for me if that’s how you feel. You know I’m a ghostwriter and although I can’t say much more, I write romance. Does that surprise you?”
“No, your regency period answer spoke volumes. And I have complete respect for you. Didn’t you hear the part about how I’m sorry? About all of it?”
“You’re only sorry because you’ve been caught.” I twitch my finger in the air.
“I don’t hate romance. Well, not anymore. In real life, sure, yes. But I think it’s the hardest thing in the world to write convincingly and the people who do are…pure genius.”
I tap my foot, not knowing what to make of this seemingly sincere apology.
The words work, and his demeanor has the air of desperation.
For the first time I notice he’s wearing a wrinkled button-down shirt and it’s partially tugged out of his slacks.
He’s got beard stubble on his chin and there’s a coffee stain on his shirt. But the things he said…
“Why should I believe you’ve changed your mind?”
“Because…well, because I wrote one.”
I lower my notebook. “I’m sorry, you wrote what?”
“I wrote a romance novel, and it nearly broke me. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Oh, it looks easy, like anyone could do it.
Like all you have to do is sit down and write about two people who after a few obstacles fall in love anyway.
But that’s not even the beginning, is it?
Romance novelists don’t get enough credit. ”
Now he really has my attention. “I don’t understand. Why would you write a romance novel? Was it on a dare?”
“That’s right. I thought it would take me a few weeks. and almost two years later I finished.”
I smirk. “Harder than it looks, isn’t it?”
“Frankly, I pride myself on word choice and even I can’t come up with the right words for how difficult it was to write. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of sending it to my agent, as a joke, you know? But I’m not funny, and she didn’t get it. No one understands my humor.”
“You sent it to her as a joke?”
He nods, lowering his head. “Yes, and then she…liked it. She talked me into revising and submitting it to publishers and told me that we could always use another pen name.”
“You must have been so pissed! Was all the rejection soul crushing?” I hope for that though he probably didn’t care if this had all been a massive joke to him.
“I got some rejections, yes.” Ryan won’t look at me and shifts from one foot to another.
What does he mean by “some” rejections?
“Sit down, would you?” I point to the faux love seat which, let’s just face it, is a chair. “Is this a long story?”
“I’ll try to make it brief.”
He finally sits and tells me everything.
.