A Storybook Wedding

Chapter 5 Cecily

As the summer drips away and the brisk air of fall settles in, I experience my own kind of quiet rebirth. Energized by the time away at Block Island, I come back to my basement apartment in Little Neck with renewed purpose. I will write a novel this semester, I decide. I will be the hardest-working student that Dillon Norway has ever had the pleasure of mentoring, and I will take every suggestion and critique and shape it into something acquirable by a Big Five publisher. I will learn everything I can about the industry, and I will find an agent by the time I graduate. I will read all the craft books, subscribe to all the magazines, comb through all the databases.

This program is a gift, and I will squander none of it.

In residency, there was a lot of talk about the “writer’s life.” People are always quick to ask authors how they write—like, the mechanics. I took a lot of notes so that I could compare what worked for the faculty members who mentioned it. One teacher, a screenwriter from California, said that she writes in the middle of the night from about 2 a.m. until 5 a.m. She called it “the witching hour.” Another one said she wrote in a home office with headphones on and music blaring. I do not have a writing practice, so I decide that developing one will be a fun challenge.

I start by taking a trip to Bay Terrace Shopping Center, where I visit Bath Body Works and discover a scent simply called Leaves; I buy a three-wick candle to satisfy my olfactory needs. At Staples, I purchase a wrist-protecting mouse pad, since many of my professors complained of carpal tunnel, and I buy a few new spiral notebooks and good clicky pens. I clear off my kitchen table and conclude that it will work better than my little computer desk. I feel like I need open space around me. And who are we kidding? I always eat dinner on the couch anyway, so the table doesn’t get much use, outside of being a landing zone for bills and assorted papers that I’m too lazy to file.

In late August, after devouring several craft books, I begin to write. I carve out three-hour time increments for this. I try doing it after work, but I find that I’m exhausted by about an hour in and am in no way producing anything readable, much less sellable. So I try the whole 5 a.m. thing. This is not without its issues. First of all, I typically wake up at 6 a.m. and exercise for an hour before getting ready for work. Second, I’m not vain, but I have a lot of hair, and I usually take time to blow-dry and style it in the morning. Third, I enjoy breakfast—so I tend to sit down (yes, on the couch) and have a cup of coffee and some prepared meal: oatmeal, bacon and eggs, a toasted bagel with cream cheese, an acai bowl. But when I get up at 5 a.m. to write and commit three hours to it, that leaves me with a single remaining hour to shower, do something to my wet hair (forget makeup, no time for that), pour the coffee in a Yeti, and grab a muffin and eat it in the car on the twenty-minute drive to the library. There’s no time to work out, and I arrive at my place of business looking frazzled and praying there are no blueberry stains on my shirt. But this is a small trade-off for all the progress I’m experiencing.

Yes, this is my life now. I’ve switched the workouts to after work (which is its own kind of challenge), and I’m asleep by 8:30 every night.

It’s a good thing I’m not trying to date anymore, because my whole vibe screams future crazy cat lady.

You know what though? I’m happy, and the pages are coming. By the end of September, I’ve got fifty pages of a new novel written. I tell Dillon Norway that I wrote fifty pages, but since we are only supposed to send in twenty-five pages per month, I ask him if he would rather I submit the first twenty-five pages or the later ones as well. He surprises me by asking for the whole thing, which makes me equal parts nervous, excited, and grateful.

The story is about a young woman whose sister marries her ex-boyfriend.

Yes, I realize it’s kind of an obvious move, but hey, Write what you know, right? And Dillon Norway himself said he thought it would make a great story!

Plus, the words come so naturally, since I already know the characters pretty intimately. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. Of course I changed the names of all the real-life characters, and it’s not exactly the story of what happened. It’s fiction. Lots of space for creative license.

So he reads the fifty pages, and we get on our very first Zoom call the first week of October. He tells me the opening is pitch-perfect: I drop the reader right into the wedding and work backward from there; he believes this is the right move. He says the work is laced with humor, which makes the narrative voice a pleasure to experience. These are his actual words. I scribble them down so they are preserved forever in my notes. He asks me what the plan is for this piece—will I be attempting to extend it into a novel? I say yes, and he seems pleased. He offers suggestions, but they are minimal, because he wants to see how the story unfolds. There might be some pacing issues with the flashbacks, but it’s too soon to tell.

It’s not all roses and sunshine. Dillon Norway is honest. There are moments where my dialogue needs work; there are occasional inconsistencies in my timeline. Still, he treats me like someone whose writing is worth something, which is more than I can say for Tim, Harry Potter, and Maleficent. I email him craft essays, which prompt dialogue unlike any I’ve ever had before. We discuss elements of storytelling using my current manuscript, comparing it to similar texts in the same genre, using other stories and books to identify what works and what doesn’t. Dillon Norway recommends that I read specific, wedding-themed books by Emily Giffin, Helen Hoang, Jojo Moyes, and Jasmine Guillory. He explains that he’s asked his wife’s book club to help him identify these—which means that he’s talking about me to his wife, to people in his circle. I am a real person with writing potential—not just some item on the to-do list of a low-paying adjunct faculty member’s job. This—this being treated like an artist worthy of respect—this is a high that I cannot get enough of.

My hair is always curly now, left wet in the morning and held up by a giant claw clip. I’ve lost five pounds because I’m skipping breakfast, as I’ve found that by doing so, I can squeeze in an extra fifteen minutes of writing time. I’m brainstorming during my lunch break. One time, over lunch, Ramona says I talk about my characters as if they’re real people. Another time, she comments that I am starting to look like someone an anthropologist might study. I’m not sure if she means it as a compliment, but she still eats with me, so it can’t be that bad.

By the time I submit my second packet at the end of October, I’ve written a total of 125 pages. Dillon Norway is impressed. He says I’ve caught the bug, and best not to let go of it. He allows me to submit the new seventy pages, even though the university expectation still remains that he only has to read a third of that per month. A week after submitting, we Zoom again, and this time he says he thinks we’ve got a novel on our hands. It’s not perfect, of course, and he recommends more craft books, including Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, in which she talks about “shitty first drafts” and many other anti-perfectionism ideas that encourage me to give myself grace without enabling me to be lazy. It is the exact book I need to read at this moment in my young writing life, and I eagerly write my craft essay on it via a voice note on my phone while on a power walk one evening.

I learn that November is something called NaNoWriMo, which stands for National Novel Writing Month, and that writers across the globe come together to try and pen fifty thousand words in just one month. There’s a huge community for this online, but I am not interested in social media, so I participate from the fringes, keeping an old-school log of my daily word count on a magnetized pad on my fridge that is supposed to be for my grocery list. Fifty thousand words seems achievable, seeing as how I’ve already written thirty-five thousand in such a short time. In order to accomplish this new goal, I begin writing on the weekends for eight hours a day. It’s a lot, but I take the writing with me to the laundromat on Saturdays and make sure I still show up for Sunday dinner at my parents’ house. Jamie and Bryce are almost always there during the offseason months of October through January, since they come down to long-term visit in my parents’ basement. Just looking at them gives me new ideas and fuel for the week to come.

The story ends on November 20, all by itself. It’s shorter than I thought it would be at 278 pages and seventy-six thousand words. But it’s done.

I have completed my first manuscript.

I email Dillon Norway to share the good news. I also tell him I’ve been researching potential agents and that I want to spend the rest of the semester revising and polishing this first draft so that I can begin the querying process in January. It is my New Year’s resolution, I explain proudly. I am grateful when he doesn’t laugh at me. Instead, he gives me the green light to send along the manuscript in its entirety and suggests that I begin to venture out into the literary scene. He says there are a lot of areas where I’m still super green. For example, I’ve never read my work aloud to an audience. In fact, I’ve never even been to a reading, outside of the few mandatory ones I attended at the residency.

Now that I have some breathing room, I take Dillon Norway’s suggestion, because any and all words that he says are gospel truth that fill my soul with hope and possibility.

A Google search of “NYC literary scene” pulls up some events that are contenders. I ask Ramona if she’d be willing to come with me into the city. There’s a thing on Wednesday night, I say. She points out that it’s the day before Thanksgiving, but neither one of us is hosting or cooking, so it’s fine. It’ll feel sort of like a Friday night.

And I already know the talent.

Nate Ellis, as it turns out, will be reading selections from his New York Times bestselling debut, Work, along with selections from his current project. This is taking place at the Book Club Bar in downtown Manhattan, 8 p.m. on Wednesday. “An Evening with Nate,” it’s called.

I check the Book Club Bar’s website though, and the event is sold out.

No sweat,I tell myself.

An email ensues. Dear Nate, I hope this note finds you well! I am writing because you mentioned on board theSS Titanic that you’d be happy to see me at an event over the course of the semester. Wondering if that offer still stands? I am interested in attending your thing at the Book Club Bar, but tickets are sold out. I would need two—one for me and one for a friend. Any chance you can help? Please let me know. Warmly, Cecily Jane Allerton

A few minutes later, a response lights up my inbox.

CJ! It’s great to hear from you. Unfortunately, I can’t distribute extra tickets because there’s a very limited capacity at the venue. However, I have a ticket for myself (that they never use/scan) soyou’re welcome to it if you want. It’s only one though. Sorry I can’t be of more help. Let me know if you’re still interested.—Nate

I am,I reply. Please send it—that would be great! I’ll see you Wednesday!

I text Ramona to cancel with her, and she’s great about it; she was just trying to be a supportive friend, she says, but is happy to return to her regularly scheduled programming of bingeing Never Have I Ever on Netflix in her sweatpants.

And that is what brings me here, standing at the doorway to the Book Club Bar in Alphabet City, a half hour shy of what has become my bedtime.

I’m dressed like a person this evening, in faux leather pants that I bought off Poshmark last year but never had the guts to wear, a drapey gray sweater, low platform boots, and a long black winter coat with a fur-trimmed hood. My glasses don’t match my ensemble, but I don’t care enough to break into my box of disposable contact lenses, and plus, glasses give you character—at least that’s what my mom always told me. I look city-ish, I decide. A couple pushes past me into the space: the man’s jeans are so tight they look like they’ve been painted on his legs, and the woman has pink dreadlocks that almost reach her ankles. My pants sound a little like a fart if I move the wrong way, so yeah. I totally blend, I tell myself.

I take a breath and follow them in, scanning the ticket on my phone at the door. I’m nervous, but it’s a bar, so there is a remedy. I shall have a drink.

The space is cool; in fact, this might be one of the most interesting bookstores I’ve ever been inside of. The punched-tin ceiling gives off a very Brooklyn-meets-Savannah-Georgia vibe, and the chairs set up for the event point toward a red brick wall. It’s warm and cozy, kind of like what I’d imagine F. Scott Fitzgerald’s living room to feel like, as if perhaps one should sit down in an overstuffed leather chair and smoke a pipe and sip scotch from a lowball glass. There’s wine and craft beer available at the bar, but sadly I drink neither of these, as beer smells like subway urine (in my humble opinion) and wine reminds me of the gaggle of moms on Halloween who gulp from red Solo cups while their children trick-or-treat on my block.

When the bartender asks me what I’ll be having, I pick up the wine list and point to the second most expensive thing on the list, hoping that it won’t taste like pure swill. “Would you like a glass or a bottle?” the bartender asks me.

“Just a glass, thank you,” I reply.

I sip from my stemless glass and find myself a seat. The wine tastes kind of like medicine, but it works quickly, and seeing as how I am in a rush to take the edge off being in this kind of situation alone, I drink it much like I do all other things lately: with purpose.

Before too long, Nate Ellis is on the stage in front of me, and when they call his name, I foolishly applaud, only to immediately learn that this is not what one does at a bookstore reading. The girl to my right glares at me through her extremely cool vintage-sixties-vibe glasses, which make me feel as though my spectacles are best suited for a fifth grader. But alas! Nothing another sip can’t cure, am I right?

Nate spots me in the crowd and smiles before getting started. He begins with a selection from his new piece, explaining that the inspiration for the setting came from a new school he’s working at that offered him the good fortune of spending eight days this summer on Block Island. Yes! I cheer, but inwardly, now that I know that public readings are not unlike visiting a monastery. The tone of the narrative is different from his first book, lighter and maybe a little bit more playful. It’s surprisingly enjoyable, I think. Although it could just be the wine talking.

Anyway, after that selection, he moves on to a piece of what’s being referred to as “bonus material” from Work—essentially, we’re looking at deleted scenes here. I drain my wine and laugh at my own thought that the glass is neither half-full nor half-empty but quite literally fully empty, and this earns me another snarky scowl from the thrift shop model next to me. By the time Nate’s done, I’m feeling a little floaty, and I can’t help but think that was seventeen dollars well spent.

People around me stand, and one of the Book Club’s owners pulls Nate to the side for a chat, leaving me to return to the bar for a refill. Dillon Norway’s words fill my brain: Immerse yourself in the culture, he said. See how it makes you feel.

So far, it makes me feel like I’ve been giving wine a bad rap for years and that compared to High Noon, this stuff is pretty legit.

I wish I brought a notebook to write that gem down in.

Upon receipt of glass number two, I take a hearty sip and fearlessly approach the area where Nate Ellis is holding court. He excuses himself from the small crowd around him and waves me over, into his personal bubble. “CJ!” he exclaims. “So happy you made it.”

“Thanks for the ticket,” I reply.

“Of course,” he says. “Sorry again about your plus-one.”

“No worries,” I say. “Ramona’s into mysteries and thrillers anyway. She would have thought this was a big snoozefest.” I realize what I’ve said, and it makes me giggle. “Not that this is a snoozefest, obviously. I mean, this was great. Is great. Did you try the wine?” I ask, holding up my glass.

He gives me a sidelong glance. “You good?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, swinging my hand to wave away his comment but failing to realize that this hand holds the wine in it. My fancy juice almost spills. “Whoa,” I say, taking another sip.

“How’s your semester going?” he asks.

“Oh my God, so good. Dillon Norway is life. I finished a whole manuscript already.”

“Wait. What? Really?”

“Yes! I started it at the end of the summer.”

“How long is it?”

“Seventy-six thousand words.”

“Wow,” he says. “Good for you. That’s a huge accomplishment. Was this the same story we looked at in workshop?”

“Nope,” I say. “It’s a new one.”

“That’s awesome, CJ. I’m proud of you.”

“Ugh,” I groan. “I can’t get you to reconsider about this nickname, huh?”

He beams, teeth and all, and it makes him look very young.

“I think you need one too then.” I take a sip of my wine and smirk at him while I consider my options. “From this moment forward, I shall call you Pen.” I giggle. “Get it? Because of your award?”

“I get it,” he says. “And sure. Call me whatever you want. I’m just glad to see a familiar face here.” He lowers his voice and leans in toward my ear. “I hate these things.”

The scent of clean man fresh out of the shower fills my nose. “Ooh. You smell good,” I reply.

“Excuse me?” Now it’s his turn to smirk.

Shit!“Sorry. That was an inside-my-head thought.”

“I think this drink might be messing up your filter.”

“Well, if we’re telling secrets, I’ll have you know that this is my first time drinking wine.”

“Really? How old are you?”

“I turn thirty on New Year’s Day,” I say.

“Not much of a drinker then, I’m guessing.”

I shake my head.

“Well, maybe you’d like to come with me and go grab a cup of coffee. We can sober you up a little bit before you head home.”

“I am here to immerse myself in the literary scene,” I declare.

“Yes. I can see that,” he says. He looks amused.

“This is serious business,” I add.

“Oh, I know. But us literary folks are really into our coffee.”

“Why do you want me to leave? Am I embarrassing you?”

“Not at all. I don’t want you to leave,” he corrects me. “I want us to leave. And hey, I am the literary scene, am I not?”

“Wowwww,” I say. “I hope you have extra space in your pockets for all that ego.”

“No ego here at all. I’m just saying. You came here to see me, and here I am. Now I’m basically begging you to come have coffee with me so we can talk about all the ins and outs of the publishing industry, and you’re going to leave me hanging?”

I consider this offer. It’s not every day a New York Times bestselling author asks me to have coffee, so I concede. “Fine,” I say. “Are you just yanking my chain though? You’re not trying to kidnap me?”

“Kidnap you? You’re a grown woman. And no, this is not some kind of trap, CJ.” He leans in toward my ear, and I can feel his breath on me. “I told you, I don’t like events. You’d really be doing me a favor if you let me take you to Starbucks. Please?”

I get chills, starting from my ear and running down my neck. I’m not expecting them, and combined with the scent of this man’s body, well, let’s just say it’s reminding my lady parts that it’s been a while. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” he replies. “Hang tight for just a minute. I pre-signed copies of the book for the store, so I just want to make sure that they don’t need anything else from me before we take off.”

“Okay, Pen. Do you. I’m going to peruse these fine books over here,” I say, pointing at the wall, which results in my body shifting in the direction of the wall as if I was on ice skates.

Nate places his hand on my lower back to stop me from spinning all the way around, and a surge of heat radiates from his hand down to my ass. “Easy, killer. Stay right here.”

I watch him carefully remove his palm from my spine as if he is concerned that I might fall down (Pish! I am sturdy as a tree!) and then he walks away from me.

Well. I did not expect to notice this, but Professor Nate Ellis has a mighty fine posterior.

He speaks to a group of city folk, and I stand very still, like a statue. It is a game I am playing with myself. How still can a statue stand? This is a tongue twister, and everything I say is brilliant, I decide.

I pause my game to take another sip from my glass, which I realize is almost empty. Upon this discovery, I become sad. I should get more of the yum drink, I tell myself. I move from side to side, almost as if I am gently dancing, creating a beautiful, soft zigzag from the giant bookshelf over to the bar.

The bartender approaches. “Hey,” he says. “What can I get you?”

“You, kind sir, have a ring in your lip.”

“I do,” he says. And now he is smiling. I make people smile. Literary people are happy, smiley people, and I am—

“Okay, I’m back.” Nate has returned to my side.

“I was just about to order a refill of this,” I tell him, holding up my empty goblet of deliciousness.

“But we’re going, remember?” he asks. “For coffee?”

“We have coffee here,” Mr. Lip Ring shares.

“Did you see his lip?” I whisper to Nate.

“Yeah, thanks, bro,” Nate says. “But we’re going to head out.”

They exchange a fist bump. “See you soon, man,” Mr. Lip Ring says.

I offer my fist to Mr. Lip Ring. “Yeah, bro dude,” I say. His expression is now entertained. “Don’t leave me hangin’ here, Broseph.” He laughs and gives me a pound, and I have done it. This outing has been a success. I am now an official member of the literary community.

Nate offers me his arm, and I link mine through it. “Chivalry,” I say. We walk outside together. It is colder than I expect.

“So there’s a Starbucks on First Avenue,” he says.

“What time is it?” I wonder aloud.

“Like nine thirty.”

“I like the city at night,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s not bad. This is a good time of year too.”

“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You got big plans?”

“Not really. My sister’s hosting. She lives in Jersey.”

“Ewwww.Jersey.”

He laughs. “What about you?”

“My parents.” I nod. “They still do all our holidays.”

“Do you come from a big family?”

“Huge,” I say. “The ladies of my tribe are extremely fertile.”

“Is that so?” he asks.

It’s rhetorical, I know, but I feel the need to continue. We walk across Avenue A. “Yes. That’s why I’m the black sheep.” Nate glances at me, but I stop dead in my tracks once we reach the corner. “Do you hear that?”

“Huh?”

“Shh,” I say. “Listen. There’s music.”

He says nothing for a moment. “I hear it.”

“It’s this way.” I pull his arm and walk toward East 4th Street.

“Do you always get this excited over music?” he asks.

“It’s old music!” I exclaim.

“Not really,” he says, jogging next to me. We cross the street. “It sounds like Camila Cabello.”

I locate the source of the music. I have discovered a wild party that has spilled out onto the sidewalk. And yes, Nate is correct, it is Camila Cabello’s “Havana” on full blast, with accompaniment from over a dozen people who must have had their own fancy juice because they are so happy. But I am also correct because “Havana” is over five years old.

“What is this place?” I ask Nate.

He looks up. “It’s Sing Sing,” he says. “It’s a karaoke bar.”

“Pen! We have to go in there!”

“No,” he says. “I think we’re good. I think coffee is what we need.”

“One song. Please? I promise if we can just sing one song, then we can go.” I give him my best puppy dog eyes.

“What is this we business? You want me to sing a song with you?”

“Yes! I have to! Dillon Norway said I must immerse myself in the literary community. He said that I haven’t even read my stuff out loud. This will prepare me! Don’t you see? This is research!”

“I’m going to be honest. I don’t think that you even know what karaoke is, based on what you just said.”

“Just come,” I insist. I approach the door, and the bouncer there insists we sign some piece of paper attached to a clipboard in order to go in. I have no idea what it is but it’s the only thing keeping me from the stage, so I scribble my name and look at Nate. He’s trying to read the thing, but I tug at his sleeve and put my face up to his ear. “Come on,” I whine.

“Should I call my agent before I sign this?” he asks, confused.

“What are you even talking about? My God, Pen, listen to yourself! Do I need my agent to let me sing karaoke? It’s. One. Song.” I cock my hip and give him a face of pure exasperation. He shakes his head, but I can see a smile playing on his lips as he hurriedly signs on the dotted line.

“Finally!” I clap. I take him by the hand and pull him inside, through a crowd of singers and dancers, directly into a sauna. Not kidding. It’s balls hot in this place. The venue is deceptively large, with multiple rooms inside. In the corner of the first room, which is where “Havana” is coming from, I see a pair of DJs. I make a beeline through the crowd for them, almost losing Nate in the process. A beautiful drag queen decked out in glitter is the soulful voice behind Camila’s ode to Cuba.

I wave one of the DJs down to me. I fish through my pocket and place some bills in his hand. “Can I please go next?” I beg.

He eyeballs the money in his palm. I’m not sure how much I gave him, but it must be enough, because he nods and hands me a Post-it note and a pen. “Write your name and your song here,” he hollers in my ear.

I scribble on the yellow sticky and hand it to the DJ before looking back at Nate, raising my eyebrows. “So fun!” I yell. He’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have, I think. Maybe this is what happens when you discover your true passion.

The singer finishes up, and the DJ waves to let me know it’s my turn. He reads my chicken scratch through his microphone, and I am empowered. “Next up, we’ve got CJ and Pen with their rendition of this Ne-Yo classic. Where all my independent ladies at?”

The crowd roars, estrogen pulsing through the throngs of bodies undulating on the dance floor. Gripping Nate’s hand, I use superhuman strength to pull him up onto the stage, where I see a screen toward the floor with a fuchsia background and white words scrolling. The stage is completely empty except for a random drum set, and Holy cow, that’s a lot of lights. I squint while grabbing the microphone out of its little cradle holder, and I stretch my arm out to position it between me and Nate. The music begins, and I’m off to the races. Look at all these people! I think as I begin to wave my free hand back and forth while two-stepping for the first set of eight counts. Nate stands to the side of me, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. His formerly bemused expression has developed into one of complete bewilderment—as in, What the fuck is happening right now and how did it come to this? Yet before I can orchestrate a presentation about the effects of high-quality alcohol on an extreme lightweight who indulges maybe once a year, my mouth takes off on a journey all its own. “Ooh it’s somethin’ about, just somethin’ about the way she moves,” I sing. “I can’t figure it out. It’s somethin’ about her.” You got this, Cecily. Work those pipes.

Nate studies my face as if he’s surprised that I can sing. He’s smiling at me but is silent, so I keep the mic in my hand and begin to work the stage around him as if he is my prop.

“Said, ooh, it’s somethin’ about the kind of woman that want you but don’t need you,” I croon, doing my best to walk sexy in a circle around Nate, the heat of the lights making me squint and throwing me a bit off-kilter. “I can’t figure it out; it’s somethin’ about her,” I go on. The crowd is happy with my music selection—everyone loves “Miss Independent”—and I give exactly zero fucks about what I look like or whether I am city-ish enough because really, I am a writer now, and writers don’t do stage fright. The song is my story now. The lyrics are my prose. I give Nate Ellis my best come hither look and I. Sing. It. My hips pop out: first the left, then the right, and I boldly run my forefinger down Nate’s body from his chest to his navel as I continue. “’Cause she walk like a boss, talk like a boss, manicured nails to set the pedicure off. She’s fly effortlessly…” I close my eyes, feeling the moment, singing the rest of the lyric by heart. I don’t need a prompter; this was one of my favorite songs growing up. It’s like Ne-Yo’s silky smooth voice is one with my soul, and I dig deep to channel his cute-hat-wearing hotness and spin it into my own personal brand of swagger.

At the split second of anticipation before the chorus sets in, with my eyes still closed, I prepare my body to use my diaphragm to belt out the words that come next. The crowd must be with me because all of a sudden, there is cheering—like real loud cheering and what sounds like the rushed movement of bodies on the dance floor before me. I inhale all of their energy deep into my soul and expunge it into the microphone: “She’s got her own thing, that’s why I love her. Miss Independent, won’t you come and spend a little time?” The crowd is going absolutely wild. I mean, I know I can carry a tune, but it’s not exactly American Idol up here, and it’s in this moment that I realize there are some new sounds harmonizing with me.

The drums, for one thing.

And What the hell? What is that other sound? It sounds like a buzzing nasal sound, reminiscent of one of my musical toys from the library. It’s almost like a—

I open my eyes and turn to look at Nate, but he’s still standing to the side, only now his hand is actually covering his mouth in what looks like very real shock.

So I look behind us to the drum set.

I must be drunk, because I’m definitely hallucinating.

Is that Questlove? As in,the Questlove from The Roots crew on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon? The producer—the DJ—the famous author Questlove?

Is he backing me up on drums? Is this real? Is that a fucking kazoo in his mouth?

My eyes do this thing where they threaten to excuse themselves from my face permanently—like they bug out so far that I am very likely straining my ocular muscles, and my jaw drops to my chest.

“Miss Independent, ooh the way we shine,” I sing off key, stupefied by this new development.

In pure confusion, I turn back to look at Nate, whose face (which I can only describe as terrorized if gleeful) confirms that yes, that is Ahmir fucking Questlove Thompson, and he is smoothly grooving on the drum set behind me.

Kazooing.

I am going to die.

There’s a man with a camera in the audience directly in line with Questlove—like, a real camera, none of this iPhone bullshit—although it stands to mention that there are also now literally hundreds of iPhones being hastily taken out and held up by the crowd in front of us. I have the world’s fastest come-to-Jesus moment. This is happening. Questlove and I are performing this karaoke number together.

But wait. This isn’t okay. I can’t leave Nate just standing there looking like he drank a bottle of lamesauce. He has to join me! As the second verse begins, I sexy-walk-dance over to him with a look on my face that lets him know yes, this is very much a situation, and we are here for all of it, whether he likes it or not. I plunge the microphone at him with determination, and he takes it from me, possibly because my forceful handoff looks a bit like I might be readying myself to punch him in the mouth. Nate remains mute, limply holding the microphone as I rip off my jacket and toss it to the back of the stage, and now the crowd cheers because they undoubtedly think that the nerdy girl hanging out with Questlove from the Roots is about to embark on a wintertime striptease.

“C’mon!” I say to Nate with a hysterical grin. I grab the mic back with one hand and pull him up to the front of the stage with the other. We’ve somehow only missed two lines of the song, but Quest has carried our team like an ace with his kazoo. Nate almost trips over his own feet, but by the time we rejoin Questlove, we are both upright, bouncing to the beat of this glorious feminist anthem. At the next chorus, Nate and I dance into each other (naturally, I choose this exact moment to try twerking for the very first time) while we cry out together, “She’s got her own thing, that’s why I love her!” and it is next-level magic with Quest on percussion and killing it with that damn kazoo. A Thanksgiving miracle. Take a picture, folks. Cecily Jane Allerton is winning at life.

Adrenaline and alcohol swirl like dreams down the toilet as I hit every note of Ne-Yo’s bridge. Alongside these two fantasy men (What? I’m still human. I can have sexual fantasies about whoever I want, thank you very much!), I crescendo through the peak of the song and back into the last set of choruses, and I am overcome. This is my best day ever. I am a writer with a completed manuscript who immersed herself so deeply in the literary world today that she got rewarded like a boss with a karaoke number featuring not one but two New York Times bestselling authors.

I manifest success all around me.

I am the shit!

The final lines of the song are muffled by the screams of the crowd in front of us, and in a moment of delirium, I turn toward Nate. He’s laughing—open, hearty laughs that feel like the warm welcome of an old friend. His smile is incredulous. I can’t imagine that this is the same guy from my workshop, the same guy who had to defend his own seminar in the throes of Alice Devereaux’s attempted humiliation, the same guy who puked in a bucket in the bed across from mine only months ago. I’ve seen him brooding, busy, thoughtful, and even sick, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen him really happy.

It’s because of me! Look at all that I am capable of!

I throw my arms around Nate’s neck and plant a giant kiss right on his mouth. The crowd cheers even louder.

“That’s right!” Questlove spits out his kazoo and yells into the mic that extends from his earpiece down his jawline. “Y’all just been hit by a Questlove Kazoo Karaoke Bomb!”

They continue to cheer, and I grab Nate’s hand and raise it high into the sky as if we are champions who’ve just crossed a finish line or won a competition. He is still smiling, but now he’s watching me with an expression of confusion? Concern? Consternation? Words befuddle me.

Quest gets up and walks over to us, still talking into the wireless mic affixed to his beautiful bearded face. “Thanksgiving Eve! Biggest party night of the year! Much gratitude to Sing Sing for having us! And to these two lovebirds. Let me get your names!”

I lift the microphone to my face. “Cecily,” I say. Holy shit, now Questlove is talking to me! “And this is Nate!” I am unhinged, so I just start screeching. “Woo! We love you, Questlove!” with my fist punched into the air like the Statue of Liberty.

Quest talks a little bit more, sounding like a PSA for karaoke everywhere, until finally his cameraman shuts off the camera and the DJ pumps up some new music and switches the lights so that there’s no spotlight on the stage anymore. We’re escorted offstage by a gigantic man dressed all in black who is holding my coat and whom I hadn’t noticed previously. He looks at me sternly as he hands me my outerwear. Then Quest shakes our hands and says, “Thanks for being good sports about it!” The cameraman hands each of us an extra-large shirt that says, I was Kazoo Karaoke Bombed by Questlove and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. Quest grins at us and says, “Happy Thanksgiving,” with a nod, and then the two of them turn around. The larger-than-life bodyguard parts the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea, allowing Questlove and his cameraman to leave Sing Sing safely.

Nate turns to me, still cheesing, his new shirt slung over his shoulder. He leans in to my ear. “One song,” he reminds me.

I frown dramatically, and he nods his head toward the exit.

“You promised,” he says.

“Fine,” I agree, rolling my eyes. I’m giddy though. This night has been incredible. Maybe the best night of my life. Easily top three.

Once we get outside, words pour out of me into the darkness. “Can you believe that? Can you believe we just sang with Ahmir Questlove Thompson? Like, whatevs, no big deal. I just hang out with famous people all day long. Can you even?”

Nate shakes his head. “Nope. Never in a million years would I have thought that this was where the night would take me. Is this your brand of antics, CJ? I would never have pegged you as a party girl.”

“What are you talking about? I’m fun,” I insist.

“You’ve got a backpack the size of Montana,” he laughs.

“Wow,” I say. “Way to bring a girl down.”

“I’m serious! Your binder has more pages in it than the Bible.”

“Work hard, play hard,” I retort.

His smile. It’s like a drug.You would think I never saw a man’s teeth before.

“You definitely know how to play hard, that’s for damn sure,” he says.

We walk then. Up the block and around the corner. Somehow, with the adrenaline draining from my system and the chill of the air mixed with the exercise, I’m sobering up. I can feel it. It’s almost as if I am remembering that this cool thing happened to me but it feels far away, as if it was a long time ago instead of only a few minutes earlier.

Suddenly, I become extremely self-conscious. I can smell Nate’s cologne faintly. Our strides match: left foot, right foot, left foot. I don’t know what to say. Evidently, Nate has lost his capacity for small talk also, because it’s just step after step after step in the twilight.

Until we get to Starbucks. He holds the door open for me. “Thank you,” I say.

He orders a grande honey citrus mint tea for himself, and I get a vanilla latte. He pays for the drinks, waving away my credit card.

We sit in a pair of comfortable chairs while the baristas do their thing. I try really hard to think of something to say. “So what would you have been doing if you weren’t here with me right now?”

Nate shrugs. “I would probably have stayed at the Book Club a little longer. Then I would have headed home.”

“Oh. I hope I didn’t steal you away from, like, work,” I say, just now realizing that this was an event that he was probably paid to do.

“No. It’s fine. I told you, I don’t like that kind of stuff. It’s just an occupational hazard. I’m sure I wouldn’t have stayed that long. What about you?” he asks. “Is this just your typical Wednesday night?”

“Ha,” I say. “Far from it. Contrary to my performance this evening, I don’t go out all that much.”

“Really?” he says. “Because you made it seem like you’re a wild animal.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Far from it. I’m a children’s librarian, actually.”

“Really? That’s what you do?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He eyeballs me. “No, I see it. I’d say that suits you.”

“Did you think I was just coasting through life with no day job?”

“No. I figured you did something. Just didn’t know what. Honestly, you give off a bit of a kindergarten teacher vibe, so this development is quite on-brand for you. I think I know the answer to this, but I’ll ask anyway. What made you choose that career path?”

“I mean, all the obvious reasons. I love books; I’m passionate about literacy; I think a good story can heal a broken child in very much the same way as the right medicine can. I grew up in a house full of people, hiding from the noise with my nose in a book. And I like kids. Although I’m not sure that I want any.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of funny, actually. My family is very traditional. Women go off and get married and have babies, and sure, they can have careers too, but not at the expense of their families. Family first, right? That’s the mantra. But I don’t see that as being in the cards for me. So I figured if I write a book, then I have a legacy that I leave behind when I die, in much the same way that people have children so they can point to their lives and say, ‘There. That’s what I did during my time on earth.’”

“So quite literally a book baby.”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“And what did you say your new manuscript is about?”

“Funny you should ask. It’s loosely based on what happened to me in real life—you know, with my sister and my ex.”

“He must be the dumbest man in America,” Nate says.

The barista calls his name, and Nate holds up a wait one second finger before leaving me there to digest that comment while he retrieves our beverages.

“Here you go,” he says, setting my coffee down carefully.

“Thanks.”

“Can I ask how that thing with your sister happened exactly?” he wonders.

“It was a coincidence. They were both in the right place at the same time, and whatever. I’m over it.”

“Of course. You’re so over it that you wrote an entire novel about it in three months.”

“It’s not like that.”

“So then, are you dating anyone?”

The question is like a shot in my arm. “Why? Are you propositioning me?”

“No,” he replies, his laugh lines on full display. “Just wondering—if you’re so over it, I’m sure you’re currently seeing someone. Or perhaps multiple someones, given how you’re the life of the party.”

Unable to come up with a quick one-liner, I take a sip of my latte.

“Okay then. Let me ask you this. Do you go around kissing guys onstage regularly?”

Oof. I did do that.

He’s smirking.

“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly swept away with the realization that Nate Ellis might very well have a girlfriend. “Oh my God,” I go on. “I didn’t even think of the fact that you might be with someone. Did I just—”

“Relax, CJ. I’m not with anyone.”

“This is why I don’t drink.”

“Because you just can’t keep your mouth off people? Is that the issue?” He laughs, blowing on his tea.

“No. I just never let loose,” I admit. “And to answer your question, no, I am not currently dating multiple someones. Or even one someone. I am single and proud.”

“Is that right?”

“Indeed,” I nod.

“Well, you’re fun. I’m sure you’d make some lucky guy very happy if you ever decided you wanted that in your life.”

“You make me sound maudlin. Like some spinster or like I’m half-dead. What about you, Pen? Why are you single?”

He shrugs. “It’s been a weird couple of years for me.”

“Do you think your success has changed you?”

He swallows, considering the question. “I’m sure it has. I mean, I think underneath it all, I’m still the same guy though. I don’t know. It’s nice to have money, but nothing comes without a price.”

“Like the events.”

“Exactly. Readings and signings aside, I will say that tonight was my first and last time doing karaoke.”

“At least you got a shirt,” I remind him.

“That’s true.”

“Is everything weird now?” I ask. “Because we made out?”

Nate laughs and shakes his head. “We did not make out, CJ. Believe me, if I made out with you, you wouldn’t want to be single anymore. But our karaoke exchange didn’t mean anything. I mean, of course it didn’t. We’re colleagues, right?”

My pulse is thumping in my neck. I wonder if he can tell. “Right.”

“Maybe it was your twisted version of research. You know, like the karaoke.”

I make a face. “My God. You act like a girl never kissed you before.”

“Do I? Truth is I can’t keep the ladies off me. I usually carry a baseball bat.”

I sip my latte and give him a sideways scowl.

“Can I be honest? Or should I wait until you sober up some more?”

Something grabs my stomach and twists it just a little. “You can be honest.” I swallow.

“I’m glad you came out tonight.”

I nod. “Me too.”

“I don’t have a lot of writer friends.”

“Really? But you’re Nate Ellis.”

He emits a deep, gratifying sigh. “That’s actually really irrelevant.”

“Well, I’m glad I came out tonight too,” I say.

“We should do it again sometime.”

“The karaoke?”

“No. Just this part.”

I nod. “I would really like that.”

We continue to chat, and once our beverages are empty, Nate shares an Uber with me to Penn Station and then continues on to his apartment, which, he tells me, is on the Upper West Side. When we say goodbye, he thanks me for a lovely evening and reaches out to give me a hug. It’s a tight squeeze in the back seat of the Corolla we’re in, but for about ten seconds, our arms are wrapped around each other, and I swear I can hear him inhale my hair.

Not that I notice or anything.