11. Trina
TRINA
I had every intention of blowing off the keynote speaker.
His books sound interesting, and Casey had been excited enough about meeting him to buy one from the overpriced airport kiosk, but I got what I came for from my pitch sessions, and I have bigger things to worry about.
The Denver Central Library has been on my bucket list of places to visit since I read an article about the massive renovations they did a few years ago.
I was in the process of walking out of the hotel to call an Uber when I happened to glance inside the large room being used for the presentation.
Casey was sitting there, solid and stoic and looking at his phone as everyone moved about around him, greeting old friends or new acquaintances.
I paused. Just a fraction of a second to appreciate the lines of his body and that little piece of ankle that always peeks out of the bottom of his slacks when he sits.
And in that instant, his shoulders slumped and his expression sagged.
It was as if something sad had just hit him.
Not devastating, but sad enough to crack his normally rock-hard exterior.
When he rubbed at his chest, I felt that ache myself. It’s an ache I’m all too familiar with.
So I didn’t go to the library. I stepped inside the room. And when he saw me, I closed the distance between us and sat down.
We’re blowing off steam together. That’s the deal. It’s not deep or special, but it has been a comfort. I hadn’t realized how reassuring his presence in my life had been last year until he was holding my hand on the airplane a few days ago. And the least I can do is offer the same to him here.
I don’t hear a damn word of the speech. Actually, that’s not true.
The author says something about “opening yourselves up to possibilities where you least expect them,” and something else about “finding happiness when you have a sense of belonging.” It’s a nice enough sentiment that those lines stick with me.
It makes sense why his books have been so popular—these are things we all crave.
But for the entire speech, the right side of my body is pressed against Casey’s left, the heat of his body seeping into mine through our clothes.
I have the guy on the other side of me and his inability to understand basic physics to thank for that.
But I can’t say I mind. About halfway through the speech, I allow myself to relax into Casey, and I can feel him doing the same, as if a great sigh leaves his body and something in him has settled with it.
When the speech is over, people start to line up for the book signing, but Casey stays seated. He looks over at me with his poker face back in place, but there’s something behind his dark eyes I can’t identify.
I dip my chin at the book sticking out of his bag. “Don’t you want to get that signed?” I smile softly. “Not every day you meet a bestselling author.”
His gaze dips to the book then back to me, not an ounce of humor in his expression. “That was the plan.”
“Then you should get in line.”
He nods but doesn’t move. “What are you going to do for the rest of the day?”
I check my watch. If I hurry, I can probably still make it to the library to do an hour or so of work before it closes. “I was going to do some sight-seeing.”
At that, he gives me a small smile. “Going to watch another mountain sunset and wish you could write about it?”
It’s not like it would take a lot of brain power to remember our conversation from a few days ago, but my heart skips a beat all the same. It’s the thoughtfulness. The attention to detail he always has, with his manuscripts and his life. It’s touching.
I force a little laugh around the unexpected emotion welling in my chest. “I was more thinking about heading to the Denver library and taking a look at everything from this weekend. Maybe making some debut writer’s day, but I’m not opposed to catching one last sunset.”
Casey narrows his eyes and purses his lips. “You’re not going to die on the airplane.”
Snorting, I shake my head slowly. “That’s not what I meant, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He pauses for a moment. “Are you nervous about your flight?”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s just looking for excuses to keep me here at this point.
But I’m sure he’s just asking to be polite given my near meltdown during takeoff a few days ago.
I think about it for a minute, tilting my head and watching as his gaze dips to my hands in my lap, then back to my face.
“Less nervous about this one than the last.” And I have him to thank for that. I hope he understands that’s what I’m implying.
He smiles broadly. Of course he understands. He was always good at reading between the lines.
“Good,” he says as he finally leans forward to take the book out of his bag. “Let’s not let it be another year before we talk.”
Talk. Sure. That’s absolutely not what we’ll be doing, and he knows it. “It won’t be, I promise.”
We both stand, and then there’s the dreaded moment where it’s clear neither of us is exactly sure if we’re supposed to hug or shake hands or just go our separate ways. I settle for a small wave. “See you soon, Casey.”
“I hope so,” he says before joining the line. And those three words are so intense, I’m sure he really means it.
In my life, I make it a point not to look back. What’s done is done, and there isn’t much use in rehashing old hurts. It’s probably why I haven’t been to therapy since I had been forced to go as a kid, even though I arguably should if the state of my nails is any indication.
But I prefer a more biblical approach—don’t look back lest you be turned into a pillar of salt.
It’s one of the rules I have for myself, sandwiched between never spend the night at a guy’s place and don’t catch feelings.
I broke one of those rules with Casey once, and with the stark reminder that falling for each other would risk our jobs and our reputations, I narrowly avoided breaking another.
And now, I break the third. As I walk out of the room and into the hallway, I pause and take a deep breath, turning around to find Casey as he stands in line.
He’s looking at me, and when our gazes lock, he smiles almost guiltily, as if he didn’t intend to get caught watching me walk away. He lifts his palm to wave sheepishly. I do the same.
When I continue on my way, I try to put an extra sway in my hips to give him a show now that I know he’s looking, but I can’t. I feel too stiff. Like a pillar of salt.
The Denver Central Library is a massive building with a gray and reddish exterior and what looks like several sections—including a large cylindrical piece—placed together with the Denver skyline stretching up behind it.
It’s a stunning piece of architecture, and I wish I knew more about the building so I could appreciate it fully.
Once inside, it’s clear that whoever worked on the massive renovations a few years ago was someone who loved libraries as much as I do.
The huge staircases look like they’re out of a storybook.
When you’re standing in the lobby and looking up, it’s almost unclear where they lead.
So I hike my bag up further on my shoulder and pick one, ascending to the next level and wandering around.
Most of the spaces are typical of a library—wooden bookcases lined with books covered in plastic to improve their longevity, desks and armchairs for studying and reading.
I take a look inside the children’s area which, like everything else in the building, is large and impressive.
The library closes in about an hour and a half, and it’s still packed with kids and their families.
I find a quieter corner and settle into an empty table and pull out my laptop, determined to send a few emails and manage the rest of my queries.
This conference hasn’t been a total loss, though I hate to admit it.
I have notes on a few authors I’d like to request a full manuscript from, and I was able to meet a few who had sent queries I previously thought I’d reject but who are now at the top of my list after meeting them and hearing more about their work.
It doesn’t take long to send those messages, and I immediately close out of my email after doing so.
Writers are an excitable bunch, especially those in the query trenches.
More often than not, I’ve found that they’re waiting by their email holding their breaths.
When I send requests for full manuscripts, they usually send them within an hour, if not mere moments after I hit Send myself.
If I see one come in, I’ll start reading immediately and then I won’t get anything else done.
I want to be sure I take a look at Imani’s query before getting back to Chicago.
Something about the way she was glaring at me before I started my first pitch session the other day is bothering me.
Rejection is hard, but I can’t shake the feeling that she was upset about more than just being told “no.” Suzanna would tell me not to sweat it, that we can only be swayed by an excellent manuscript, not by the feelings of the author who wrote it.
She’s probably right on some level, but the interaction still left a bad taste in my mouth, and I have plenty of time now to skim over her query and send her some feedback.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Imani’s query and the first few chapters of her manuscript are as polished and put-together as she is.
Frankly, they’re riveting. As I told her, I’m not much of one for young adult, and especially not fantasy, but she has a brilliant way with words.
Her storytelling is impassioned and clearly the result of someone who has spent a lot of time working on their craft.
I’m almost sad I can’t represent her. She has a lot of talent.
I write up a message telling her as much and then fire off a few emails to others at the agency who represent young adult, including Isabella.