Fake Relationship
“We met at a craft fair outside of Sturbridge a couple of months ago. It was pilgrim-themed—neither of us knew.”
I grip my hot chocolate spiked with brandy. We’re in the lounge of a restaurant two doors down from the hotel. My foot is
elevated, soothed by a bag of ice wrapped in a white napkin, lint already clinging to the hem of my black pants, confirming
my need to leave a substantial tip for the bartender in my hotel.
I urge Brad to continue.
“Have you ever seen a chair built out of dried corn cobs? Here, wait, I think I have a picture.” He pulls his phone from his
pocket, and my nostrils flare. He sets it back down beside him. “Right, so pilgrims. Fantasy romance and apocalyptic worms
devouring the earth are not their bag, it turns out.”
“Hartley writes about apocalyptic worms?”
“She better not! That’s my claim to fame.”
What is going on here? I should leave. Now. Confront Hartley and . . . and do what, exactly? This isn’t illegal, it’s not even frowned upon by everyone. It’s just a game, one that will quite possibly play out in her favor. I try not to clench my jaw as I press on. “You’re a writer, then?”
“Or do I just play one on TV?”
“Are you for real?”
“Are you? Is any of this? The Matrix meets The Truman Show —a premise I’m spinning and—”
“You’re... strange,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Brad has a round velvet pillow on his thighs and clutches another against his chest for warmth. He ordered a double espresso,
which would keep me awake for a week straight at this hour, though I’m not exactly sure what hour this is.
I check my watch, but it’s a black box, out of charge. “Let’s speed this up. Whatever time it is, I know it’s late. I have
the Jam Session breakfast and my book launch, and—”
A lump swells in my throat. My final Feathers and Stone book launch is today, and it’s about to be ruined by Hartley and Brad.
“Of course,” Brad says, either not recognizing or choosing not to acknowledge the pained look on my face. “Where were we?”
“You were a plant.” I raise my palm. “And no going on about what kind of plant you would be if you were an actual plant or
how much to fertilize this here ficus or whatever this is.” I gesture to the green-leafed plant on the coffee table between
us.
“Money plant.”
I’m not surprised, but whatever she paid him, I can pay more if it comes to that. “How much?”
“No, not me, that.” He points to the round leaves. “That’s a money plant. The shape of the leaves was thought to resemble
coins and so—”
The thinning of my lips is enough to curtail his tangent.
He sips his espresso, his large hands grasping the tiny mug like he’s raided the kitchen of a dollhouse. “Sorry, I’m a nervous
talker.”
“I make you nervous?”
“This whole thing makes me nervous.”
“Which brings us back to what this whole thing is.”
“Sure, sure.” Brad picks up his espresso and the story. “The craft fair. We had side-by-side tables, and some of the pilgrims
would occasionally pause to listen to our pitches. I even made a sale. But I’m pretty sure the woman thought she was buying
a gardening book. She pointed to the worms on the cover and asked if I’d included specific pH levels of the soil.”
His lips turn up in apology and his cheekbones rise even higher. I could use them for Brianna/Sylvia/Laurel’s love interest.
Except I’ve just decided that Brianna/Sylvia/Laurel is going to be the Boston ballet dancer who wants to adopt a dog because
I am a great author and I am up for the challenge that comes with plotting Pick Me . I’ll need a name for her love interest—the comedian. With it being a contemporary novel, his name needs to be unique enough
for readers to see him as dreamy but familiar enough that he could be their dream. Not a Brad. But Bradford? Fordham? Ford? If I’d kept Brianna/Sylvia/Laurel in Palladium, her love interest’s name
would have to be something less recognizable. Bragger? Hammel? Hammel. Rhyme it? Laurel and Hammel?
“You’re in it, aren’t you?” Brad says, jarring me back from the place I’d rather be.
“I’m sorry?”
“Woolgathering, my grandmother used to call it. When your body is in this world but your mind is off in another. I used to think everyone did it. I was in college when I took my first creative writing class and realized not everyone goes through their day cataloging gaits and speech affectations and eyelash lengths to employ later. I’d spend the first half of every frat party hugging the walls, inventing backstories for everyone there. Still do.”
“At frat parties?”
“Less so. But...” Brad gestures to the table behind us. “See that server with the shaved patch behind his left ear? I’ve
been coming up with the reason why since we walked in the door.”
I inspect the man in a white shirt and tan apron holding a flip notepad. Average build, a brown bowl of a haircut. He turns,
and I see it, the bare patch of skin reflecting the light.
“Go for it,” I say, challenging him. “And it better not be a biopsy. Or to give a lock to his sweetheart before he goes off
to war.”
“Please, amateur hour.” Brad sets his espresso down. “The spot makes you think brain.”
“Naturally.”
“Communication.”
“Possibly.”
“Or a portal.”
“Go on.” I lean forward, and the ice falls from my foot. Brad reaches for the dripping bag. He wraps it in his own napkin
and gently sets it back over my toes. I once again notice the compass rose tattoo on his wrist.
“I’m partial to aliens, always, but he just doesn’t look the type. To be one or to have been abducted by one. Something about
the way he moves, with confidence but clocking everything around him—and everyone.”
“Time travel,” we say at the same time.
“He’s here to find someone,” Brad says.
“Kill someone,” I say.
“Or stop the killing of someone.”
“To save the world.”
“And his lover.”
“Child!” Again, that’s both of us, loudly.
My heart pumps pure adrenaline. I’ve never written with anyone else. After that first disastrous workshop and a handful more
like it, I stopped using critique partners. I don’t even bounce around ideas with Blaire. I could never understand writing
the way Tara Kara do. But now, my brain feels alive, craving more, to keep going.
“Okay, so you are a writer.” I hope Brad doesn’t pick up on the energy in my voice, though what we’ve just done together and the smirk on his
face says he already has. “Then you must understand the implications of what Hartley is doing. At the very least, how it makes
me feel—how it would make you feel. Yet, you’re still here?”
Brad tosses the pillows to the side and bends over his thighs. He presses his forearms into them, outlining the muscles beneath
his long-sleeved tee. He breathes in deeply, his chest broadening with his exhale, as if he’s struggling with what to say.
Extending the moment. Increasing the tension. Attempting to make me less inclined to want to smother him with one of those
pillows. It’s textbook—and I should know, I write romance for a living. But there’s nothing cute about this meeting.
“I’m here because she’s going to help me,” he says finally. “I’ve been at this for fifteen years, Sofie. Is it all right if
I call you Sofie?”
I nod, surprised at his admission.
“Well, to understand fully, you need to know that recently I’ve been mired in my very own existential crisis, one might say.”
“One who is melodramatic might.”
He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes lowering to the floor, and I almost feel bad—then remember he was a plant for Hartley.
“Melodrama,” he says. “From the Greek, the combination of music and drama, neither of which sound as bad alone. But together...
tanks a story. One of the many things we writers agonize over. To set a story in New York or in Chicago or on Mars? Present
day, near past, future? Is the character an introvert or an extrovert? Rich or poor? A sweetheart or a curmudgeon?”
“No.” I shake my head. “We’re not doing this.”
He ignores me and continues. “Do they kiss on a first date? Reclaim their stolen sword? Swallow poisonous nuts? Choices and
choices. Writing is not for the indecisive, is it? People don’t get it. The weight of making all those decisions on top of
choosing to write in the first place instead of doing a thousand other things. Time is not simply a construct for most of
us. The older I get, the more I find myself thinking of all the time I’ve spent writing and asking why? Have I wasted all
those hours? Will anything come of this? Is any of it worth it?”
“Writing is a job for which your salary is delayed,” I say automatically, one of my standard answers on panels when young
writers ask about combatting self-doubt. When pressed, I add what I say to Brad now, “And, yes, the hard truth is that sometimes
you write something that never earns you a monetary return. Or less than the cost of a new set of pots.”
“Sometimes?” He cocks his head. “Most of the time for us mere mortals. Which is who we all are. How arrogant am I to think I have anything to say? Anything worth not just my time to write but someone’s time to read? My words won’t cure cancer or stop school shootings. So why?” He shakes his head. “See? Existential crisis.” He sits back and hugs the pillow. “And along comes Hartley West. I haven’t read your books, I admit that. But I do know your story. Hartley told it to the pilgrims. It was the only thing that got them to pause braiding wheat long enough to give her book a once-over. I know you got yourself here by putting in the time. Butt in seat, like Hartley said at Harbor Books.”
“No, not like Hartley. Because it was my butt. One that is human not robotic.”
“Same here.” He pinches the skin on the back of his hand. “Though I guess that’s not entirely convincing.”
“Cylons,” I say.
“Nice pull. And that right there convinces me to read your books.”
“You should. Read them. They’re a phenomenon for a reason. In no small part because they were written by an actual person .”
“And we’re back to Hartley West.” He tucks his chin and glances at me from beneath stubby lashes, perfectly embodying the
subplot of sexual tension that every story needs. Is it possible he doesn’t realize how poorly this will work on someone who
does this for a living? (A very good living, at that.)
I laugh to let him know I’m fully aware that he’s playing me—me, a heterosexual middle-aged woman with pancake breasts and
gray pubic hairs who hasn’t had a relationship in nearly five years. But still has sex—I have sex regularly. Despite being
a middle-aged woman with pancake breasts and gray pubic hairs, that’s easy to do. Men are men, after all.
“Hartley?” I prod him to continue. “She’s helping you how?”
“She’s going to give my book to her agent.”
“Oh, Brad. She doesn’t have an agent.”
“She does now.”
“Who? Wait, don’t say it.”
“Max Donner.”
“I told you not to say it.” A groan escapes my lips. Max Donner is Blaire’s biggest rival. He represents Tara Kara. He tried
to lure me to him a year ago, saying I was a “talent this world has never seen before” and I deserve “an agent of equal ability”
who has an affection for “beauty of all forms.” He offered to lower his commission and get me attached as screenwriter to
whatever film deal we’d make. He made the same offer to Rosie. And Grace. Verbatim. Copy and paste is a dangerous thing. Authors
talk. Even me. (Though to be honest, I might have been loopy on cold medicine at the time.) That year, I gave Blaire a bonus.
I pick up my hot chocolate. “So she’s going to give your book to her agent.”
“Not just give. She’s going to make sure he signs me.”
Sure she is. “Uh-huh.”
“Listen, I’m not stupid. It’s a long shot, I know, but it’s sadly my best shot. Maybe my only shot. Fifteen years of manuscripts
living only on my computer, plus an existential crisis, Sofie.”
When he puts it like that, is it any worse than offering up a kidney or selling your grandmother’s engagement ring? Yes. Yes,
it is.
“Fine,” I say, “so she says she’ll give your career a boost and in exchange you do what, exactly?”
“Help her become the next Sofie Wilde. Though I’m pretty sure you ended up helping more than me.”
I take a sip of my drink, the only heat left the burn of the brandy. “She couldn’t have predicted my—”
“Self-sabotaging tirade.”
“Unfortunately captured industry critique.”
“Wordsmith, you are, indeed.”
I can’t tell if he’s purposely trying to distract me from learning the full truth or this is just who he is. Either way, I push on. “But before whatever help I gave her, Hartley must have had a plan. And that plan included everyone finding out she used AI to become ‘the next Sofie
Wilde.’ She arranged for you to prod that, to force her to tell the truth. She took advantage of the opportunity at Harbor
Books—”
Brad’s eyes dart.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. Go on. You’re doing great. Real understanding of human nature.”
“No. There’s something else...” All this ruminating allows my plotting brain to slot in the puzzle pieces. “#TheNextSofieWilde—she
started it? Along with the online fervor for us to meet in person? She did both of those things, didn’t she? Maybe not directly
but through intermediaries? Encouraging bookstagrammers and influencers and maybe even through her own fake accounts?”
Brad shrugs but mouths, “Yes.”
I’m disappointed in myself. I’m not even that calculating. (Yet.) “So she angled to get herself a platform grand enough that
word would spread fast. Hence the meetup at the Celebration of Sofie Wilde. Stories about writing using AI are commonplace
now. It wouldn’t get enough attention without her ‘confession’ spilling while she sat beside me. I understand that.” ( Admire it, even? ) “But what made her think that attention would be positive? It could have gone either way.”
“Perhaps, but when she talked about you to those pilgrims, they listened. Talking about you makes her come alive. You’ve seen
her, twice now. She has a way with words.”
I roll my eyes so hard it strains a muscle in my eyelid.
“You were there, Sofie, you saw that audience at Harbor Books. And earlier tonight. You heard the audience here. Hartley spun the answer to that question about cringeworthy comments better than anyone. Better than you.”
“Because she planned it. You gave the questions to Tara Kara. Which means Hartley gave them to you. She wrote that question
and she had AI write the response.”
“Even if she did, you’re missing the point. Whether they were her words or AI’s, they had exactly the effect on the audience
that she was going for.” Brad gestures to my foot before lifting off the ice. “She took a risk, perhaps, but one that’s paying
off.”
I swing my foot to the ground and test putting weight on it. “So she’s at Romance US. They added tonight’s panel and included
her because she’s trendy for a hot sec , as her precious AI would surely write. Maybe they’ll put her on a couple more panels, but her reach will only extend so
far. What does she think will happen when the convention ends and she’s out of the spotlight?”
Brad’s phone buzzes beside him. He looks at it, his face stoic, but then he signals for the server with the time-travel portal
patch. “This is on me.”
He signs the bill and trains his eyes on the floor as I pull on my beanie and loop my scarf around my neck. “What is it? What
aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. It’s not my place.”
“Which is it? Nothing or not your place? Because it can’t be both.”
He clutches his phone. “You’re going to find out in the morning anyway. I’m surprised your agent hasn’t already called.”
I tap my pockets before remembering. “Rosie took my phone when I went to the bar.”
“Smart. Maybe keep it that way? Get a good night’s sleep? And then tomorrow—”
“Just tell me.”
He reluctantly unlocks his phone, opens his text messages, and rotates the screen. Unlike me, he hasn’t made his font size
big enough to see from space, and I have to squint.
Hartley: I’m in.
Hartley: We’re in.
Hartley: They’re pulling her. The keynote is mine. Happy Thanksgiving, Coop!
My lungs squeeze like Jocelyn’s did when Callum appeared at Vance’s bedside, the boy he didn’t yet know was his exhaling shallow
foreboding breaths. The engagement ring from Torrence was still unfamiliar on her finger. She was convinced Callum was a ghost.
Ashamed how much, even in that ethereal form, she wanted him still.
This can’t be happening. If I lose that keynote, all my publisher is going to see is me on a downward trend. And downward
trends do not bode well for taking risks. They don’t even bode well for the status quo. Rosie told me to pick up a goddamn
sword. But swords are heavy.
“Phone,” I say, my voice cracking. Then again, louder, stronger. “Phone, now.”
I dial my own number. No answer. I could stop right here. Give Brad his phone. Go back to my room. Not bother with a heavy
sword that requires more hands, maybe find a small knife or really sharp tweezers? But all I can hear in my head is Would you mind signing it?
Yes, I would.
I’m still a meme. I can’t become another one. I begrudgingly dial again. And again and again and again until, finally, on the fourth call, she answers.
“What the hell? Who is this? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Time to form an army,” I say, somewhat dramatically, though meaning every word.
“Sofie?” Rosie says. “Where are you? Wait—are you safe? If you need me to call the police, say banana .”
“Banana? How exactly would I work in the word banana if I were being held hostage?”
“I’m hungry for a banana. I hope my mom feeds my pet monkey a banana. My ankle still hurts from tripping on that banana peel.
Come on, Sofie, you write for a living.” Rosie pauses. “Oh, was that it? Was that you using banana ? Stay on the line, I’m calling the police with the hotel room phone.”
“No, Rosie, no. I’m fine. I’m not being held hostage.”
“Sure, of course not,” she screams loud enough for her voice to be heard through the phone to my would-be kidnappers.
If only someone would whisk me away until the next Twitter scandal of author or agent or editor behaving badly relegates me
to quaint old news.
Or whisk Hartley away. She’s been here for a blink of an eye. If she disappears, scandal-seeking brains would easily forget,
I’m sure of that.
She needs to be whisked away. Now.
“Get the others.” The bitter taste of resentment rises up my throat, but I swallow it down. “Grace and Fiona. In your room.
Five minutes.” I ask for her room number and she gives it without hesitation.
“What is this about, Sofie?” Rosie says.
In a stream-of-consciousness burst, I tell her everything, including the apparent loss of my keynote.
“What. The. Actual. Living. Breathing. Fudge.” Despite the last part (crossover is ingrained), the venom in her tone chills even my iced toes. “I told you to fix it.”
“And I told you I couldn’t. I need—” oh, how I can hear Roxanne having a good laugh over this “—your help. All of you. We
have to do this together.”
“Do what?”
“Stop Hartley West.”