Romantic Friction

Dark Night of the Soul

I exit the auditorium a beat after Anika and Liz. I watch them walk down the hall and try to remember how to breathe. I hurt

Blaire. I knew I would, of course I knew. What I wasn’t expecting was how much hurting Blaire would tear a hole in my own

heart.

I bend at the waist and try not to hyperventilate. This had to happen. It was the only way to not lose all I’ve spent a lifetime

gaining. But it should not have happened here, like this, in front of her peers and mine. And fans. Fans too.

I jerk upright. Anika and Liz. They must have seen everything. Heard everything. Maybe even filmed everything.

Shit, shit, shit.

I clutch my tote bag tight to my torso and propel my short legs to catch up to Anika and Liz. All around me, readers lug heavy bags and excitedly squeal at the author notes in one another’s books, and I’m about to call out to Anika and Liz when I realize they aren’t my highest priority. Even if they do post a video, I will simply be a bold career woman making changes to secure my future. Lacey can spin anything.

But will she? After she finds out I’ve left Blaire?

My heart thumps. I truly had no choice. Objectively, I probably should have done it long ago. This keynote shouldn’t be my

first one at this convention. I am this convention. Same as I am the creator of a series wanted for a high-profile movie adaptation with a megastar attached.

That I wasn’t told anything about. Why didn’t I see it before? Blaire has been holding me back.

This is my moment. That Fiona and Grace releasing Hartley will destroy. If it comes out that I kidnapped Hartley West, that’s

the end. I’m too old to start over. My liver can’t take it. (Alcohol, not unbridled hope, is the best way to soothe rejection.)

I pump my arms as I pass Anika and Liz on the way to the north elevators.

“Sofie!” Anika cries, her voice three notches higher than usual.

I smile my #SweetSofie smile but don’t reduce my speed.

“That was a total blast!” Anika says.

Liz impersonates a catapult and falls in line beside me. “That debate was super eye-opening. I mean, I’m not sure I should

say this, but before it, I thought AI sounded, like, really cool. Writing’s hard, and if AI could help... I’m not going

to handwrite a book because I’m afraid of a keyboard, right? I’ve been trying to write for a long time, like six years, ever

since I was a junior in high school.”

This isn’t happening.

“So I was going to try AI.” Liz isn’t even breathing hard to match my pace. “What could it hurt? But when Hartley said that thing about the sixty-dollar candle, I was like, huh, I wouldn’t buy a sixty-dollar candle at Target. But at Anthropologie? Maybe. Probably. Fine, I have.”

“That’s so not the point,” Anika says, appearing at my other side. “Hartley proved once again that she’s such a copycat. She

didn’t come up with that analogy. It was in a book I read. One of those free ones on Amazon. Was a decent read though.”

This makes me reduce my speed. Fiona wouldn’t have let Hartley use AI during the panel. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely. The book was about a glassblower. Vases and lamps and wineglasses. The main character fell in love with the sand

delivery guy. Did you know you melt sand to make glass? So, like, climate change and all that, there’s all this sand erosion,

and if it continues, will we have no glass? Just plastic? And then that’s horrible for the environment so it’s like a total

cash-22 situation.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Catch-22. From the book?”

Anika’s brow furrows. “No, I don’t think that was in the glassblower book.”

My brain cells are dying. We’re nearly at the north elevators. Hartley could pop out any second.

“The book, summarize. Quickly—just the candle part.” I hold up my phone by way of apology. “Sorry, packed itinerary.”

Undeterred, Anika says, “Well, you already heard it, really. The character, the glassblower, she had the same analogy when

she was explaining to the dreamy sand guy why she bothered to blow glass when machines could do the same thing faster and

cheaper. The human element. Artisanship. It’s like my mom’s apple pie. It tastes the same as the one from McDonald’s, but

my mom’s is still better. Because she made it. Plus, I don’t have to pay for hers.”

The candle can’t be a coincidence. We reach the elevators, but Anika keeps talking. “I totally related to what Jocelyn was

saying about my face on Kate Winslet’s though.”

Liz wobbles her head in agreement. “Could be cool—only for like a second though.”

“Maybe,” Anika says. “If I could kiss Leo! Young Leo. Because old Leo...” She shudders.

I hit the button for down, then realize my mistake as I can’t lead them to Hartley. I press the up button several times.

Liz says, “But, Riley Moore , a-m-a-zing ! You must be so psyched for her to play Jocelyn.”

I stiffen. “Yes, about that... if you want to be a writer, I’m sure you know how this industry is?”

Liz gives a half shrug.

“Negotiations can take forever. Deals aren’t deals until they’re signed. And even then!” I let out a hearty laugh. “So whatever

you heard, it can’t leave that room.” I gesture around us. “Or these elevators.”

“All we heard is you getting the representation you deserve,” Anika says. “Tara Kara said they wouldn’t be here without Max

Donner. If he’s your man, you’ll be epic, Sofie. I mean, even more so than you are now.”

Anika seems genuine, but as she’s speaking, Liz is trying to hide her phone. I pluck the device from her hand.

“Hey!” Liz cries.

On it is a video of me, Max, and Riley. I strike the screen and hit Delete.

“First tip of being a writer. Author friends. Get them. Now, send me your manuscript so I can pass it to Max Donner. And not

a word of this to anyone. Ever.”

With appreciation in her eyes, Liz nods. “Your author friends are really lucky to have you.”

“Damn straight they are.”

I really am an exceptional liar.

“Now, one more time,” I say to Anika. “Are you sure the sixty-dollar candle analogy wasn’t in Love and Lawlessness ?”

“ Love and Lawlessness doesn’t have Targets.” Anika pulls out her phone. “Wait a sec.”

Liz grins with pride. “She writes down every book and every author. You’re on there, many times. And now we’re in front of

you. I mean, life doesn’t go where you expect does it?”

“Surprising but inevitable,” I say. “Like the best plot twists.”

Liz opens an app on her phone to write that down. My back arches the tiniest bit. Knowledge may be power but it also makes

you feel powerful. Maybe Lacey and I can start some writer tip reels after all this.

“Here it is!” Anika says. “I add little notes to remind myself. Right here: glassblower and dreamy sand guy.”

“And the book?”

“ Transparent by Genevieve Lily.” Anika taps her phone, eyes glued to her screen. “That’s strange. No website. No author photo attached

to her book either.”

She flips her phone around for me to see, backtracking to the cover of the e-book, something that’s either designed to be

blurry and opaque or just appears that way to my tired, strained eyes.

“Ooh, maybe she’s already a famous author!” Anika says. “And she wants to be judged on her words, not her name.”

“Maybe,” I say, feeling a foreboding that only comes with having plotted a dozen and a half books.

My phone buzzes—an incoming call from Grace. My heart beats hard and fast. “I need to take this,” I say to Anika and Liz.

“My publicist. I’m surely late for something. That packed itinerary and all.”

I give a little wave that’s more of a shooing gesture, desperate to appear calm despite my imagination picturing Grace and Fiona waltzing into the ballroom, arm in arm with a freed Hartley. I hurry to answer just before the call goes to voicemail. “I’m coming,” I say with a rush. “Grace, listen, please don’t—”

“Now you say please ?” Grace says. “If you’ve also learned thank you , warn me before you use it. I’ll need to sit to prepare myself.”

I ignore her jibe and push the down button of the elevator, rotating my head to ensure no one’s close enough to be tracking

me.

“I’m on my way,” I say.

“You better be. Otherwise Fiona gets the go-ahead for her release plan.” Grace’s voice lowers. “It involves squirrels, Sofie.

A horde.”

The line goes dead.

I burst through the door of the speakeasy.

It’s empty save for the cardboard police officers, the flappers, and the mafioso.

“No,” I whisper.

My breathing grows rapid and shallow. I’m lightheaded.

Please no.

My legs quake as I enter the room. And then, I see her. Hartley is curled on a banquette in the far corner, the Read or Bleed

hat propped to conceal her face. She’s still wearing the Bears sweatshirt and has my aquamarine scarf looped around her neck.

A perimeter of nuts surrounds her.

I hear a screech and whip around. Rosie stands behind a small round table beside the door. Laser-focused on Hartley, I blew

right past them. But they’re all here: Rosie, Fiona, Grace, and Cooper-Brad.

My heart beats a single flutter of relief, thinking maybe Rosie changed her mind about being done. But then I see the tightness of her lips. The firm cross of Grace’s arms. Even Fiona’s nose is turned up, like she’s just performed an embalming. The only one not looking at me like I’ve sprouted devil horns is Cooper-Brad.

Tonight is the fan-appreciation dinner, which always follows the featured panel. We only have a short break in between, and

I’d hoped to use the time to change back into my standard event attire. Instead, I’m here with a group of self-righteous women

who wouldn’t invite me on a hotel tour of a speakeasy let alone a slumber party where our thin-walled bladders would have

kept each other up all night as we took turns getting up to use the bathroom.

Grace purses her bright red lips. “Donner? Sofie, this is next level. When I said Fiona’s philosophy is go big and then go

bigger, it wasn’t an invitation. You’re acting like a petulant child whose favorite toy was taken away.”

“Who then breaks the rest out of spite,” Fiona says. She shifts her chair to face me, and the tiered ruffles of her silk gown

cascade to the floor.

Rosie simply remains standing. As if her presence is judgment enough.

It is. But also, it isn’t. Because I didn’t get here alone.

“You asked me to do this,” I say calmly. “Demanded, actually.”

I turn away from them and walk deeper into the room, trying to gauge if Hartley is asleep or pretending to be. Either way,

she’s still surrounded by nuts and there’s not a furry-tailed creature in sight. This hasn’t all fallen apart. Yet. Thanks

to me.

But instead of appreciation I get judgment from these women who only gave me entry into their little club because they each

wanted something from me, something for their careers. And yet me putting my career first by signing with Max Donner is somehow

unacceptable.

I understand it’s a bold move, but that’s how I got here in the first place. I wanted this: success, adoring fans and book signings and my name on a banner and money, yes, the money. I’m not ashamed of it or to say it. And yet, none of it is why I started writing. I started writing in order to be someone else. It’s why I keep writing. Jocelyn isn’t me, but at the same time, she made me who I am. She gave me an outlet I desperately needed, a way to socialize and fall in love and have adventures and a life that felt full and lived. She made me feel a part of something bigger than myself before my fans did the same. That’s my community now, but I had one before them. With Jocelyn, I was never awkward or lonely. I belonged. Because she never made me feel like I didn’t.

“You took the poster,” I say, turning back around to face Rosie.

“Poster?” Fiona brushes back the red curls of her wig. “What are you talking about? Your banner? Because it’s right there.”

She points to my banner on a nearby table, neatly folded as if it were a flag previously draped over a casket. But Rosie places

her hand on her throat. She knows what I mean.

I glance at Hartley. She’s still, her chest inflating and deflating with measured breaths. No sign of being awake. But she’s

an expert at faking it. If we’re doing this—if Rosie and I are doing this—we’re not doing it in front of “the next Sofie Wilde.”

“Not here,” I say, and head for the doorway.

Rosie’s on the move without a moment’s hesitation. She marches past me to leave the speakeasy first. Chairs scrape the floor,

and Fiona and Grace pop to their feet. They join Rosie in the hallway. The awkwardness of Cooper-Brad being here makes me

want to avoid looking his way. Yet when I do, I see genuine concern in his eyes. He nods, giving me the encouragement I didn’t

know I needed—or wanted.

The instant I enter the hallway, the atmosphere shifts. It’s like walking into a sauna and being smacked in the face with a wall of heat. I inhale a sharp breath and take in the three of them, an irritated Grace leaning against the wall, an impatient Fiona beside her, and a stoic Rosie front and center.

Behind her is the now-ironic Pardon Our Appearance While We Work to Bring You a New Clandestine Experience! sign.

Fiona gathers the ruffles of her dress out from under her foot, resting it on top of a paint can. “We didn’t touch your banner.”

Rosie shakes her head. “She’s not talking about her banner.”

“No, I’m not.” My voice trembles, and I curse my body’s betrayal. “I’m talking about the day when not a single soul came out

to support me and Rosie.” I step forward, my indignation building, and address her directly. “It was our first time meeting.

You wanted us to go out, drink away our sorrows and shame, pretend like it didn’t matter.”

Rosie holds up her palm. “I never said that.”

Grace cuts in. “Wait, what is she talking about?”

“Nothing,” Rosie says quickly.

“Everything,” I say, my tone clipped. “If I’m a snow leopard or a lone wolf, I didn’t become one all by myself.”

Grace stares at me, frustration etching the tiniest lines around her mouth. “I’m waiting for the relevance. This century.”

Maybe I should let this go. Be done with them. It’s bad enough that I broke down and defied my better judgment to ask them

do this with me in the first place. I should have found a way to stop Hartley on my own. Or the opposite—just let her implode

all by herself. Maybe the attention would have eventually died down without us going all Ocean’s Eleven (and if we are all Ocean’s Eleven , I’m totally George Clooney and definitely not Elliott Gould). But we did go all Ocean’s Eleven . And like Danny Ocean, I started this with a team.

I steel myself and lock eyes with Rosie. “You judged me then the same way you are now.”

“Hold on,” Rosie says, shoulders rigid. “That was a disaster of a night. I wanted to get a drink with someone who understood

how I was feeling.”

“No, you wanted to get a drink with me . But you didn’t know me and you didn’t take a single second to try to. You assumed we were the same.” All these years, Rosie

thinks I wronged her. Her role in it never even a blip on her radar. “Do you remember what you said?”

“I asked you to go for a drink.”

“But do you remember how you asked?”

“What does that have to do with our current predicament?”

“So that’s a no.”

“I guess it’s not seared into my memory.”

“Well, it’s branded into mine. You said we should go out and show all those readers who didn’t show up that we didn’t need

them anyway. Except, I did. I needed them. I wasn’t strong like you. I felt like I’d had my wisdom teeth pulled without anesthesia.

I couldn’t just laugh it off—put the blame on the bookstore for not enough advertising or the local high school for daring

to hold a playoff game the same night. You could, you wanted to. You were confident and strong, and I was nothing like you,

but I wanted to be exactly like you. Yet, I couldn’t fake it, not back then. Sit beside you, sip Pinot Grigio, and create

a war story? Done in a heartbeat now, but not then.”

Rosie draws back, her face morphing into confusion. “You should have said. I would have understood.”

“If I had been strong enough to say it, I probably would have been strong enough not to feel it.”

Hiding my awkward, lonely self was such a deeply formed behavior that one invitation to drinks wasn’t going to change it.

Rosie gathers herself. “I’m sorry you were hurt, Sofie, but I’m not a mind reader. And it was a long time ago.”

“But feels like yesterday. Apparently to us both.” My veiled accusation, that the hurt of that day wasn’t all one-sided, messes

with the narrative in her head.

Rosie stands in this hallway littered with ladders and paint cans and brooms, the detritus left from trying to improve upon

something. Are we the same to AI? Simply the detritus left behind?

“Mistakes have been made.” Rosie gestures to Grace and Fiona. “And yet, we’re here together now—all of us. We chose to ride

the wave of this tsunami with you.”

“With me, really? Because what I heard was pick up a goddamned sword . That I alone owed it to everyone who ever scribbled a nugget of a story idea on a napkin to defend our profession.”

Fiona twirls a red lock of her wig. “Which, truthfully, you didn’t do much of on that panel.”

Grace nods in agreement. “Thank the convention planners that Rosie was up there with you. She’s the one who stopped Hartley.”

Are they truly this myopic? “Not by herself. Riley Moore owned that stage. And that candle bit? It was Hartley who shot herself

in the foot and her book square in the spine with that one. Which apparently she stole from some self-published book. We should

leak it. Show whatever fans she has left that she’s a thief through and through. Oh, and would you look at that, another way

to actually stop Hartley coming not from you all, but from me.”

Grace cocks her head. “Stole it? How do you know?”

“My fans,” I say. “Who are actually behind me.”

Grace puffs out a breath. “They don’t know you like we do. You’ll betray them the moment it suits you. Just like you did with

Blaire. Just like you’ll do to us.”

I clench my fists. “Apparently not before you do it first.” Though my fingernails dig trenches into my palm, my voice remains strong. “I didn’t ask for any of this—that’s the piece you all seem to forget. Maybe my rant didn’t help things, but I didn’t cause it to go viral any more than I caused what started all of this in the first place. Still, you all made it my responsibility. And I delivered. Whatever Hartley tries next, Max Donner will stop her. Because of me. Because of what I did and gave up and sacrificed. I did this for all of us. I gave in to all of your demands, and it’s still not enough to break into this little clique.”

I can’t believe I’m here trying to justify myself to a group of women who don’t know me and never made an effort to try.

“Break in? Oh, Sofie, that’s not...” Rosie’s face softens. “Will you just look at this? At how much we care about all of

this, how deeply these feelings trail into our souls like tentacles, grabbing hold of the pain of betrayal and the sting of

rejection from a lifetime ago. This is who we are and what we do. We’re writers. We live and breathe emotions. We draw on

our own hurt, conjure it on demand in the name of art. It’s how we create characters who feel real. All to ensure our readers

feel seen. Maybe us too. That’s why this all matters and why we joined you, Sofie.”

Grace adds, “More like dragged her kicking and screaming.”

Rosie gives Grace an admonishing look before continuing to address me. “This was never about blurbs or cover designers.”

Fiona scoffs. “It wasn’t?” Rosie’s scolding gaze turns on her, and Fiona adds, “Not all of it, naturally.”

Rosie sighs, and something about her having to corral Grace and Fiona makes me think of all that Blaire has had to do for

her authors, including me.

I allow myself to look at her, trying to let go of the anger. And the hurt. “Why are you even here?”

Rosie takes a deep breath. “Upstairs, I was in shock. But a part of me does understand your logic about Max. And maybe he will keep Hartley in check for a little while because he wants something from her the same way she wants something from him. But that’s a relationship built on greed. It will fall apart. The only relationships that last are those built on trust. Something Blaire gave you. And you’re not wrong that we never extended that trust to one another. Maybe this could have been a start. But we let ourselves get carried away. You feeling like the only option was to leave Blaire was a wake-up call for me. But it’s not too late. We can still end this—together. But the only way to do that is to let Hartley go.”

Let her go? Now? When I’m on the verge of getting back everything I lost and adding so much more? I think of the sadness on

Blaire’s face and imagine the anger on Lacey’s and the disappointment on Roxanne’s and can’t have it all be for nothing. If

we let Hartley go now, all the hurt will have been for nothing.

I steel myself and offer Rosie my best resting bitch face.

She shakes her head in disappointment and presses the up button on the elevator because there is no down from here. “Lone

wolf it is. We’re done.”

My heart sinks, but I maintain my composure. “Good. I realized long ago that the life I had was the one I wanted. I don’t

need anything more.”

Rosie stares at me, her arms crossed against her chest, her finger tapping her elbow. “Impressive, Sofie. You really are an

excellent liar.”

I slam the speakeasy door shut and press my back against it.

Cooper-Brad’s head jerks up from my book. “Suffice it to say, they’re not coming back?”

I shake my head and push myself off the door, straining my neck to get a glimpse of Hartley to see if she heard. I point to her and the nuts caging her in. “Is she okay?” I whisper.

“Physically, she’s fine,” Cooper-Brad says in a low voice. “The tip of the scissors grazing the bag of Marcona almonds was

enough, but mentally, it’s taking a toll.”

“The nuts?”

“The kidnapping in general, I’d wager.”

“Yes, well, despite me having a tendency to be verbose, we’ve tipped into our third act, so I expect this is all going to

come to an end soon.”

Cooper-Brad gets up from the table and moves beside me. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. If you hadn’t returned when you did,

they were going to have me relay a message.”

“Which was?”

He exaggerates a brow raise. “I can’t. I’m a fisherman, and even I’ve never heard language like that. Masters of their craft,

for sure.” He flashes me a grin that suggests he’s joking, but even if he’s not, I appreciate the intent behind it. To show

me that someone is still on my side. “Okay, then. What’s next?”

“Next?” I say. “How am I supposed to know when all I have is you?”

“Want to try that again without the tone? Because all you have is me .”

“I know.”

“Now might be a good time to start trusting me.”

“But I’m a snow leopard.”

“A what, now?”

“Nothing, forget it.” I hug my arms to my chest, trying not to replay everything that just happened, but that only makes me

return to Blaire and the look on her face. I’m not the person she and Rosie think I am. I can’t be. But perhaps I’m not a

good enough liar to fool myself.

Shame and sadness and fear and self-doubt push me to slump in the corner and strap on a pity-party hat. Pity-party streamers and pity-party balloons—

That I pop one by one. I tear that pity-party hat right off. I just released the tenth and final book in my culturally iconic

series. I’m going on a kick-ass book tour. I’m about to ink a movie deal with a major production company. There’s a Riley

Read on its way. I didn’t ask for any of this, but it’s happening. No way I’m swallowing these lemons whole. I’m juicing them

into lemonade and boiling them down into essential oils and creating my own organic soap and body lotion line and I’m going

to wear yellow from head to toe even though with these neck wrinkles it’ll make me look jaundiced and I’ll be known as the

Lemon Queen from here on out.

I’m not a lone wolf. I am a goddamned snow leopard. I thrive on my own. I don’t need them. I can solve this on my own. So I’m going to live the lesson

Rosie was trying to teach me all those years ago. Push past. Laugh it off.

I smile what feels like a touch too widely and rein it in to what I hope is a notch below deranged. Cooper-Brad comes closer,

his breath smelling of coffee, and I picture Fiona going on a coffee run, bringing them back whipped concoctions to sip while

spinning a story about a love triangle between one of the cardboard cops, the flapper, and the newsboy.

“Let’s try this again. Thank you for staying,” I say, tamping down the jealousy my imagination has incited. His curls have

more kink, and the skin below his eyes sags from exhaustion in the way it only does post-forty, but still, I feel my body

reflexively angling toward him, craving a connection, something physical and uncomplicated.

Cooper-Brad fixes his gaze on me. Up close, those stunted eyelashes seem to fit his face just fine. He flutters his eyes and my woolgathering imagines them eliciting the gentlest breeze.

“No matter what the rest of them think,” he says, “I’m honored to be of assistance to the Sofie Wilde.”

A bubble of something unnamable—a mixture of fear and adrenaline and sadness and laughter—percolates inside me. “So this isn’t

about the spoils coming your way?”

“Oh, it is.” A grin spreads across his face, a bit of a cat-ate-the-canary kind, and the clatter in my mind eases, giving

my body the space to light up. “I was just being nice.”

“Admitting that makes it less nice.”

“But amps up the tension. Did you know enemies to lovers is one of the most beloved tropes?”

“Right up there with fake dating.”

“And forced proximity,” he says.

“You’ve learned a lot while in here.”

“The best writing retreat I’ve ever been on.”

“I can expand my offerings.”

“Sign me up.”

We’re close enough for this to be an invasion of space but neither one of us draws back. I vacillate between feeling invisible

to men and too visible, my author persona and the books I write slotting me into a category they’re embarrassed to be tainted

by. Serious relationships over the past few years don’t even need one hand to be counted on.

The only men in my life I fully trust are my father, Callum, and Torrence. I don’t trust Cooper-Brad. But I don’t need to

trust Cooper-Brad right now. I just need him to flirt and banter so I can feel the joy my readers do and inhale the dizzying

scent of make-believe and escape real life, and just for a moment, wash away the betrayal that clings to me like the spray

of a skunk.

He inches toward me, bending his neck until his lips hover above mine. This is wildly inappropriate. And yet, I suddenly understand why people have affairs. The wrongness is intoxicating.

“Can I—” he starts, and I answer him off by pressing tiptoes into the ground and grazing my lips against his. He pauses, his

eyes intense, his movements slow as he positions himself before me. Then his arms reach for me, his hands entwine around my

waist, and he half lifts me off my feet. Our bodies meet, and the heady rush of smelling his sweat and digging my hands into

the muscles of his back and feeling the growing engorging against my midsection makes me dizzy. We’re kissing, not up-against-a-wall,

can’t-make-it-to-the-bedroom kissing. But definitely just-ran-through-the-airport-to-stop-you-from-boarding-a-plane-to-Singapore

kissing. His lips are chapped, and as he drags them down my jawline and neck, the hint of abrasion causes my back to arch.

My fingers disappear into his wavy hair and I almost forget where we are.

Until Hartley West barrels past and out the door.