7. Trina
TRINA
“What made you want to become an agent?”
Surprise would be the wrong word to describe my reaction to the question. It’s the same question everyone asks when panels open up for the Q&A portion. But for some reason, when the sweet-looking aspiring author in the third row looks right at me and asks it, my mind goes blank.
Maybe it’s the phone call from my aunt that I ignored yet again this morning, or the text I finally sent to let her know I was in Denver and would call her when I got home.
Maybe it’s the crappy hotel coffee I had to make in my room because I overslept…
or hemmed and hawed about whether or not to send that text for so long that by the time I made it down to the lobby coffee shop, the line was too long and I would have been late to my panel.
Whatever the reason, the wall I hit when she asks the question is a brick one.
It feels like I can’t squeeze ten words together into a coherent sentence.
I’m sure it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain man sitting all the way in the back, his ankle crossed over his knee, who has had his warm gaze trained on me this entire time.
If that were the case, I wouldn’t have been able to make it through the panel discussion with all the grace and poise and humor I usually bring to these events—if I do say so myself.
But suddenly this feels like going off script. Like my tried-and-true, rehearsed and not at all personal answer about my very generic-yet-relatable love of books isn’t good enough.
I clear my throat as all the eyes in the room are trained on me. “I love books,” I say uselessly. There is a smattering of laughter, which doesn’t really make sense except that I’ve been cracking jokes this whole time, so they probably think I’m still trying to be funny. It bolsters me, though.
“I mean, we all do,” I continue. “That’s why we’re here, right? I’m sure each of us has a story about how we used to curl up in the pages of a beloved novel when we were little. Maybe even how books have saved us from a certain fate when we were older.”
A few of the audience members nod. That’s certainly true for me too, but that story is a bit too personal to share.
“But the written word is important. Now more than ever. In a time when anyone can produce a novel with a few keystrokes in a computer program, the art of writing and reading is special. It’s remarkable.” More nods. “Even the struggle is vital. It shows us we’re alive, in a way.”
“A computer isn’t,” the moderator chimes in.
“Exactly.” I point in her direction, really gaining steam now.
“I’ve been fortunate enough to work with some of the best writers in the business.
Ones for whom words are their lifeblood.
I’ve seen the struggle firsthand. And I’ve also seen the triumph.
Writing and publishing a book is a microcosm of the human experience, from conception to birth to that awkward editing phase”—some laughs, Casey’s the loudest from the back of the room—“to finally, a finished and beautiful work of art that hopefully has a long life. I get to be a part of that, however small.” I shrug as if baring my soul in this way isn’t such a big deal. “It’s magical.”
“Well said. I love that,” the moderator chimes in after a pause. “Does anyone else have any questions?”
Now off the hot seat, my gaze snags on Casey, who is studying me in that intense way he always has. After a moment, he flashes a soft smile, then dips his chin in approval. It shouldn’t matter to me what he thinks, but it warms me from the inside all the same.
The panel concludes shortly after that. I shake hands with the other participants—two editors, a debut writer, and the moderator who is part of the convention committee—and grab my purse from where I left it under my chair.
I need to get some caffeine in my system, stat.
I might even go full-sugar vanilla syrup for extra energy.
“Miss McBryde?” A small voice stops me within two strides of the door.
Fighting a groan, I turn to see a striking, young Black woman.
She wears a pink vest and black trousers that look like they were tailored specifically for her.
Her hair is short and natural, held out of her face by a matching pink satin headband.
Her posture is incongruous with her meek voice—her back is ramrod straight, and her shoulders are square.
I get the sense that “fake it till you make it” is her life’s mantra.
“Hi.” She smiles nervously. “My name is Imani Adrian. I’m an author? Well, I’m trying to be.”
“Hi, Imani. Nice to meet you.” I try to infuse as much reassurance into my voice as possible. Normally, I’d gently remind authors that pitch sessions are later in the day and she should find me then, but there’s something about her that draws me in.
“Hi,” she says again, then shakes her head slightly. “I wasn’t able to get a spot at your pitch session, but I really admire your work.”
“My work?” I frown. “You mean my clients’ work.”
“No, I mean yours. You represent some amazing writers, and I know keeping them all happy and thriving has to be more than a full-time job.”
She’s definitely not wrong there. There have been more than a few times where I’ve crossed into friend or assistant territory for an author to help keep the words flowing. “It is, but I love it.”
“I can tell. What you said up there”—she indicates the table where the panelists were sitting—“it really resonated with me.”
“I’m so glad.” I glance at the clock on the wall. There are about ten minutes until my first pitch session, and my opportunity for coffee is slowly dwindling.
“You probably need to get going.” Imani must have caught me checking the time. “I won’t keep you. But I did submit a query a few weeks ago, so I just wanted you to put a face with the name.”
Her name isn’t ringing a bell at all, but to be fair, I haven’t made it through even half of the queries in my inbox yet. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for it. What genre do you write?”
“Young adult fantasy. I have a particular passion for writing strong female main characters and diversity.”
Nodding, I say genuinely, “It’s admirable, and we definitely need more of that in the publishing world.
” And now comes the part I hate. “But I don’t typically represent young adult or fantasy.
My wish list is mostly contemporary lit fic.
Some women’s fiction and psychological thrillers, but they have to be really gritty with thematic elements.
Any chance you have something that would appeal to an adult audience? ”
She tilts her head and purses her lips. “Young adult books can be gritty and thematic. I’d argue mine are.”
Resisting the urge to glance at the clock again, I settle in for some hard advice.
I’m not getting my coffee at this point anyway, so I might as well impart some publishing industry wisdom since that’s why we’re all here.
I give her a sympathetic look. “It’s not what any author wants to hear, I know, but I’ve been in this business for a while.
Take it from me—you want the best representation for your work that you can get.
And while I am good at my job, you really want your agent to be in a place where they can confidently sell your book.
A lot of that is behind the scenes and has to do with the connections agents have with editors.
I just don’t have connections in the young adult world. ”
Imani tenses slightly, and I can tell she’s trying to hold it together.
My heart aches for her. It’s so much easier to send a rejection email than it is to do this face-to-face, but this industry is unfortunately full of rejection, and she’s going to have to figure out how to deal with it sooner or later.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, willing to do anything at this moment not to see her cry. “I’ll take a look at your query. Did you attach the first few chapters of your book?”
She nods silently as her cheek depresses like she’s biting on the inside of it.
“Good. I’ll give you a personal critique on your query letter and your opening scene, okay? If it’s good, I’ll reach out to the agency to see if anyone is taking YA right now. How does that sound?”
I don’t know if she has enough experience yet to know what an incredible offer it is for an agent to give personal feedback to a query, but she nods again and takes a deep breath in through her nose.
“Thank you, Miss McBryde. I really appreciate it.” She hesitates for a moment as if she might say something else but eventually turns and walks quickly out the door.
Damn, that was awkward.
I stall for a few minutes by pulling out my phone and checking my email so I don’t inadvertently follow her out and end up running into her outside the room. Suzanna has emailed the team again, and Isabella sent a stream of GIFs to my text messages, all of them featuring some sort of ice queen.
Head down and laughing as each GIF gets more and more ridiculous, I search for one of my own as I make my way out of the room.
I find the perfect rendition of a panoramic view of an ice palace with magical icicles shooting out of the top of it, and just when I’m about to hit Send, I run into something very hard. And warm. That smells like clean linen.
“Oof,” I let out on a breath. The wind is knocked out of me, and I’m not sure it’s entirely because of the surprise of running straight into Casey’s chest.
A low laugh vibrates through me, which is when I realize I have mostly folded myself into him rather than bounced off him. Quickly, I take a step back and peer up at his face. His eyes are soft and crinkle at the edges as he smiles down at me.
“Are you stalking me?” I blurt out.
His expression turns to one of amused confusion. “Why would I be stalking you?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug helplessly. “I don’t see you for a year, and for two days you’ve been”—I wave at our surroundings—“inescapable.”
“Do you want an escape?”
Well that’s a loaded question. And knowing Casey, he’s asked it that way on purpose.
He could mean an escape from him or from life…
which is exactly what got us into this situation the last time.
That and a raw attraction I still can’t deny, and neither can he if the way he drags his gaze down my body and back up is any indication.
I’m suddenly self-conscious that I wore the same dress I was wearing last night but with an open blouse and flat shoes. Usually I’m proud of my capsule wardrobes, but for some reason, I wonder if Casey notices I’m re-wearing clothes. Or if he minds. Or if he’d rather have them on the floor anyway…
Pinching my temples between my finger and thumb, I step back again. “I have a session in a minute.”
“I know,” he says.
I look at him pointedly. “Stalking?”
He chuckles again. “Aren’t all agents in the next pitch session?”
He’s right, but I narrow my eyes at him anyway. This needs to end if I’m going to have any ability to focus for the next ninety minutes of pitches. “Did you need something, Casey?”
“No, but I think you do.”
I frown, wondering if this is some kind of double entendre or if he’s getting bolder in his suggestiveness. But he holds up a clear plastic cup and jiggles it between us. The ice in the cup clinks together making just about the best sound in the world.
Unable to stop myself, my eyes light up and I gasp. “Is that what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s an iced oat milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla syrup, then yes.”
Greedily, I grab it and take a long pull from the straw. Sweet, caffeinated goodness hits my tongue and slides down my throat. I can’t be held responsible for the groan of satisfaction that tumbles out of me.
“Casey Endersen, you are truly a god among men.”
“It’s a long day. I thought you could use some extra fuel.”
“Thank you,” I moan.
His eyes flash, but it’s only for a second before it’s gone again. “No problem.” He checks his watch. “I’d better get going. One of Anastasios’ authors has a panel starting in a few minutes. Maybe I’ll run into you later.”
“Literally,” I mumble.
He smirks. “Have fun with all those pitches.”
I’m sure he knows I will not, but I smile sweetly. “I definitely will.”
We turn to go our separate ways, and when I do, I see Imani gaping at me from across the hallway.
Her mouth is hanging open, and her eyes are wide with what seems like surprise.
She almost looks like she’s going to cry again.
For a second, I consider going to talk to her, but before I can, she hurries away.
I knew she’d be upset, but that’s a little much.
“Everyone participating in pitch session number one, please take your seats. We’re going to get started in one minute!” A voice sounds from a loudspeaker in an adjoining room.
Well, that was weird, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. I take another sip of my coffee and send a thank you to the universe for it as I enter the still-chaotic room for my next session.