Romantic Friction

Tropes and Why We Use Them

“That’s ridiculous,” Fiona says, chomping on fifteen-dollar potato chips from the minibar that the convention will pay for

without even asking because we’re in Rosie’s room. “One, we’d need a goat, and two, we’d need a goat . Next.”

“A goat is easier to get than a box of hand grenades,” Grace says.

“Really?” Fiona snorts. “Have you watched the news? We Americans love our firearms. Walmart, here we come.”

“Grenades aren’t firearms.”

“A fact gleaned from your extensive military training, no doubt.”

Grace paces the room, the hem of the yoga pants she borrowed from Rosie skimming her calves. “Then we’re back to hiring a

professional. It’s Chicago, isn’t this the birthplace of the mafia?”

Fiona smacks her leg, which echoes in my thighs. “Of course, why, they must advertise in the Yellow Pages. 1-800-Mobsters-R-Us!

Quick, give me a phone book!” She frowns. “Wait, sorry, we’re not in a Scorsese movie or the Prohibition era.”

Apparently, Fiona shifts into sarcasm when she doesn’t get enough sleep. She shakes her head. “Almost had it though!” She hits her leg again, and I try not to wince. At some point, her feet went from butting up against my leg to full on in my lap. Rosie has been eyeing me, testing me, but I’ve left Fiona’s feet right where they are. (Fortunately, she has lovely feet.)

“Although,” Fiona says, as if getting an idea, “we are in the right place. This hotel has a hidden speakeasy. We all went

on a tour last convention, remember?”

The others nod, and I stare at my cuticles. I didn’t go. Or maybe I wasn’t invited.

Fiona glosses over it. “Under renovations, they said when I checked in. The work’s done, but they’re waiting for the city

to inspect it, so it’s not reopened yet. They’re hoping to make it the place to be, same as it was during Prohibition. We all know Sofie would have lived there.”

I ignore her and say again, “Food. I still think this centers on food, somehow.”

“Like ET?” Grace says. “Set out some Reese’s and she’ll follow? Are we really this uncreative? Isn’t this what we do?”

I yawn, setting off a chain reaction of mouths opening. “I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. What’s your excuse?”

“Being woken at three in the morning?”

“Four,” I say. “It was four.”

“Ten to four, to be precise.”

We’ve been at it for three hours, and we’re no closer to a successful kidnapping plot than we were when we started. And half

of us are due at the Jam Session breakfast in less than an hour.

We didn’t just jump in. Debate did follow my declaration. Outrage and disbelief (Fiona). Ethics and morals (Rosie). Desperation and foolishness (Grace). Silence and admiration (at least I think that’s what it was) (Cooper-Brad). And yet, no other solution came.

So here we are. Kidnapping. Stellar storytelling, really. It solves one thing but creates a host of new obstacles. But those

obstacles are future Sofie’s problem. Full immersion will lead to epiphanies that will lead to the way out, same as it does

with writing.

“This isn’t going to work, is it?” Fiona says. “We’re authors, not criminals.”

We couldn’t even play them on TV, as Cooper-Brad would say.

Cooper-Brad. He’s been dozing on and off in the chair beside Rosie’s bed as we’ve been hashing ill-conceived plans in the living room

of the suite. Cooper-Brad.

And ... this is why I’m a plantser. Only when the quicksand reaches your waist do you think to use your bra as a lasso.

Cooper-Brad and Hartley are friends—maybe only craft-fair friends but friends nevertheless. They’re also coconspirators. They

had a deal. We’re the ones buttering his bread now, and not just a little. If Hartley were a dab, we’re an entire stick. Of

the good stuff, artisan, maybe Irish, not store brand. He promised not to rat us out. But he owes us— me —more than that. And I just figured out how he can start living up to his end of the bargain.

I shove Fiona’s bare feet off my lap. Little white flowers swirl on her red toenails. She does them herself, and I understand

why her books meander. If she only spent more time revising than painting her toenails, maybe she wouldn’t have to manipulate

the list to land herself on it.

“Cooper,” I say loudly. I forget about my bruised foot and put full weight on it, wincing. I ease off as I walk toward the

open pocket door separating the two rooms.

His left eye cracks open.

“Cooper,” I repeat. “You, in here, now.”

Both of his eyes flutter open. He reaches for something on the floor, and I realize it’s my book. He folds down the top corner

of the page (sacrilege!). He’s nearly halfway through, which means he hasn’t dozed as much as I thought. He’s been reading.

A flush starts at my neck, and I spin away from him. Rosie stares straight at me. She’s been mostly silent, weighing in only

to curtail our most ludicrous ideas. I honestly didn’t realize how creative Fiona could be. I only read her first book. And

by read, I mean skimmed. And by skimmed, I mean flipped through it on my phone while on the toilet. (Oh, please, you all do

it.)

“Esteemed authors,” Cooper-Brad says as he nods to the room. “Any coffee pods left?”

Rosie points to a box of fifty that housekeeping delivered an hour ago. She’s made a dent in it all by herself and I’m not

sure how she’s not using these walls like a bouncy house right now. “Help yourself. Anything but the hazelnut.”

“Gotcha. I’ve got plenty in my room. Hartley’s allergic. Didn’t even want them in her suite.”

“She has a suite?” Grace says. “What? Did this woman train under Elizabeth Holmes?”

I watch as Cooper-Brad tears back the covering on two pods. He presses down the grounds in the first to make room and dumps

in as many grounds from the second as he can fit. Rosie watches me watching him and I want to tell her to knock it off, but

I don’t know what she’s going to ask for in exchange for helping me and I don’t want to give her more ammunition to make the

request even grander.

Once Cooper-Brad settles himself in the corner of the sofa, likely still warm from my tush, I begin. “My editor’s always telling me to simplify. Even with an epic tale over ten books, threads don’t have to be complicated to have complexity. The answer has been right here.” I tilt my head. “Cooper and Hartley are friends of a sort. Business partners, and in her mind, still are. She doesn’t know he’s here with us. She’d have no reason to suspect he’s not her puppet still.”

Cooper-Brad raises a finger. “I prefer yes-man.”

I stifle my laugh. Cooper-Brad is still the enemy (and I’m not wearing a Depends).

Fiona sits up straighter, her green eyes darting between us. “I like where this is going.”

“All we need to do is have Cooper ask Hartley to meet him. Say he has some new information about me. A way to upstage me.

There’s no way she doesn’t come running, that silver hair of hers flowing behind her, same as her tacky flowered dress.”

Fiona nods. “She shows up to his room. He lets her in—and we’ve got her.”

Grace says, “Lacks originality, but it’ll work. So what, we need rope, a hood, and duct tape?”

“A hood is stifling,” Fiona says. “I wore one for two days to understand how my potato farmer would feel when Princess Ciara

crammed him into her travel trunk on the way to the Isle of Forbidden Teeth.” Fiona taps her lip. “Muzzle? Less constricting.

Maybe there’s a pet store close by.” She pulls out her phone.

Cooper-Brad places his coffee on the table. “A lesson in craft right here. As much as I appreciate learning from masters,

you’ll have to find another way. I’m not committing a felony.”

Fiona laughs. “Of course not. We’re not asking you to kill her. Are we?”

Grace’s brow crinkles before easing into a patronizing look. “Fiona, there are other felonies besides murder.”

“I know that.” She bites her bottom lip in a way that proves she didn’t know that at all. “Like what, for example?”

“Like this. Kidnapping,” Cooper-Brad says. “I can’t be a part of it.”

“But we’re not committing a crime,” Fiona says. “We’re just stopping Hartley from doing the keynote. We’ll let her go after.”

Grace opens her mouth but no words come out. She’s rethinking this. I should be too. Because when you put it like that, we

are planning a crime. An actual crime.

I turn to Rosie. She gets up and walks to the window of the suite. I join her, and together we look down on the entrance plaza

to the convention center. It is a sea of aquamarine. Scarves hang about the necks of dozens of women. In honor of me and the

final Jocelyn. A lump forms in my throat.

And then the crowd waiting for the doors to open parts. Hartley strolls to the center of the group, and just before they surround

her, she lifts my aquamarine book into the air, magnanimous, perhaps to show that she holds no ill will. She then swivels

her neck and kisses my book like it’s a trophy at Wimbledon. Cell phones rise, capturing her as she raises her book to be

equal to mine.

If Hartley takes the stage in my place, her feet where mine should be, her voice reaching pitches mine does not resounding

through the ballroom, it will be a literal and metaphorical passing of that baton. She will become me, my brand hers to consume.

But my brand doesn’t just belong to me—it is me. The same way it is for Rosie.

“We have to,” I whisper.

Rosie’s finger hooks around mine. She lets go and faces the room in one swift motion. “We’re all a part of it now. Being privy

to the planning of a crime of this magnitude is a felony all by itself. So either you help ensure it works and we don’t get

caught, or you go to the police right now and stop us.”

The only sound is my growling stomach.

“All right,” Grace says. “But emphasis on not getting caught .”

Fiona bobs her head to agree. They might be doing this for the future of books, globally, but on the micro-level they’re doing

this because Rosie asked.

Cooper-Brad has yet to respond. If I were writing this, this is where his storyline would evolve. He may be in because he’s

one of us, an author, who understands how important this is and what it means for this industry we love and hate in equal

measure. He may be in because of Jocelyn, the book nestled beside him that he’s been reading with the speed of a true fan.

He may be in because of the ocean air that is part of his DNA, like me, or because of the time-traveling waiter, or the feel

of his hand against the skin of my bare foot.

He tucks his chin. “I’m in. Deal’s a deal,” he says.

But I’m not writing this, and this is his true why. He’s in for the access to the agents and the editors. He’s in for himself.

And yet, he’s not exactly looking at me with expectation or demand or entitlement. He pulls my book into his lap, glances

at the cover, then back at me. He smiles. And I feel the same way all those menopausal women who read my book do. I feel seen.

“So,” Rosie says. “Let’s start storyboarding this thing.”

I hurry down the hall post a breakfast of scrambled eggs and my continuous plastered-on smile in response to:

“Don’t you love Hartley’s aquamarine cardigan?”

“She crocheted it herself. On the plane here. What a talent!”

“Jocelyn is such an inspiration for Addie. You must be so flattered.”

It wasn’t all a Hartley West lovefest, but it was enough of one that I could use a heating pad to ease the tension between my shoulder blades. And yet, a side benefit of all the enthusiasm for Hartley is it reinforced our need to do this. Fortunately, Rosie was there to witness it. Unfortunately, our countermove of making ourselves fully available to our fans meant the breakfast ran late. I’ve had no time to shower or change, something I lament as sweat breaks out from my every pore (making me deeply regret those raw onions in my eggs).

A standing sign with my face and name on it perched outside the function room at the end of the hall comes into view, and

I slow my breathing. Just as I reach the side door, my phone dings with a text. It’s from Roxanne. A video—even I hope not

from this morning—of a cocktail. It’s blue, made from something called a butterfly pea flower. When she adds lemon juice,

the liquid turns purple. She’s upping her game. Every release, she invents a cocktail that somehow matches the cover of the

newest book. The whole Hartley West coup meant we didn’t get to enjoy our usual release day ritual. She says she’s planning

to perfect this one for when I get back from my tour. She hints (fine, says outright) that it would taste better with a view

of the ocean. Then she wishes me luck, knowing this is a first for me.

I slip through the side door and heat builds in my eyes. I blink and blink, but it’s no use. My eyes blur with tears. The

function room is Feathers and Stone come to life. Posters of every book cover on the walls. Fairy lights strewn across the ceiling like glittering stars. A swirling

black hole made of papier-maché in the middle of the room. More than ten years of my life, a life that I’m preparing to say

goodbye to, is on display. I’m awed and humbled at the same time.

This is the official launch party for the release of Light As , the final book in the series, my last-ever Feathers and Stone book. It’s a ticketed event—a convention fee add-on. For the first time, readers have paid to be at one of my launches. The ticket comes with this private talk with me, a copy of the book, exquisitely bound, series-long bonus content in the form of deleted scenes, and, not just one like at other signings, but all four of the new exclusive tour-only bookmarks.

Four different styles, each one a silhouette of a main character, including the pint-sized one of Vance. I oversaw the design

myself. Maybe out of a habit formed during the days when I bled my printer dry of yellow toner, when I was not yet tortured

but possibly drunk (definitely—apparently our livers do not believe in that ten-thousand-hours thing, and hangovers really

do worsen with age). But being involved in the creation of my swag goes beyond habit.

Swag is an extension of the book, an extension of me. It needs to be true to us both. I don’t want my face on an earring dangling

from some woman’s lobe (or any other part of their anatomy). Total miss there, Lacey. Unlike the scarves. I flatten my hand against my chest, instinctually feeling for my own.

I tuck my tote beside one of the two blue velvet armchairs at the front of the room. It looks like I’ll be signing books here,

one-on-one.

Though my last few launches at Harbor Books have certainly had more of a celebratory feel than when I first started out, I’ve

always acknowledged my “book birthdays,” even when it was just me and a glass of cheap prosecco that I smuggled onto the beach.

As much as it seems like you can’t throw a rock and not hit someone trying to be a writer, the truth is, most of the billion

people on this planet won’t publish a book. So I celebrated, because who needs the validation of readers?

(Well, we all do, but you get my point.)

Those days when it was just me, I didn’t dream of this—I strategized for it. I brainstormed high-concept story ideas. I took

a highlighter to the bestsellers. I wrote hundreds and hundreds of pages because I believed in that ten-thousand-hours thing.

And now I am not just good, I’m great. Without being drunk (most of the time) or tortured (until now).

As my final launch party for a book in the Feathers and Stone series begins, my chest swells with pride and my heart with a nostalgia I didn’t expect. I plant my feet on a box behind

the single podium with the microphone perfectly tilted for my height.

Fans greet me with colorful feathers twined through their hair, infinity bracelets like Jocelyn wears circling their wrists,

and plush Goldies clutched to their breast. My true fans. The ones who’ve been with Jocelyn since the beginning, when she

was a scared soul who only wanted to find a sense of calm amid the continuous skipping through time and space. She found a

best friend in the adventurous, daredevil Triana, for whom she would give her life, though the opposite came to pass. These

readers rooted for Jocelyn, then Jocelyn and Torrence, then Jocelyn and Callum, and back and forth, again and again, thanks

to my manipulation. They always rooted for little Vance. (Ah, poor readers, such devastation awaits them.) Hartley West will

never have what I’ve spent the past ten years building. And she will not stop me from what I will create in the next ten.

As I clutch the sides of the podium and read the first chapter, half from memory, riveted eyes meet mine. I am home.

My signing lane winds around the perimeter of the room. As readers approach me, versions of “There’s no ‘AI’ in author” and “She will never be you” and “I’m so sorry, Sofie” buoy me. On the heels of this oversold room for my book’s release, they make me feel like I can do anything, be anything,

overcome everything.

They also help settle the twitching in my right eye over what we’re about to do. These fans prove that we do have a window of time before readers are swayed, before writing with a machine is normalized. Before my fans will have so many “Sofie Wilde” books not actually written by me that they may not care about the ones I do write. In this genre or a new one. I have been confident that my fans would follow my writing wherever I take it. But I never imagined that would extend to where other writers would take it.

The carnival sideshow that is Hartley West is having her sword-swallowing moment, but she will not become a headliner. She

will not carry the show. So long as she never gets on stage for that keynote.

My speech must be its own call to action, one that shuts down Hartley and all that she represents. One that ensures any directive

she’d give for writers to follow in her footsteps falls flat. One that puts the emphasis not on Hartley’s imitation of me

but my own reinvention to come. It may be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write.

In the back corner of the room, Cooper-Brad continues to read my book. He’s nearing the end. Grace and Fiona, who went shopping

for kidnapping supplies since they don’t have convention commitments until this afternoon, took his phone away and dropped

him off here for me to keep an eye on. We don’t trust each other much less someone we just met. Someone who flexed that square

jaw and outed Hartley in Harbor Books because she bribed him. That’s a felony, isn’t it? At the very least it counteracts

our bribing of him. I don’t actually think he’d go to the police, but we can’t risk it.

My long launch party signing line is impressive, even for me. I snap a photo of the bodies clutching my aquamarine book, wearing Team Torrence and Team Callum and Little Vance tees, boasting scarves in the colors of my books around their necks, and send it to Lacey. If any bookstores are having niggling feelings about hosting me, this is proof of my popularity (and their impending profits). This morning has reassured me that there is a way back from my viral mess.

Before I reach for my Sharpie, I grab my hand sanitizer disguised as lotion off the table beside me. I squeeze the bottle,

and a white glob that smells like almonds oozes out. I rub it in between my hands. It’s actual hand lotion. And this is how

the mighty fall. One botched event rider at a time.

My phone buzzes with a text just as I’m about to signal for Clarice to send forth the next person in line.

Evil Spawn: Buggered up this one, haven’t you, Wilde?

I should ignore it. And yet...

Me: Cut it, Donner, you’re not British.

I’ve never been good with “should.”

Evil Spawn: And you’re not the keynote speaker.

I suck in a breath. If he knows, that means they really did ask Hartley. And that he really is her agent. But this is Max.

He could be phishing. All I have is Cooper-Brad’s word that he’s Hartley’s agent.

Me: Where’d you hear that?

Evil Spawn: I’m like a doctor. Can’t reveal my sources.

Me: That’s journalists, you knobhead.

Evil Spawn: Are you mocking me?

Me: Always and forever, love.

Evil Spawn: And here I was, going to get your keynote back.

Me: There’s no back.

Evil Spawn: Wilde, I *know*. Same way I know I can get it back for you.

He’s bluffing. But maybe he knows something that can help Blaire.

Me: Blaire’s working on it. Has it nearly fixed.

Evil Spawn: No, she doesn’t. Trust me, Wilde Woman, you need someone who can play dirty. That’s not Blaire. Never has been. If it was,

you’d have higher bonuses on the back end.

Me: I don’t have bonuses on the back end.

Evil Spawn: Again, I know. Wilde, you’ve done decent up until now. But you’ve got Hollywood salivating. If I’m dirty, they’re downright

unsanitary. You need me. Me and my intel. Like the real reason Riley Moore is coming all the way to the frozen Chicago tundra

to moderate a romance panel.

I didn’t even know Riley was moderating until I arrived. Which means Blaire didn’t know. Christ, it better not be for Hartley.

Evil Spawn: Hollywood loves a scandal. Your tirade piqued her interest. And her husband’s. Best-kept secret in Hollywood: you want a producer willing to shell out big bucks? Get their partner obsessed with being the star. I get it, you and Blaire, twelve years . . . Do you know what twelve years is in dog years?

Me: If you’re trying to get me to sign with you, calling me a dog isn’t the way to do it.

Evil Spawn: Then what is?

I set down my phone. My hands are slick with sweat. I’m not doing this. I can’t do this. Even the suggestion of it is a betrayal.

Blaire believed in me when no one else did. She’s my biggest cheerleader. She puts up with my shit. No questions asked. If

Max Donner is going to even attempt to go up against Blaire, he needs to prove he can do what she can’t.

Me: Stop Hartley West.

Evil Spawn: Me? How could I do that?

Me: You represent her.

Evil Spawn: Do I?

Me: Clock’s ticking, Donner. She takes that stage, it blows up.

Me: Get me my keynote back. And we’ll talk.

Evil Spawn:

A wave of nausea roils my stomach. I push through and gesture to Clarice to continue.

A young woman with freckled cheeks wearing a T-shirt with my face on it rushes forward as if shot from a canon. “Natalie,” she says, though the blue sticky she shakily hands me reads “Natuhlee.” You need a license to reel in a fish but any goofball with a phonetic dictionary can name a child.

“ThankssomuchIthinkyou’reamazing,” floods out of Natuhlee’s mouth.

“Aw.” That pleased-as-pie feeling that never gets old isn’t enough to counteract the churning in my gut. “You’re amazing too.

I’m nothing without my readers.”

Natuhlee flashes crimson from neck to brow to ears. “Ohmygodyou’reeverything.”

I gesture for her to sit in the chair beside me, but she’s too nervous. She rocks back and forth on her heels before pushing

a small box of designer chocolates into my hand. All white, my favorite, as anyone who has ever read or listened to an interview

with me would know. A staple in the lightning round, more trite than Fiona’s plotting. Except remember that thing about lying?

I despise white chocolate as anyone with taste buds would. Fans gifting me white chocolate ensures I will never be tempted

to eat it. As a child of the eighties, accepting food from strangers will forever be synonymous with razor blades in apples.

I slip the chocolates into my pocket beside my phone. The box is damp with sweat, reinforcing my life choices.

Natuhlee clutches her phone and continues cramming syllables together, asking for a photo. We don’t allow them during normal

signings. They hold up the line, that’s the convention’s justification. But the real reason is this right here: it’s a perk.

Part of what you get when you pay extra.

Natuhlee glues her cheek to mine. The smoked salmon of her Jam Session breakfast infuses her breath as she says, “IforgiveyouforVance.”

All the air leaves my lungs. “What did you say?” She begins, and I interrupt. “Take a breath first.”

Then it comes, still hurried, but unmistakable. “I forgive you for Vance.”

My face is firm, despite the life draining from it. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, ’cause you wrote it so long ago? Heard you say that at that festival in St. Louis where you sang ‘Paperback Writer’ during

karaoke.”

Oh, Lacey, the things you make me do.

“You’re lovely, and thanks so much, but...” I gesture to the line, where those clustered at the front are leaning in to

listen.

“So you remember?” Natuhlee says.

My smile is so forced that it hurts my jaw. “Yes, well, thanks, Natuhlee. Enjoy!”

“I’ll try.” A tear slides down her ruddy cheek. “I will. I mean, I will, course I will, but it’ll be hard when he dies.”

What. The. Fu—udge. Fudge, fudge, fudge.

“Safe travels, Natuhlee!”

“Who?” says the woman next in line in a Team Callum tee. “Who dies?”

“Dies.”

“Dies.”

“Dies.”

Like a game of telephone in which nothing is actually distorted, “dies” ripples through the room.

I stand.

I grab Natuhlee’s arm.

I yank her toward the exit behind me.

“Let’s get you a T-shir—”

“Vance!” Natuhlee cries. She hoists the book above her head. “Vance dies!”

At the back of the room, Hartley crosses her arms in front of her chest. And smirks.