Friends to Enemies
Nearly sold out of my books. If the same happens on my tour, I’d hit the list—the top half. Balance would be restored. The
full tour must proceed as is, with all the press coverage and bookstore Q&As and fans who will see me in person and see that
I am still me, with everything to give for this book and all the ones to come.
“Sofie, did you hear me?” Rosie tugs on my arm.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Well, what I meant is that I heard you ask if I heard you.”
Rosie gives a forced smile, letting Lake and Tara Kara proceed to the auditorium ahead of us. She pulls me aside. “Missing?
They must know she’s not in her room.”
“How would they know that? That’s not what Clarice said.”
“It is. You weren’t listening. They were worried, ostensibly about her well-being, but also about the tech for her to Zoom in. So they sent someone to check her equipment, bring her a mic, that sort of thing. They had hotel management open the door. The place was trashed.”
“Did someone break in?”
“No, we let someone in.” I give her a quizzical look, and she says, “Fiona? To get the laptop? We should have sent Grace. Fiona has always
been a snoop. And proud of it. After staying at my house a couple of years ago, I found little notes from her in every nook
and cranny. My medicine cabinet. My shoe closet. Even my vibrator drawer.”
The fact that they socialize outside of events shouldn’t surprise me. Or make me feel the way it’s making me feel. “You were
all there when I outlined that part of the plan. Nobody said anything. I didn’t know.”
“You not knowing is the root cause of everything, isn’t it?”
“Fiona’s the one who turned our simple plan into an episode of CSI . This isn’t about me.”
“Everything’s about you, Sofie!” She bursts like a dam unable to withhold the pressure anymore, putting me on the defensive.
“Only because it’s my work she’s copying. It’s my career on the proverbial chopping block. You’re the one who said it affects
us all.”
“I don’t just mean this. Everything Lake was saying in there, don’t you see? You’ve always made it all about you. From before
you were you and I was me. When no one had read our books and being struck by lightning was more likely than having a bestseller.
That day when no one showed up to our signing, you acted like it only happened to you. But it happened to me too, and I have
the poster to prove it.”
“You took the poster?”
“I wanted to remember the moment I swore I would never treat another person the way you treated me.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly. And that includes being a friend.”
“But I didn’t need a friend.”
“What if I did?”
Her words hit me like a one-star review grumbling about the level of “fantasy” and “romance” in a book billed as such. Because
Rosie was Rosie Gardens—confident and self-assured even then, before she was Rosie Gardens . I didn’t think about her needing a friend that night because I had no reason to think she was anything like me.
She shakes her head. “You are your own moon and your own sun and you don’t revolve around anything but yourself.”
“Then why are you helping me?”
“Because I don’t hold grudges. Because we are both here because of Lake Nolan, and we owe it to her and our fellow authors
and everyone else who cares about what we do to stop this. Because I believe what we do matters, and we have an infinitesimally
small window to prove that. And because Blaire is my friend. And so loyal to you that when my agent retired and I reached
out to her for representation, she declined. She wouldn’t risk the conflict of interest even though the commission could have
bought her a small island. When she told me about the bonus you gave her after Max Donner tried to poach you, she had tears
in her eyes.”
I shuffle my feet.
Rosie shakes her head. “Look, I like you, Sofie. We could have been actual friends if your ego didn’t make you the most grotesquely judgmental person I’ve ever met. I don’t have Grace’s degree in psychology, but I’ve been creating character wounds and wants for nearly half my life. I understand you’re coming from a place of hurt. It’s all over your books. I know you believe that barreling through life like a Whac-A-Mole keeps you safe. But we aren’t out to hurt you. Me, Grace, Fiona—we never have been. We’re here doing this with you. We’re giving you a chance, and maybe it’s time you do the same. Otherwise—” she juts her chin at my Fictional People Are My People shirt “—you won’t just live by that, you’ll die by it too.”
Rosie turns on her heels and strides toward the auditorium. I trail behind, listening as she calls Grace and explains that
we have to stave off the filing of a missing person’s report, giving instructions to relay to Hartley.
At the entrance to the auditorium, I squeeze my eyes shut, my head spinning from Rosie being hurt all those years ago and
her fictional-people-will-be-my-only-people threat right now. But Blaire isn’t fictional. Blaire has been there for me. Her
lack of response isn’t because she no longer supports me. She hasn’t responded because she wants to be in touch when she has
good news. But there is no good news. She hasn’t found a solution. Or pushed hard enough for one. Not because she doesn’t
care, but because it’s not who she is. It’s not the power she has. Unlike Max Donner.
I pause and take out my phone. Blaire’s happy, supportive face stares up at me from her contact photo. This time I don’t bother
to tap it. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is as far as we can go together.
The thought hammers my heart and an overall sense of frustration seizes my brain. This is my turf, where I feel most like
myself, and Hartley and Rosie and all of them are making me sweat so much that if I were attached to a rain barrel I could
fill it with ease. No more. I smooth the front of my shirt, feel my heart beating beneath it, and head high, take my seat.
Hartley’s ruddy face looms above us on a gigantic screen—counterproductive to our goal of minimizing her presence. But the threat of nut particles swirling in the air seems to be working. She’s just finished calming a frantic Clarice. Per Rosie’s instructions, Hartley said she switched hotels. Her suite’s windows let in too much light, and she was having trouble sleeping. She promised she was feeling well enough to participate in the panel. She even slugged some of the cough syrup that Fiona and Grace had staged before her as a prop. Together, they excel in world-building.
Despite Hartley repeating Rosie’s instructions nearly verbatim, I feel like I’m on a tightrope strung between skyscrapers
as we wait for Riley Moore. Clarice had to send an Uber from her own account. Apparently, Riley Moore has never downloaded
the app.
I balance on the edge of the seat, my toes skimming the floor. Tension as thick as coastal fog has replaced the momentary
lightness of the green room. Rosie won’t look at me.
Grotesquely judgmental.
Honestly, hasn’t she just done what she’s accusing me of? So what if I’m not the group mani-pedi type. If I were, I wouldn’t
have five bestsellers to my name, a sixth on the way, and Riley Moore’s interest piqued.
Except Rosie has just as many bestsellers and still finds time to host slumber parties for her author friends.
I roll my neck. Writers have two highly annoying traits: correcting everyone’s grammar and fancying themselves armchair psychologists.
The former is ingrained, the latter learned. To create a character who lives and breathes despite being made of ink and dried
pulp requires a compelling backstory. Their hopes, dreams, fears, wants, needs, and most importantly, their motivations for
it all.
Rosie doesn’t have to psychoanalyze me. I know who I am. And I know why.
While I refuse to give Sandy with a y and Sandi with an i full credit, I did shy away from making friends, letting my introverted self dominate, becoming more and more the polar opposite of my extroverted parents, who lived and breathed “the more the merrier.” Our house was so full on birthdays and Thanksgivings and random Tuesdays that I wasn’t missed. I never had reason to change. I could stay in my room, head in a book, and escape to a world full of characters who I knew weren’t friends but who still kept me company. It’s not that I didn’t want friends, but my tendency toward “all or nothing” that’s served me well in my career didn’t translate into understanding how to be a good friend. I was either too clingy or not clingy enough. I shared too many secrets or too few. I told too many secrets or too few. I remember wishing my parents had socialized me when I was little the way they did our poodle.
I was a quirky only child who wrote my own plays and acted them out alone. The one time my parents coaxed me into performing
in front of a small group of their friends, I threw up for so long that I disturbed the acid in my stomach and had to eat
only fermented foods—sauerkraut and pickles—for weeks to restore it.
Needless to say, I was never part of any “in crowd.” I had a few friends here and there, always the misfits, and I was too
self-conscious to let go of the judgment of others and accept them for who they were—and myself for who I was. So I grew up
an awkward, lonely kid who became a less awkward, less lonely teenager who found the love of her life at a summer job restocking
shelves at the library. He was into The Lord of the Rings and Star Wars , and we met when he used his lightsaber to help him retrieve a Latin dictionary from the top of the references shelf and
knocked the whole thing over.
He went to a different school, one where no one knew I didn’t fit in. His friends became my friends, and we spent our last two years of high school pretending we were Han and Leia, not knowing the characters we imagined ourselves to be would get a future and a family, albeit troubled, in stories and movies to come. Still, they got more than we did. My Han died in a car accident our junior year of college. We were still together. We thought we always would be.
After, I was both more and less awkward, profoundly lonely at times, but something had opened—a desire not to be, even if
that was through the characters I created. My Han taught me what I needed to know to write the books that have given me this
career: Love. Lust. Desire. Yearning. Hope. And heartbreak.
The pounding of footsteps against the wooden platform draws my attention. Riley Moore scurries across the stage in a pair
of tall UGG boots. She’s so California that the air actually warms as she claims the moderator’s chair from a relieved-looking
Clarice.
“Oh, hey, hey, all you beautiful people. On the inside and the outside!” Riley claps, spinning toward the auditorium, which
is empty. Her face resets. “Um, this is... unusual. Are you sure you used my name in the description?”
Clarice scurries forward. “We haven’t opened the doors yet.”
“Stellar. If we have time, get me a glass of ice and a splash of apple cider vinegar with the mother.”
Clarice’s brow crinkles. “Not sure what that is... but we can send someone?”
“Forget it.” Riley sighs and slugs something from a metal bottle dangling from her YSL hobo bag. She faces the panel and smiles
as Clarice introduces us. When Clarice gets to Rosie, Riley says, “Hey, hey, girl! One of my few double picks for a Riley
Read.”
Rosie raises an eyebrow. “What can I say, you have excellent taste.”
Riley tosses her head back and laughs a hearty laugh that’s probably fake but I can’t tell. She is a very good actress. She drags her hair over one shoulder, her usual bleached blonde a couple of shades darker. And longer—her hair seems longer than it was in her post announcing the latest Riley Read. (Which, yes, I watched despite how green with jealousy it made me.)
When Clarice introduces me, Riley saunters across the stage and extends her hand. I try to sit up straighter, and my goodness,
this is what “presence” feels like. I accept her hand, noticing the bracelet that hugs her wrist, a series of interlocking
figure eights, the symbol for infinity. Jocelyn wears the exact same one.
“I had it custom-made,” Riley whispers, fluttering her long lashes, drawing attention to the colored contacts she’s wearing
that have turned her eyes a light blue-gray. “Let’s talk after?”
I nod, and all the puzzle pieces click together. Riley’s hair, her eyes, the replica bracelet, shaking only my hand...
Her interest is more than piqued. She wants to play Jocelyn, and my word, she should play Jocelyn. She has to play Jocelyn.
The door to the auditorium opens, and I quickly slip on my event smile. But it’s not the audience. It’s Max Donner. He slithers
in, long sandy brown hair, feathered over his ears, five-hundred-dollar distressed jeans, custom-made blazer with the contracts
of stolen souls peeking out like a pocket square. He’s a Hollywood agent trolling in the literary waters and entirely comfortable
in the mud. Prefers it.
Tara Kara whisper to each other. He’s their agent. They must think he’s here for them.
Riley waves to him, and he meets my gaze, pointing to himself, claiming responsibility for bringing her here, as he takes
a seat up front. I slide my phone out of my pocket and text Blaire as a final attempt.
Just met Riley Moore. I think she might have interest on the film/TV side. Have you heard anything?
I hold my phone, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come. Blaire has absolutely no idea. Unlike Max.
He’s a snake. As crooked as this arthritic hump makes my finger. And yet Max Donner has pull. Max Donner has power. Max Donner can use them both to put me back where I deserve to be.
Guilt weighs down my fingers as I pull up my last text chain with Max.
Me: Riley Moore. You actually got her to come here?
Evil Spawn: Need any more proof of my prowess?
Me: Keep your dick in your pants, Donner.
I hesitate, staring at his smug face, knowing this is the moment when everything changes. One way or another. Staying with
Blaire doesn’t equal status quo, not with Hartley to contend with. Blaire represents the past, but there’s no going back.
Me: Three conditions.
Me: Make that four.
Evil Spawn: I don’t date clients, sorry #SweetSofie.
I wish for a middle-finger emoji.
Me: 1. Keynote is mine and mine alone. 2. Tour is rock-solid. 3. Hartley West apologizes for using AI. 4. Riley Moore plays Jocelyn.
I want to see a signed contract in a week.
Evil Spawn: Keynote, tour? On it.
Me: That’s only two.
In his seat across from the stage, Max grins, and an email notification flashes on my phone. I tap it open and skim. It’s an offer from Riley’s producer husband. Dated this morning.
My heart thrums at the same time as it falls to pieces.
Me: And Hartley?
Evil Spawn: I’ll do my best.
Me: Best isn’t good enough.
This is Blaire. I’m doing this to Blaire . A knife slices my veins.
Evil Spawn: I can, but only if I represent her.
Hartley West and I will be represented by the same agent. Equals. A heavy dose of salt in the wound.
Me: I’m in. Don’t fuck this up, Donner.
Heat burns the backs of my eyes as Donner sends a barrage of celebratory emoji. I click off the screen and pocket my phone.
This is business. Blaire will understand. She’ll be happy for me. I mean, I didn’t stop her from signing Rosie. (But you would
have.)
Christ, I suddenly wish I were back in Palladium or tumbling down Vance’s black hole—anywhere but here. Where I’ve just betrayed
one of the only true friends I have. Make that had .