Chapter 13
How had that woman gotten to the front of the signing line so quickly? “Not at all,” Tessa said.
Watch out, Annabelle said.
“Who shall I sign this to?”
“How about…” The woman paused. “To a hometown girl.”
The woman was now still as a photograph, motionless, waiting.
Often bookstores used yellow stickies with purchasers’ names; to make it easier for the author, and to prevent the embarrassing situation when a purchaser said “oh, just sign it to me” and the author had no idea who they were.
In the rush and crush and pressure, Tessa thought, sometimes she wouldn’t recognize her own husband. This woman had no yellow sticky.
“I’m so sorry.” Tessa held the pen away from the book, breaking the spell, and looked up at the woman’s face. “Do I… do I know you?”
“Know me? Oh, I’m sure not,” the woman said.
Tessa felt the time ticking away, pictured Linny, pale and abandoned, on her pink Hello Kitty sheets, pictured Henry clueless, and Zack playing video games when he should have been asleep; pictured two time zones of impossibility, and the line of women, now murmuring and speculating as they cradled their books. A few looked at their watches.
“Okay,” Tessa said, so agreeable. Whatever I write in this book, she realized, however I sign it, cannot be changed .
But it has no context. This person could explain it in any way she wanted.
Make it mean anything she wanted. As if Tessa were agreeing, acknowledging some relationship or a shared past. It could be ammunition.
Or bait. Or an alibi. “How about ‘Wonderful to see you in Phoenix.’” Tessa began writing it even as she spoke. “What’s your name?”
“Just sign it,” the woman said. “Is Calloway your husband’s name? What’s your birth name?”
Yikes, Annabelle said.
“Everything good?” Heather, interrupting, was at her side. “Let’s keep the line going, ladies. Tessa would chat all night, but we have to let her get some sleep.”
The hometown woman—that’s how Tessa thought of her—took her book and walked away, her blue jeans and black boots disappearing behind a bookcase.
Why would she have wondered about Tessa’s birth name?
Now her brain raced, scouring the dark places in her own history.
This could not be random. This could not be meaningless.
But she was Tessa Calloway now, and safe.
Still. Tessa had asked the customer’s own name, and she had refused. Even more suspicious.
The next customer stepped toward the table, clutching her book like a treasure. Winnie, Tessa remembered, and said so.
“I can’t believe I’m here. And you even remembered my name,” she whispered, opening her book to the title page. “Sign to me, okay? And may I take your picture?”
Tessa looked up at her, grateful for the normalcy. Noted her beaded All This friendship bracelet. “My pleasure.”
Her heart still filled every time she touched the book’s suede-like cover, her name embossed in burnished gold, the graphic of the elegant businesswoman in tortoiseshell glasses who oozed self-confidence.
This book had a sticky, she noticed. She signed “To Winnie” as the woman took a photo. “I hope you enjoyed the event.”
Whoa. Look who’s here, Annabelle said.
Tessa heard staccato footsteps. Black boots and jeans, she saw, were coming toward her.
Sam. The man in seat 3A. He stopped, half the store away.
Not looking at her. She could feel his intent though, as strongly as if he’d aimed a spotlight on her.
She could almost feel the light. And the heat. He wanted something. From her.
Tessa watched him, heart racing, stealing glances, as she tried, intently, to focus on the customers, signing their books, each opened to the title page and ready for her inscription.
Marjorie, Alta, Logan, Kym, which she almost misspelled.
Cindy with a y or i , she asked. Michelle with one l or two ?
Through it all, wearing out one Sharpie pen and starting another, she felt torn by her tug-of-warring responsibilities to her job and to her home, and now, also trying stay calm as Sam stepped closer, closer, closer.
It was her imagination that had gotten her here, she knew that, her ability to make up stories.
But now that imagination was emotional quicksand.
Why was Sam here? She wished, sometimes, she could turn her brain off and calmly be present in the real world, not speculate and embellish and make everything a better story. Or a worse one.
“Can you give me one second?” she asked the next customer. Her sticky said Larysa. She held up her phone. “I need to—one second.” She turned in her chair, looking down, thumbing in the number. Then typing, one word.
Linny?
Three dots instantly appeared.
She’s all good stop texting.
Henry had added a smiley face.
Missing you
U2 Go work text when finished
xo
Part of her knew Henry had a point—if their positions were reversed, she’d have been annoyed with Henry’s hovering. She should trust him.
“Sorry,” she said, clicking off. And then fumbled the spelling of Larysa. “Oh, let me get another book,” she apologized. “I—”
“No, no,” Larysa quickly refused. “This book is even more special now. It means you’re a real person, just like us.”
As Larysa turned to go, Tessa saw Sam, now three people away.
It was silly to be anything but flattered—he’d mentioned the signing to her on the plane, and that’s what publicity was for, to entice the public to attend.
He already had her book, but it had been for his daughter—Anna like Savannah—and since he’d had her sign to him, he needed another. Nothing sinister, nothing creepy.
He told you he’d be here, Annabelle said. Didn’t hide it. Let’s see how this goes.
Clara. Mycene. And there he was. She could almost feel his shadow.
“Great speech,” he said, looking down at her.
She accepted his book, saw the laugh lines around his eyes, the scattering of gray in his once-dark hair. “Such a surprise to see you.”
“Is it? I told you I was coming.”
“You did, true.” Just another reader, she told herself. “Sign it to you, um—?”
“Sam.” He paused, the briefest of pauses. “As I’ve said. And you did that on the plane. So sign this one to Anna. Like Savannah.”
Heather had inched closer, and Tessa wondered if she had picked up on the edgy difference in Tessa’s tone. Or the apprehension that must be radiating from her.
“How’s your family?” he went on.
Tessa kept her eyes on the title page. “To Anna,” she wrote, careful as a third grader perfecting her cursive. “All best wishes…” Tessa knew what her own best wish was. That this man would go away. “Everything is wonderful.” She handed him the book. Big smile. Go away.
He didn’t.
“Single parenting can be tough,” Sam said.
Tessa glanced behind him, hoping another customer had materialized. But Sam was the last. Which was surely intentional. He’d strategized to be last in line. But why?
“Time to sign stock, dear.”
Heather had wheeled in a gray metal library cart filled with the blue spines of All This . “Look.” She swiveled the cart. “Books on both sides. We’ll sell every one, I’m positive.”
“Great,” Tessa said.
“Great,” Sam said at the same time.
Tessa capped her pen, the click of plastic unusually loud in the sudden silence. “The shelves call,” she said, hearing her awkward attempt to sound casual. “I hope your daughter loves the book.”
“She will. Seems like everyone does.” Sam pointed to the metal cart. “That’s a lot of books. I could hang out, then drive you back to the hotel. Where are you staying?”
Not her imagination, then. Her family, his single parent role, her distance from home, a woman on the road; carefree, up for a good time. Not a chance, Tessa thought.
“We’re handling Tessa’s transportation.” Heather inserted herself between Tessa and Sam. “If you’re all set, sir, I’m afraid the store is closing.” She paused. “Unless you’d like to buy another book or two?”
“I’m good.” Sam did not look dismissed. “Good luck, Ms. Calloway. Safe travels.”
“Do you know him?” Heather whispered even before the sound of Sam’s footsteps disappeared.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Tessa tested her Sharpie on a leftover sticky. “He was on my plane here, had the seat next to mine. And had my book. Which was—nice at the time. Now…”
“Welcome to the big time.” Heather pointed to an endcap display of one author’s works, top to bottom, the author’s name bigger than her foil-embossed titles. “ She came for a signing, couple of weeks ago. With two bodyguards. Seriously. Armed.”
“Armed?” Tessa stopped mid-signature, left a blot on the o in Calloway.
“So they said.”
“What’s she afraid of?”
“You heard of parasocial relationships?”
Tessa kept signing. “Para…?”
“Parasocial.” Heather placed more books on the checked tablecloth.
“People truly believe the celebrities they follow on social are their friends. Because they admire them or agree with them, or the person has touched them in some way.” Heather flapped open the books, piled them with title pages showing.
“You ever have people cry when they talk to you? Wear what you do, copy you? Mimic Annabelle? I saw a lot of blue earrings tonight.”
Tessa closed her eyes for a beat. “I’ve had people cry, yes. And quit their jobs or dump their boyfriend, and tell me they were inspired by Annabelle. Like I said to my husband—oh. May I—”
“Sure, I know you need to call home. But let me finish. These parasocial relationships—they can go wrong. And you can never predict when. Someone who considers you a friend assumes, in turn, that you think of them as a friend. And when you don’t give them everything they want—social media attention, instant response, constant shout-outs—they can go sour.
And that… disappointment? Is as intense as the admiration.
They feel you’ve failed them. Sorry to sound lecturey. ”
“But I haven’t done anything.” Tessa frowned.
“That’s the problem.” Heather placed another periwinkle-blue stack on the table. “That’s the last of them. But be careful, Anna—oh, I almost called you Annabelle.”
“Happens all the time,” Tessa said.
“That’s what I mean.” Heather crossed her arms over her chest. “The imagination is a dangerous thing.”