Romantic Friction

The Meet and Greet

A server wearing a Talk Wordy to Me tee sets an edible rainbow in the center of our table. Small macarons in bright pink and

yellow and green and blue call to me. It’s an Alice in Wonderland moment. I didn’t eat dinner. Nerves from expecting Hartley to walk in at any moment (she hasn’t yet). But also, my crisp

white blouse does not mix with wilted salad drenched in balsamic glaze any more than the deep-dish Chicago-style pizza aligns

with my gluten-free diet. Lacey had ordered a special meal for me, but she apparently doesn’t have the pull she once did.

Macarons, though, they’re gluten-free. I reach for a yellow one, the lemon zest wafting toward me, when the entire platter

disappears. Yanked to the far side of the table by Grace, a move that receives a conspiratorial nod from Fiona. If they think

starvation will help me invent a way to stop Hartley, they’ve never heard of Uber Eats.

Another server, this one in a When I Think About Books, I Touch My Shelf shirt, rounds the table offering final splashes of red or white wine. I’ve had neither, per Lacey’s instruction (read: command). But I haven’t eaten anything since the two hard-boiled eggs I brought on the plane, and I need calories if I’m going to make it through the rest of the night. I order a dirty martini with extra olives and shoot Grace a victorious smile.

No one has talked to me since we sat down an hour and a half ago. I may not be a social butterfly, but I’m also not a mute.

I can commiserate over bad reviews and chide my publicist (sorry, Lacey) with the best of them. Tonight, it’s like they all

signed a pact to ensure I’m extra chilly.

Honestly, what do they expect me to do? Bribe the New York Times ? Isn’t that Fiona’s area of expertise?

With a casual swivel of my neck, I check out what a server in a Reading a Good Book Is Like a Kidnapping of the Mind T-shirt

is dropping off at the author table next to us. Sad fruit cups, no macarons. If this were high school (and by the way, publishing

is totally high school), we’re the cool kids and they’re, well, not. We get the best panel time slots, our books are featured

on the event posters, and our rooms aren’t simply rooms but suites facing the lake.

I was one of the uncool just six years ago when I attended my first Romance US convention as an invited author. Not only did

I not get macarons, I didn’t even get the gooey fruit cup. I wasn’t included in the VIP dinner—I didn’t even know there was

a VIP dinner.

Back then, I was over the moon that they’d paid for my hotel room. (I had to shell out for the flight.) But I was here. Not

just at a convention but the convention. Every single one of my books would be sold by an actual bookseller without me having to ask (read: beg). No checking

two suitcases of my own books and having to make change myself. Fans had reached out ahead of time to tell me how excited

they were to meet me. I’d thought I’d arrived.

I would soon learn that I’d barely made it through the door. And that it was the first door of many. Some authors pay their own way, some get their hotel rooms comped, some receive an “honorarium” that involves no honor since one author may get a hundred bucks and another author three and another five. One author may be on a single panel, another on multiple panels, and others on multiple panels at the best times in the best venues. Author events are like chubby nesting dolls with hidden layers of ever-more exclusive perks and parties.

Well-known authors with larger fan bases get and can demand more. Inherently, that makes perfect sense. And yet, a lesser-known

author cannot become more well-known without exposure to more fans. A catch-22 that pervades every facet of publishing.

I slide forward in my chair, about to make a grab for some slimy pineapple, when Rosie lowers herself into the seat beside

me. She holds a plate of macarons. My fingers stretch out, and she draws the dish back.

“This is absurd,” I say. “You think withholding food will somehow motivate me when I can’t fix this anymore than any of you

can. I notice none of you has stepped onto the pulpit.”

She ignores me. “Did you hear? The post-dinner mingle is now a panel, followed by a signing.”

“But... it’s never a panel or a signing. This is a casual meet and greet.” I dig my phone out of my pocket. The din of

the room must have masked a call from Lacey, but the transcript of her voicemail confirms the change. It ends with a reminder

to “be nice,” that she surely knows will set off alarms in my head. “Did your publicist say why? Lacey didn’t.”

Rosie leans in, her chandelier earrings swaying. “Lacey must believe in that shooting-the-messenger thing.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. No. “Her? Why?”

“It seems Hartley West couldn’t get here in time for tonight’s dinner.”

Late again, like at Harbor Books. (This is what happens when there aren’t consequences for bad behavior.) I scoff. “And so

that translates into needing a full panel?”

“A bunch of people standing around mingling isn’t exactly the most exciting content. They’re going to film the panel and break

it down for reels or something.”

“Film it?” I’ve been doing this long enough that instead of nerves, I get a surge of adrenaline. But that’s not the case for

everyone. Like the two first-time attending authors at the table beside ours who cowrite as “Tara Kara.” The editor who let

them get away with that name mashup is totally phoning it in. I gesture to them. “They’ll be eaten alive.”

“I’m not so sure. They’re super popular online. They started as bookstagrammers before they signed with that snake from LA.

Perfected this Adam Levine–as books Instagram account, matching book covers with photos of him, mostly bare chested. Stellar

following, obviously. Not to mention their writing-tip videos do tremendously well. They’re definitely comfortable in front

of a camera. Still, they weren’t invited to be on the panel.”

See? High school.

“Then who was?” I ask.

Rosie sweeps her hand across our table like a game show model. “Told you this affects all of us. She can’t be normalized, Sofie. This is the start of something that will change everything. Who are we . . .” She trains her eyes on me. Her hard confidence slides away to a look of sadness. “Who are we without all of this? And I don’t mean this.” She places the macarons in front of me and gestures to the room. “The conventions and the cosplay and the book trailers where some muscled general from the future disguised as a potato farmer rescues Fiona from a leviathan-filled swamp. I mean this .” Rosie taps a closed fist against the middle of her chest. “We write because we breathe. Take one away, and we cease to

exist. I would cease to exist. And I know the same is true for you.”

A cold rush of goose bumps tingles my skin. If this were a movie, I would clutch both of her hands, swear allegiance, promise

we will fight the good fight, we will prevail, we will band together to conquer the enemy heading our way. Exactly the effect

Rosie is trying so very hard to achieve. As I said, she’s better than me.

“How many revisions on that?” I ask, reaching for a lemon macaron.

Rosie shrugs. “Only one. Truly, it writes itself.” She holds up her hand, and I notice how goiter-free her skin is. “I take

that back.”

I bite into the pastry. The tangy curd filling wakes up my taste buds and the sugar sharpens my mind. “I do understand the

danger. It is me she’s writing as. Maybe it will come for all of you, but right now, I’m the meme. I’m the one whose banner

is in a dumpster. I’m the one whose final book in a series that makes menopausal women feel seen is being overshadowed by

a hack. If there’s a fight here, it’s mine.”

“Then pick up a goddamn sword.” Rosie points to the macarons. “And try an orange one. The marmalade inside is orgasmic.”

Laughter buoys the entire ballroom. Fiona is a better storyteller in person than she is in her books, and that’s what’s required

on a panel such as this one. This audience is not made up of fans but experts, steeped in our books and us.

From this elevated stage, the hundred and fifty readers still seated at their round dinner tables wait in anticipation for us to share a secret, tell them something they can’t read online or haven’t already heard at the half dozen other conventions they’ve attended. If we rehashed our inspiration, our writing process, our favorite scenes, our most beloved characters to write, they’d know, and there’d be a mutiny.

And so we remove our author hats, grab a whip and a chair, and become lion tamers.

To be democratic, we’re seated in alphabetical order, which means, I’m on the far end, Hartley beside me. She appeared right

before the panel began, giving her no chance to interact with any of us. She’s upped her game. A cardigan still drapes over

her shoulders, though no longer crocheted and with nary a dangling pom-pom. Her skirt is now a dress, still flowered, but

at least this time no underwear is showing, the colors match, the quality of the fabric is less thrift store and more Macy’s,

possibly even Neiman Marcus—especially the shoes. Black boots of leather so supple I want to pet them. Someone’s celebrating

their uptick in sales.

Tara of “Tara Kara” clinks the microphone against her teeth. The sound reverberates through the room. “Super sorry!” she cries.

“Wee bit excited to be here. I mean, come on .” She points at the five of us on stage, and her mouth drops open. Apparently after a call from their agent, she and Kara,

were asked to moderate tonight’s Q&A. I’m not sure if they’re good at acting dumb or if there’s no acting involved.

The audience wrote questions on index cards during dinner and dropped them in a heart-shaped box. Tara Kara has been posing

things to us for the past forty-five minutes. This question needs to be the final one if we’re going to get to bed at a decent

hour. I’m mildly nauseous, having eaten a dozen macarons for dinner, and a little post-climactic hazy (Rosie was right about

that marmalade).

Tara digs into the box, making a show of feeling around, as if willing the perfect one to manifest into existence, though from my angle I can see the cards with the actual questions, chosen in advance, in her lap. Before we started, I caught the tall guy in the red volunteer shirt from earlier handing over the cards. Tara conceals the true questions with a copy of her book. Maybe not so dumb then, recognizing the opportunity for self-promotion.

“Aha, here we go!” Tara sweeps her arm in the air and flutters the planted card. “Ooh, a saucy one! Is this the best audience

ever or is this the best audience EVA !”

The crowd erupts.

Okay, so Tara has definitely been coached. Granted, by someone who apparently also casted The Mickey Mouse Club , but still.

Kara leans in to read the card and then tilts her head toward the mic. “She’s not kidding, y’all.”

Y’all . She’s from Vermont.

Tara drapes her arm around Kara, and one of the sequins on her shirt gets caught in Kara’s hair. They’re young enough to wear

sequins—metallics too, maybe even together—and get away with it.

Tara frees her sparkly sequin and nestles the microphone between her and Kara. Together, they read the card: “What’s the most

cringey thing anyone’s ever said to you at an event?”

It’s as if a stiff wind has blown through. This is a minefield of a question and one that should never be asked—especially

without warning. Especially of me right now. My fans need a reason to forgive me and to be behind a shift in my brand, not

to worry that I’ll use their excited utterings against them as an amusing panel anecdote.

But it’s not just me who’s unnerved. I swear I can hear the wheels spinning in each of our heads as we wrack our brains for a semi-truthful response that won’t offend, for one that won’t take this PG-13 event straight into triple X. I need time, more time to invent an answer that ticks all the safe buckets but still entertains, still delights, and I beg Tara Kara to see the fear gripping my face and start at the far end with Grace, because it’s her turn, isn’t it?

“Sofie, since you’re about to go on tour, would you like to kick us off?” Tara or Kara says this, and I don’t know which because

I’m so pissed I can’t see straight.

I scooch to the edge of the chair, sending the pillow I’d requested for height off the edge. I clench my thighs together to

keep it in place. “‘I’m your biggest fan’?” I say, miming the swing of an axe.

Tara guffaws. “We’ve all gotten that one! Come on, Sofie, dig a little!”

Kara grins smugly. Apparently, this is what happens when you don’t make author friends.

Always qualified. “Author” friend. “Writer” friend. Because this is a business of rivals. Like overhead space on a plane,

success is limited. Agents max out on the number of clients they can service. For bookstores to carry a new title on their

shelves, they have to roll off an old one. Publishers do not have endless stacks of “major” deals to hand out like lollipops

at the gas station. If your “author friend” gets a million dollars from a particular publisher, odds are, you won’t. You’ll

get that “nice deal” of three grand for literally years of work. You can’t be “friend friends” with someone whose gain increases

your chance of loss. Still, not having author friends means they delight in watching you squirm. I have renewed respect for

Tara Kara.

My brain continues to whirl through my rolodex of inappropriate comments made at events over the years. Can I sign my own boobs for a photo, how do I enjoy the kiddie rides at Disney World, have I masturbated while writing Torrence or Callum or—my god, Vance?

I stop the grinding of my teeth and smile. “Let’s just be honest, here, there’s no way I’m telling you the most cringeworthy

thing, because I signed a morality clause as part of my contract!”

I mean this as a joke (even though it’s true), but the audience doesn’t quite follow, until, from the middle of the table,

Rosie slaps her hand against her thigh and offers a hearty chuckle. I see her nudge Grace, and she joins in, followed by Fiona

and Tara Kara. The fans all laugh and beside me, Hartley offers a polite smile that for some reason makes my hands sweat.

Biting my bottom lip, I glance down the table at my fellow authors, as if I’m trying hard to remember the details, though

I haven’t forgotten a thing despite it being several years ago. “I don’t believe any of you were there. It was a good size

festival, but not huge, something I was grateful for because I was still getting my feet under me.” I gesture beneath the

table where only my toes reach the floor, inciting a few giggles. “Anyway, after my panel, I was browsing the books for sale.

The local store had stocked our titles, including most of our backlist, though they wouldn’t allow any of my self-published

ones.”

Awws and even a “snob!” comes from the crowd.

Whoosh goes my whip. I’ve got them .

“No, it’s okay. Inventory costs money, I understood that, even then. In fact, I was thanking the bookseller for bringing in so many great books. As I flipped through a young adult fantasy about a modern-day genie, the bookstore employee—the owner, for full clarity—asked what I wrote. I pointed to my book, the second Jocelyn at the time, and the woman picked it up. She said, and I quote, ‘Yeah, I read romance sometimes. Well, not read, listen to the audio, you know, while unpacking the dishwasher or running on the treadmill or watching TV, when I don’t have to pay attention because the writing’s, well, you know. It’s not like it’s War and Peace .”

Silence, complete and total silence. And then someone cries, “My word!”

The bookstore owner actually said “James Patterson.” I love Mr. Patterson’s books. I grew up reading them. And today? He celebrates

authors whose voices haven’t been traditionally heard and lifts up bookstores. Every year, James Patterson gifts half a million

dollars to help indie bookstores stay in business. This isn’t a slight against James Patterson. But if I use his name, that’s

all anyone will think. (See, Lacey, an old dog can learn new tricks.)

“Let’s be clear, this story is not about War and Peace . It’s not even about me.” (Or Mr. Patterson.) “But it is about respect. For art. For an author’s hard work. But also for

the reader. Books are books are books. Subjectively—wonderfully subjectively—loved. Without subjectivity, we wouldn’t have

so many books in the world, and more books is the best thing.” I glance at Tara Kara. “Eva.”

Applause to the rafters, and I toss my self-satisfied smile to Tara Kara. I’ve just taught them a little something about experience

and respecting one’s elders.

And then Hartley West clears her throat. “I couldn’t agree more,” she says with a hint of a tremble beneath her words that takes me back to when I was surrounded by those bassoon-voiced men, trying to not be overlooked. Up until now, she’s only answered the questions posed directly to her, keeping her answers to a minimum. This is the first time she’s engaged in conversation. “I don’t have the breadth of experience these authors do. I can count the number of book events I’ve been lucky to do on one hand. I can only imagine what may come and hope I can handle it with the deference and skill that I’m sure these authors have.”

“You will,” Rosie says. “Shall we—

“I’m not done,” Hartley says curtly.

As well-trained as we are, a couple of eyebrows rise at the author table. I feel the downturn of my lips and fight against

it.

“My apologies,” Hartley says, more to the audience than to Rosie. “This is all so surreal. To be here in front of all of you.

With these authors. I never imagined it. I also never imagined what being here would cost me.” She turns to me. “I said I

hoped that I would handle difficult reader situations with skill, but I never expected that it would be a difficult situation

with a fellow author that would serve as my training ground.”

Oh, no, she’s not... she’s not doing this. Not here.

Her hand slips into her pocket and she extracts her phone.

Holy. Shit.

She taps the screen. “A coward’s move. A brainless coward’s move.”

From Hartley’s other side, Rosie slants forward the tiniest bit and her hair falls forward, shielding her face from the audience

but letting me see her eyes. And the urgency in them.

In addition to that reel for my fans, a formal statement of apology for my behavior was extended via my social media and website

to all those whom I disparaged. The honorable thing to do, I suppose, was to seek Hartley out and offer a direct apology—even

though I’ve yet to receive one from her for stealing my work.

Still, “brainless coward”... something doesn’t have to be untrue to be unkind.

“Hartley,” I say, “my regret over that moment, of those words, is profound.”

She shoves herself back from the table, her long torso and legs and heels of those gorgeous boots pushing her into another stratosphere. “Wait, Sofie. I’m not sure all of these readers recognized what you did right there. I very much believe they’re smart enough, but they haven’t studied you and your words the way I have. The way you can say something and mean another. Or not mean anything at all.”

“Oh, come on, let’s call what you did what it is: stealing!” a heckler shouts and I want to kiss them—sorry, that’s inappropriate.

Tip? Can I tip them?

Hartley draws in a breath and places her hand on her chest. Her fingernails are freshly gelled in a dark brown that matches

the horse on her cover. I want to bring Rosie’s attention to this copycat move, but she’s staring straight ahead.

“That’s what some think,” Hartley says. “Thief, imposter, fraud, I’ve been called it all. Fortunately, my self-worth does

not depend on strangers. I approach every negative article and comment as a chance to glean something I can apply to make

my work and myself better.”

A smattering of applause, but someone cuts through with a “But it’s not your work!”

Do I have any hundreds in my wallet?

Hartley shakes her head, her silver hair trailing across her face, but she rights herself, brushes her locks behind her ears

and doesn’t back down. “You know, I’ve been thinking. And I realized something that no one’s brought up. Which I’d know. I

told you, I’ve read it all.” She laughs softly, letting it fade like a wisp of steam above a hot teacup. “ Stupid is not a nice word. We all know that. But what about untrained ? Is there anything wrong with that? Not inherently, I’d say. I’m untrained in lots and lots and lots of things. Plumbing,

changing a car battery, downhill skiing. And what do we do nowadays when we need to become trained?”

“YouTube!” someone cries.

“TikTok!” from another.

Hartley nods vigorously. “Apps I use, same as all of you.” Hartley pauses as if to show the audience how alike they are, and

my hackles begin to rise. “And now, there’s something else, isn’t there? AI? Just the latest in a string of new technology

for us to learn from. Something I used because I was in a very dark place. I found the light because of Sofie Wilde. I loved Sofie Wilde.”

Emphasis on loved , past tense, in case you missed it.

“I’m embarrassed to say that I became a tad obsessed. The books weren’t enough. Reading and rereading... Sofie had become

a constant in my life, and I didn’t want that to end. She doesn’t reply to comments online, she doesn’t DM with her fans.”

Because I’m writing. You know, doing my job. I force myself to keep smiling.

“At first,” Hartley says, “using the AI was almost like a way to talk with Sofie. This may sound strange, but reading her

books felt like getting advice from someone I trusted and admired.”

Nods in the audience. A “Same” and a “Ooh, yes,” which seem to encourage Hartley.

She continues, “Life gets hard... My life was getting hard, and I felt like Sofie just might be able to help. I craved

Sofie’s advice, the things her books would teach me if only there were more of them. So I used AI to get more of Sofie’s words.

But then her words started to mingle with mine. You all know this, you’ve heard it already. Except what you’ve heard is that

I used AI to write like Sofie Wilde. That’s only one piece of the narrative. Another piece, what I, myself, didn’t fully understand

until all of this attention found me is this: I may have been untrained in writing, but I wasn’t untrained in story. I know story. Which is why I loved Sofie Wilde! But Sofie didn’t become Sofie Wilde all by herself. She has an agent and a publicist and an editor. Critique partners and beta readers.”

No, I don’t.

“You’ve seen author acknowledgments, haven’t you? Oscar speeches name less people. Authors like Sofie have a whole team who

know story and what can make her stories better. Talk about stacking the deck against those of us who can’t get a foot in

the door.” She dips her chin. “Fortunately, my understanding of story is strong. And AI allowed me to be more efficient than

most authors because I cut out the middlemen.”

Middlemen? Did she just call me and the rest of publishing “middlemen”? Good luck getting an agent or editor now, Hartley.

She continues, “I used AI to write Love and Lawlessness , yes, I did. And then I took what I coaxed that AI to write and I edited the living heck out of it.”

Heck. Even Hartley West is attuned to crossover readers.

“I made it what it is today. Me. This is a collaboration no different from what all these talented women have been doing with their teams of experts for years.

Except maybe being faster than the average two-year lead time.” She smiles with a confidence she has not yet shown. She’s

being intentional now. She’s clearly learned the art of embellishing stories to appeal to the crowd since Harbor Books. “But

I’m not just a member of the team.” My god, she orchestrated this. Every piece of the puzzle. “I am the team—it’s me, and

only me, in the finished work. And I, for one, think readers are smart enough to see that.”

A cacophony of sound—chairs sliding and forks tines clinking glass and a few “Yeah, we are,” and even an “I love you!” followed

by applause as loud as the roar of a jet.

Hartley West has become a performer. And she’s just gotten a standing ovation.

She takes two steps back from our table and—no, she wouldn’t. She does. She bows.

While Hartley’s head hangs down, the hot stare of every set of eyes on this stage—including Tara Kara’s—lasers in on me. Heat

blooms in my own eyes, and together we could light the stage on fire. We are not friends. But we don’t have to be friends

to be of one mind. With a gentle tuck of my chin, I nod at Rosie, Grace, and Fiona. We all then arrange our faces into supportive

smiles, Grace even getting to her feet and aiming a few claps in Hartley’s direction.

Not a resting bitch face in sight. You don’t have to look like a bitch to take one down. Which is exactly what I’m going to

do.