Chapter Twenty-Five
Mal
[Video Description] A man sits behind a table at a bookstore with mic in hand. Off-screen, a voice asks him whether he is single. He looks uncomfortable
but flattered and is about to answer when a woman in a short white dress sweeps in front of him and takes the mic from his
hands. She gives him a bouquet of flowers.
[Caption] Sorry, folks. Our favorite irl book boyfriend is off the market. @malcolmjwaters, thank you for writing my favorite read
of the year. RIP to your DMs.
[Comments]
21stcenturygworl7: ugh stop he can still be my boyfriend in my head
theheartbreakprince: omg look at his face when he takes the flowers!!! Does anyone know who the girl is?
Reemareads: It’s @drjojobee! I really like her account actually, she seems really cool
Lanaharman: well I thought she was very inappropriate. There were better ways to handle that question than interrupt the event like she
did.
Reemareads: @lanaharman lol he isn’t going to choose you sis
The coffee shop where Mal had settled was the perfect place to get work done. It was featured in exactly zero “Best Places
to Work in Chicago” lists, meaning he could actually find a table with an outlet, and had a menu that stretched beyond overpriced
espresso, including sandwiches he could eat for lunch and pastries he could nibble on when he craved something sweet. He arrived
early, right at opening, and put his phone on Do Not Disturb, lest he get distracted by the group chat.
Despite ideal conditions, however, Mal had written approximately three sentences of his proposal in as many hours. Instead,
he’d spent his time refreshing his feed, and specifically, rewatching videos from his Em-Dash event. He’d been tagged in five
so far, all capturing the same scene from slightly different angles, each one revealing different details: the shift of his
own expression from awe to adoration when Jo swept in front of him, the fierce, fiery look in her eyes when she faced off
the crowd, how it softened when she turned to give him his flowers. It was one thing to remember the moment, but quite another
to see it happen from an outsider’s perspective. No wonder Kelechi had teased him so mercilessly. Don’t go making Harvey a cousin tonight, she’d texted him after she’d made it home from the event.
That promise had been harder to keep. Two and a half years of abstinence and several years before that of good but perfunctory sex had cooled his libido some, but having Jo in his bed had brought it back full force. A flicker of a memory of the night before came into his mind, Jo writhing above him, her bra strap hanging off one shoulder and exposing the dark circle of her areola, her eyes glinting under his dimmed ceiling lights. His name falling from those luscious lips, the flash of tongue as she bit down to hold back moans he wanted so desperately to hear. Fuck. Mal crossed his legs under the table, willing the blood back to his brain.
As if on cue, his phone vibrated on his desk. Amelia.
Wincing, Mal picked up.
“I’m working on it right now,” he started. “I’ll get it to you by the end of today—”
“No need to lie to me. I’m not calling about your proposal,” Amelia said.
Then she told him what she was calling about, and Mal almost slid out of his chair.
“One more time?” Mal asked, catching himself on the table edge.
“The Lana Porter Show ? You’ve heard of it, right?”
Had he heard of it? Lana Porter’s honeyed smile had been gracing televisions for as long as Mal could remember, her talk show a staple
on daytime television. Mal had grown up watching Lana Porter interview everyone from basketball players to former presidents
on her eponymous television show and imagined himself sitting in her famed green armchair, talking to her like an old friend.
According to Amelia, his wildest dream was soon to become a reality.
“They had a last-minute cancellation for today’s author spotlight, and they want to see if you can sub in,” she said. “It’s
virtual. Today. At four o’clock.”
“So in two hours,” Mal said numbly.
“Yes. But it’s short. Just eight minutes,” Amelia said. “You can do it, right?”
Mal laughed so loudly that the girl sitting across from him threw him side-eye.
“Yeah,” he said, then more firmly, “Yes, of course.”
Ever efficient, Amelia sent him a Zoom invite for a last-minute media training session, an email with tips for how to create
his video call setup, and a blurb about Lana Porter’s show, as if he hadn’t spent his mornings at his grandma’s house watching
her over bowls of cereal. He drove a little too fast back home, thinking of how to set up his station. He still had a decent
lighting rig from his photography days, though at four o’clock maybe natural light would be sufficient. There was a well-stocked
bookshelf in his living room; if he shifted his desk in front of it, he could have a suitable backdrop. And then there was
Ampersand, who had taken to yowling furiously every time he tried to deny her access to him, and well, who didn’t enjoy a
kitty cameo?
Then, before Mal could fully comprehend what was happening, he was logging on to a video environment through a link Amelia
had sent him, then talking to a producer in the virtual backstage room who checked his microphone, gave him suggestions for
his lighting, and quickly ran through potential questions.
He was still reeling from the novelty when Lana Porter appeared on his screen. She looked exactly as he remembered her, her
golden skin tight over her temples, signature honey-blond curls bouncing against her shoulders. She smiled at him with great
white teeth.
“Lovely to meet you, Malcolm,” she said. She blinked at someone off-screen. “Are you ready?”
Not really , he wanted to say, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He was in too deep now. Lana didn’t wait for his answer, just held
up a finger, and then, suddenly, they were live.
“I think you’ll all be excited to meet our next guest,” Lana said. “Malcolm Waters’s debut novel, She Blooms at Dusk , has been described as a ‘revival of the epic romance,’ and was recently optioned for film by En Garde Productions. Malcolm,
it’s so great to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said. The lighting he’d rigged in front of his laptop softened and blurred his skin, and he
hoped it hid the pinpricks of sweat that he could feel forming on his forehead.
“You’ve said in past interviews that you like to think of Dusk as a love story,” Lana said. “What motivated you to write about love?”
Mal inhaled. Questions like this, about his craft, he could handle. He forced himself to relax. To make himself charming.
He gave a half-true answer about growing up feeling as though, as a man, he wasn’t supposed to aspire to or be concerned about
love, and how writing Dusk allowed him to explore those emotions. Lana made a comment about the quiet, cozy thread of magic interlaced throughout the
novel, and Mal explained that he wanted its setting to feel like a fairy tale: “Like I could start off with a very long time ago in a land far, far away and it would feel right.”
Eight minutes passed by at the speed of light. Lana ended the segment with a gracious smile, a thank-you, and a “quick question”:
“So, Malcolm, are you writing about love from experience? The ladies want to know.”
“Ha,” Mal said, caught off guard.
Before he could respond, a third window opened, and there it was again, the video from Em-Dash. Jo facing off Lana’s live audience with a steely He’s mine , then handing him a bouquet. His awed, enamored expression, which served as answer enough. Mal laughed, because there was
nothing else he could do in the face of his shock.
“This clip from a book signing you did recently is making waves online, and I think we can all see why!” As if on cue, her
audience erupted in whistles. “It seems you’re living out your own romance!”
Mal’s smile stretched tensely across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Um. She’s incredible. So.”
Lana placed a hand on her heart, and a litany of aaaww s followed.
“You heard it here, folks. She Blooms at Dusk is out now, wherever books are sold. Pour yourself a cup of hot tea, find a blanket, and enjoy.”
And then, just like that, it was over.
“You did great,” Amelia assured him, beaming, after the segment was done. “Very charming. I think you’ll win over Lana’s audience
for sure.”
“Yeah?” he said. He felt unsettled. Lana was known for skirting the edges of her guests’ comfort zones, and today she’d done just that. He needed to tell Jo, except she was currently at the benefit having a very critical conversation with Ezra Adelman and he didn’t want to add to her plate. Besides, she would probably be thrilled to be featured on Lana Porter’s show, if only briefly. Likely be delighted that he’d been invited on in the first place. He would never have said yes to something like this before her influ ence. When Jo wanted something, she seized it, and now he was doing the same. After all, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities were exactly that: they came once.
The burst of productivity Mal fostered after this revelation could’ve been bottled and sold. His empty page became ten filled
ones. He worked so diligently and for so long that he forgot to eat dinner, forgot to use the bathroom, forgot to turn on
a light after the sun set and shrouded his room in darkness. His few breaks were short—reading a text from Jo (about Ezra,
who predictably was not behaving himself), a five-minute call with Kieran and Kelechi debriefing his interview. He would probably
have kept working until dawn if Jo hadn’t called.
“Hey,” Mal said, picking up on the first ring. It had felt wrong to text her that he’d just been on the Lana Porter Show , but now that he had her on the line, he couldn’t wait to spill the beans. “You headed home?”
“No, actually,” Jo said. Her voice sounded restricted, nasal, like she’d been crying, and Mal’s smile dropped. “Um, I’m headed
to the hospital.”
“What?” Mal said, immediately making to stand. “What happened? Are you okay? Which hospital are you headed to—”
“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t think about how that would sound. I’m fine,” Jo said. “Um. It’s my mother. I just found out she’s
admitted at Featherstone and... I’m going to see her. Just wanted you to know, in case I’m... a little weird after.”
“Oh,” Mal said, stunned. “Oh shit.”
“Yeah,” Jo said numbly.
“Do you want me to come?” Mal said. He searched for Featherstone on Google Maps. “I can drive over.”
“No,” Jo said. “It’s okay, I—”
A voice interrupted her, familiar, raspy.
“I think that’s the entrance,” Ezra said in the background.
“Okay,” Jo said. Then, to Mal: “I’m fine for tonight. But maybe come see me tomorrow? And bring ice cream? I think I’ll need
it.”
“Will do,” Mal said. “Do you want strawberry cheesecake again? Or something new?”
“You remembered,” Jo said, sounding, despite everything, just a bit pleased.
“I try.” There was a heartbeat of silence between them, potent, like they both were deciding what to say next. But what was
there to say to this, aside from Sorry I’m not there ?
“I have to go,” Jo said, breaking it. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
When she hung up, Mal slouched in his chair and wondered how it was possible for him to be more relieved that Jo was not alone
than he was jealous that he was not the one beside her.