Romantic Friction

Bookfluencing

Sweat still pooling in my bra from my sprint from the elevator bank to the ballroom, I eat an entire bowl of gluten-free ravioli

in a rich cream sauce across from Fake Fangs and Fishnets.

(Roberta and Megan... Don’t quote me on that.)

The goth vampires from the elevator are the special guests of Tara Kara, complete with eyes ringed with black liner and painted

red teardrops dripping from their charcoal lips.

(And, yes, still being able to eat while sitting across from that proves how hungry I am.)

My own special guests are, naturally, Anika and Liz. They sit on one side of me with Riley and Max on the other. Our table

of eight had to squeeze in an extra chair, and we’re tight enough that I can smell the garlic from Fishnets’s Bolognese three

seats down. (It seems cosplay doesn’t extend to avoiding the pungent herb.)

At the next table, Blaire picks at a salad. Rosie and Lake buffer her as they make small talk with a group of fans whose faces I recognize. These diehards come again and again, driving for hours, paying for expensive flights, staying in rooms that aren’t comped on top of outlaying money for the convention fees. Still, they don’t skimp once here. They drag suitcases from panel to panel, filling them with purchased books and souvenir tees and candles and potato peelers. (Fiona really goes for it.) Their loyalty is why we get to do this.

I’ve always appreciated my fans. Being in front of them. Absorbing their energy. Their elation at being in my presence gives

me a high that nothing else can touch. I do not take these opportunities for granted. They matter.

“I haven’t run it by my husband yet,” Riley says, “but I’m thinking twenty-seven?”

Max squints. “Even twenty-five. Provided you do a little something...” He pulls back the skin on the sides of his lips.

“There.”

Riley says, “Work isn’t my thing. I’d rather go twenty-seven. Sofie, what do you think?”

I haven’t been listening. I reach to adjust my scarf, but I’m not wearing it. Hartley still has it. Another thing she’s taken

from me.

Riley bites her bottom lip. “Damn, you think I should, and you’re too polite to say it.”

Tara Kara snort, and I glare at them before putting down my fork and facing Riley. “Run it by me again?” I say with interest

I don’t feel.

“Twenty-five or twenty-seven? I personally don’t think we need to push the believability. Twenty-seven feels solid.”

Christ, I have no idea what they’re talking about. My eyes roam the table, landing on Anika, who tilts her head as if asking

permission. I nod.

She says, “I’m not sure you need to age Jocelyn down at all.”

Age down Jocelyn? To twenty-seven?

“I’m twenty-four,” Anika says.

Max points to Anika’s cheeks. “Exactly.”

Anika continues, “I don’t mind reading about an older character. I actually like it.”

Riley appears to consider this, though there’s a touch of condescension in her tone as she says, “Reading isn’t the same.

A visual medium requires certain adjustments. If one wishes to be successful.”

Max says, “Wishing doesn’t make it so. T&A does.”

Kara tosses a Parker House roll across the table. “Seriously, Max, are you trying to get canceled? Because we aren’t sticking

around for it.”

Max holds up his hands—a telltale arthritic bump on his right ring finger belies all the plastic surgery he’s had done. He’s

as old as I am—probably older. He too feels bad when he learns someone who used to be on Happy Days or M*A*S*H dies. “Everyone here knows I’m always of good intent.”

“No,” Fake Fangs says. “We don’t.”

Riley places her hand (younger, though clearly a decade past twenty-seven) on Max’s forearm. “What Max here is trying to say

is that movies and television need to reach the widest audience possible to recoup our significant investment. A key factor

is the appeal of the main characters and the actors who play them. We all want to expose Jocelyn to an expanded audience.

Aging her down is step one.”

To hear what I want repeated back to me in this perverted way makes my jaw clench. “That implies there is a second step?”

Riley tosses her head back and laughs. “And a third and a fourth, and I’m pretty sure my husband’s notes will reach a thousand

before we even get out of development.”

I push my empty plate toward the middle of the table. “Let’s stick with step two for now.”

Riley looks at Max, then back at me. “Surely Blaire told you?”

I wince at her name, resisting the urge to turn to see if she heard.

Riley trails her aquamarine nails through her Jocelyn hair. “Combining books one through four into the first film?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.”

“Oh, right, it used to be just one through three. But Jasper and I—”

“Jasper?”

“My husband?” The crow’s feet deepen around Riley’s eyes. Twenty-seven, my bestselling ass. “Anyway, the synopses show we can drop the first four realm crossings and not lose anything.”

“The first four?” An angry lump swells in my throat. “That’s not possible. Once you read the final chapter, you’ll see how

vital it all is.”

Riley flitters her wrist wearing Jocelyn’s bracelet. “Oh, I never read the source material.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Scripts are so much shorter.” She cocks her head. “It’s a good thing you fired Blaire. She knew all of this. Never relayed

a thing—such incompetence.”

Blaire knew all of this. She knew the strings that an offer from Riley Moore and her husband would come with. Which is why

she never mentioned anything about Riley Moore or this offer to me. She knew I’d never accept. But more than that, she also

knew how much it would hurt. Make me doubt myself. Make me want to pull back from letting anyone touch Jocelyn. Exactly the

way it’s doing right now.

“More wine?” Max says to fill the silence. “Champers?” He snaps his fingers in the direction of a server in a I Have No Shelf

Control tee.

He doesn’t look my way. He has no idea how deeply this affects me, how it will spread like poison in my writer brain. Even if he did, I’m not sure he’d care.

Anika clears her throat. “Riley?”

Riley’s neck swivels as if she can’t figure out where the voice came from.

“Ms. Moore?” Anika says, her voice eliciting the tiniest tremble.

“Ever present, if thirsty.” She taps her wineglass with her fingernail. “Are these things always this long?”

“It’s been thirty-five minutes,” Tara says.

“That long? And not a single server with a cart of smoked cocktails? We need to get the team responsible for the Globes on

this.” She remembers Anika and flashes her I-put-the-whoa-in-woman smile. “Did you need something, hun? A selfie?”

Anika swallows. “It’s just... reading is this incredible bonding thing. Reading the same book is like sharing a secret.

No two people who love the same book could ever hate each other—not really. Books bring us together. It’s why book clubs exist.”

Riley reaches for her empty glass. “I thought it was the wine.”

Liz shakes her head, but Anika continues, “Anyway, if that’s how it is for readers, I think it’s double for writers. So, I

was actually wondering if you could share your process for selecting a Riley Read. Because, well, Liz—”

Liz gasps.

“Liz is a writer,” Anika continues proudly. “She’s so good. Like so, so good.” Liz squeezes Anika’s arm to stop her, but Anika

won’t be deterred from helping her friend. “But it can’t hurt to get some tips on what to incorporate to appeal to a brand

like yours.”

“Yes,” Riley says. “Well, it is a brand. As such, there’s a whole team that chooses.”

Anika nods carefully. “But you must have criteria? Things you look for?”

Riley doesn’t read the source material. Clearly, not even for her book club picks. “Hmm, let’s see. It really depends on the

genre. The story itself. What’s the book about?”

Liz trembles like a field mouse cornered by a Bengal cat.

Max finally gets the server’s attention, and she heads toward our table with a bottle of white wine. He holds up his glass

without looking at the server. “Pitch it,” he says to Liz.

“Here?” Liz blurts out, scanning the room.

“Often the best opportunities come when one is held captive,” Max says.

I choke at his word choice. I clear my throat to cover, realizing all eyes are on me.

“Fine, so this dinner isn’t quite on the captive level.” Max takes a sip of his wine and winces at the taste. “But close,”

he mutters. “The things I do for clients.”

Tara Kara beam, but Max is looking at me.

I tuck my leg beneath me to gain height, remembering how poorly Cooper-Brad’s pitching went. “We don’t want to put her on

the spot. We spend days—weeks—rehearsing our pitches.” I drill my eyes into Tara Kara’s, begging them to help.

They misunderstand.

Tara says, “Oh, Maxie loves to foster new talent. Let’s hear it.”

I interject, “I’m not sure this is the right time.”

“Sofie, that’s rude,” Tara says. “She wants to. Don’t you, Liz? I’d have killed for this opportunity when I was starting out.

You too, Sofie.”

Blaire’s table is quiet as if they’ve been listening. I reach for my empty wineglass. I haven’t had so much as a sip. I raise it as the server passes, catch Rosie’s disdain, and put the empty glass back down.

Anika nudges Liz, who says, “Right, well, it’s in progress. I’m still figuring things out.”

“Aren’t we all?” Tara says with an encouraging laugh. “Kara and I are still figuring out the twist in our last book—too bad

it’s already published!”

Polite titters around the table, but the air is heavy with tension.

Liz inhales a breath. “Well, it’s a bit of a mashup. Like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies but not exactly. More like Heathers with witches.”

Max’s bored face transitions into a yawn.

Liz sits up straighter. “Not like Hocus Pocus witches but Salem witch trial witches so it’s period but also kind of otherworldly? And there’s a Romeo and Juliet story but Sapphic, but no one really says ‘Juliet and Juliet’ so I’m figuring out how to pitch that part and I was wondering

if—”

Max snickers.

Silence shrouds the table.

Oblivious, Max tugs on the hem of the server’s shirt, which happens to be draped across her buttocks, and she stumbles, dumping

wine all over his blazer.

“This is Tom Ford!” Max launches himself out of his seat, swatting at his lapel. “Goddamned amateurs.” His eyes flicker to

Liz. “Surrounded by them.”

It isn’t Liz who this hurts. It’s Anika. One look at Anika’s glistening eyes, and Liz rises to her feet. Heat radiates across

the table.

And all I can picture is Blaire doing the same for me.

My phone vibrates. A flurry of messages from Lacey.

Lacey: Your tour is “rock-solid.”

Lacey: But Max Donner? If that wildly glorious but egotistical brain of yours actually thinks he’s responsible for fixing your tour,

you deserve each other. And you don’t deserve me.

Lacey: Roxanne did it. She called every bookstore on the tour and promised not a single copy would go unsold. Because she would

buy what was left. At EVERY SINGLE STORE.

Roxanne. That’s why she was asking me about that bookstore in Austin. She doesn’t actually care about their shelving. She

wanted to know about turnout. Whether it was so she wouldn’t have to buy too many extra copies of my book or to use as leverage

to convince the store to keep my event, it doesn’t matter. She went to bat for me after I trashed her store. I left her a

check for the damages. But did I apologize?

At the table, Max pats at his chest with a napkin. Anika, cheeks flushed from having encouraged Liz, stares at her cuticles.

Liz continues to fume. If she launches into a tirade, Max Donner’s rejection will be made public, broadcast to the far corners

of the internet. The pressure on this generation is overwhelming. When readers laughed as I pitched Tucana, only the penguin

candlemaker heard.

That’s why my linen closet brims with candles. She gave me one, every time a reader dismissed me.

Without those candles, I wouldn’t be here. They made me determined to craft a stronger premise, to create a better story,

to write a more beloved character. I wanted to ensure I’d never be given another goddamned candle.

I’ve worked hard enough to be able to flaunt my success in every laughing face. And it is true that writers need to let go of their work. Once it leaves our hands and enters the readers’, it is theirs. To enjoy or not to enjoy. To pass on to their friends, to treasure on their shelves, to line their birdcage with. Readers have the right to judge our work, even if they do it harshly and tag us so we can see how clever their cruelty can be. What readers—what no one, even Max Donner, especially Max Donner—has the right to do is laugh without reading a word.

“Funny,” I say, calmly. “What you said about amateurs, I’m starting to feel exactly the same way.”

Max bobs his lunk of a head in agreement. I’m not surprised he lied about being the one to fix my tour. I’m surprised it bothers

me as much as it does.

Entirely clueless, Max continues to swat at his chest with his napkin. But Riley eyes me with suspicion. She says carefully,

“I’ve had my share of bad auditions. Rejection is always difficult.”

Max tosses his napkin on the floor. “But necessary.” He cocks a finger at Liz and says, “Life lesson. You’re welcome.”

Liz’s jaw could be chiseled out of marble. “You think you’re the first? My Twitter feed is a museum of agent rejections. Each

one a mark of not how I’m failing but how I’m trying.”

I would have never admitted such a thing early on. I wouldn’t admit it now. Perhaps that same pressure on this generation

of lives laid bare for public consumption creates a comfort with it. Or a projected one. Underneath, I’d bet we’re all little

kids watching as pools of strawberry ice cream drown the things we love most.

And yet what I will admit now, what I believe deep in my soul, is what Liz is getting at. That the surest path to failure is quitting. So many writers I started out with are no longer writing. There was a time when I wanted to join them, to just stop and put an end to the hurt and the pain of rejection and the self-doubt that cripples every thought, every deci sion, every hope. I no longer fear failure. But maybe I should. Because without fear, our egos grow. Hubris brought me here. To a place where I was willing to not only quit on Blaire but on the one person I owe everything to: Jocelyn. She deserves better than Max Donner and Riley Moore.

I gird my loins (though, honestly, I’m not sure if I’m doing it right, considering I have no idea what gird actually means) as I glance around the table. “We are a bit crowded. Max, Riley, I think you’re done here?”

Riley’s eyes widen, but Max still doesn’t get it until she yanks off her bracelet and drops it in her marinara. She asked

for the sauce, hold the pasta. “You’re on your own, Sofie,” Riley says.

“I don’t fear the familiar.”

Max’s lips thin. “Our deal...?”

“Come on, Max,” I say. “You’ve been around long enough to know when you’ve been played. Figured you’d appreciate the art in

it.”

“I can make things hard for you, Wilde.”

“But you won’t,” Tara says, getting to her feet. “Because I’m really good at making reels.” She taps her phone and out comes

Max’s voice: “Wishing doesn’t make it so. T&A does.” She hits it again and holds it up for us to see Max’s palm cupping the

server’s bottom.

“Since when are you on the same side?” he barks.

Kara juts her chin toward Liz. “We take care of our young.”

Anika clutches Liz’s hand, and I think back to Rosie’s finger entwined in mine.

Tara steps forward to add, “And our elders, when they show they deserve it.”

Tara Kara nod to me and a weight grows heavy in my chest (despite that unfortunate elder part).

As Riley and Max swipe up their glasses and a bottle of wine from a passing server, my phone dings with a text from Cooper-Brad: I’m not staying through dessert. Clock’s ticking .

I push back from the table. If he leaves, then no one will be monitoring Hartley. As I start to rush off, a hand reaches across

me to fish the infinity bracelet out of Riley’s sauce. Blaire lays it in her napkin and wipes it clean. She presents it to

me.

“I should have told you,” she says. “Keeping things from you was paternalistic.”

“Appropriate considering my childish behavior.”

“I can’t take you back.”

“I understand.” A sharp slice through my heart.

“I’m not sure you do, but I hope you will try to.” Blaire clasps her hands in front of her torso, and I can’t help feeling

as if holding her own hands is her way of stopping herself from reaching for me. But then she looks at me with a mix of sadness

and resignation. “All these years we’ve spent together, and still our relationship is murky. It’s not just us. The author-agent

relationship functions on more levels than it should. Part employee and employer with confusing role reversals in concert

with each one’s success. Colleagues in a way, friendly but not exactly friends.”

This stops me, and I can think of nothing but the kinship I’ve broken with her.

“Blaire, I...”

Have been rash, juvenile, inconsiderate, selfish, and entirely like myself.

She nods. “I know, Sofie. The truth of it is, if half my authors were as singularly minded as you, I’d have my own agency and work remotely from a beach in Bali—and only when I felt like it. But then half my authors would be like you. I don’t want that for them anymore than I want it for you. You are all in on this, Sofie, you always have been. What I wish you would see is that you can be all in on more than just this. Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine the success you’d have if you did that? With, I don’t know . . .”

“Pickleball?” I say around the constriction in my throat.

“Sure. Or, you know, this.” Blaire gestures not to this ballroom but to the authors bringing it to life. “You care about your

books, but sometimes I wish you cared about yourself even a fraction as much.”

I still.

Blaire continues, “It’s not my job to teach you, as your agent. But as a friend, well, that would be something else entirely.”

I’m confused. “Is that a choice? Are you asking me to choose?”

Blaire looks to Rosie, whose lips remain thin, brow creased, clearly disapproving, but Blaire returns to me anyway. “No, this

choice is mine. Because I could take you back.” She offers a dramatic, weighty pause. “With a significant hike in commission.”

My head nods so fast I strain a muscle in my neck.

Blaire unclasps her hands. “I’m not done. No more unanswered emails, no more unreturned phone calls. No more conspiring with

Lacey behind my back.”

Lacey, you tattletale.

Blaire holds her ground. “No bull, Sofie.”

The pit at the bottom of my stomach begins to release because her demands have just proven how alike we really are. Who taught

whom no longer matters, we belong in this game together. “Absolutely to the commission. I’ll hire an assistant for the second.

The third? Lacey? Yes, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about it all.” I place my hand on hers, and she squeezes.

Blaire blinks back the moisture in her eyes but still says, “And the last one?”

“No bull? I can promise to try, but I will fail. Sometimes. Probably a lot.”

“We’ll work on it.” Blaire looks to Rosie. “We all will.” She says it as a question and statement combined with a command that makes my toes tingle and appreciate her negotiating skills anew. She then circles the table and offers Liz her business card. “Query me when it’s ready. And to answer your question about what we’re looking for? To care. Love or hate. Sometimes a little of both.” Blaire doesn’t have to look my way for me to know she’s talking about me. “It doesn’t matter. Just make us feel something, and you’ve got us.”

Through the sound system comes an announcement for even-numbered tables to head to the dessert buffet, and a sea of sugar-addicted

authors and readers launch themselves to the edges of the room like it’s an Olympic event. Time’s up. And now I’m going to

have to fight through this throng to get to the exit and to Hartley before Cooper-Brad sets her free. I give Blaire a soft

smile and then hurry toward the ballroom doors. I’m pushing one open when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I spin around, half

expecting Hartley.

Rosie’s stoic face greets me. “You did a selfish thing, Sofie.”

“But I—”

“And then a less selfish thing. They don’t exactly cancel each other out, but it’s a start.”

My feet itch to run to the elevators before they open to reveal a ragged-looking Hartley ready to hold a press conference.

Rosie crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Now, what do you need?”

I do a double take. “You want to help me? Now?” Here it comes. When everyone else was making demands, she never said what

she wanted. She wants Blaire, exclusively, or my editor or maybe my house? Does she want my actual house? “What is it, then? What do you want?”

“Nothing, actually. At least, I didn’t want anything earlier. I only pretended to. Incredibly fun to have it hanging over you. But now, I want your help.” Rosie tips her head toward the table I just left where Tara Kara animatedly talk with Anika and Liz. The elevator duo, Fake Fangs and Fishnets, appear to be filming it for Tara Kara, probably for their writerly advice reels on Instagram.

“Doing that,” Rosie says. “I want to give back. I want to create a community for them. Young writers need it, the same way

we needed it. And when you have it, I think you’re a goddamn sight less likely to steal from your fellow authors. Let’s put

a face on writing that fucking AI in any form can’t come close to replicating.”

Rosie truly cares about this. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her curse.

“Okay,” I say.

“Listen, I know we aren’t exactly friends, but not having friends made you a target and Blaire’s complete lack of subtlety

back there got me thinking and—” She cocks her head. “Wait, did you say okay ?”

“To be clear, I’m not missing any deadlines for it. Or reading drivel. Actually, I’m not reading anything. But provided it

matches my interests and my schedule allows, I’m in.”

“You make it both hard to like you and hard to hate you.”

“It’s a gift.” I shrug. “But now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to figure out how to un-kidnap Hartley West.”

Rosie pulls out her phone. “We’ll help. Let me call Grace.”

Writing has always been a solo endeavor for me. Here, I let collaborators in, but the ending is one I have to craft alone—for

all our sakes. “Actually, this is something I need to do.”

She doesn’t criticize me for it—for once again being a lone wolf. She almost seems... proud, and I hate it that I’m proud

that she’s proud.

“If you’re sure,” she says. “But we’ll be here as backup.”

She’s giving me something, and Cooper-Brad’s words about having to do the same echo in my head. I shuffle my feet. “I’m not

sure who’s representing you now, but if you still want Blaire and she wants you, I don’t want to stand in the way.”

Rosie lifts a brow. “You don’t?”

“No, actually I do. But I won’t.”

“Well, with the higher commission she’s getting from you, she may no longer need me.”

“Here’s hoping.” I cross my fingers. “But, Rosie? The industry is changing. We might have to accept that our way isn’t the

only way.”

“Then we can help shape what’s to come. I’m not done, and I suspect neither are you.”

But I might be. It all hinges on “the next Sofie Wilde.”

I exit through the ballroom doors, above which my banner has been rehung. I silently beg Cooper-Brad to give me a grace period.

He will, right? He wouldn’t just let her go? Or maybe he would and Hartley is already draped in a fluffy white robe in her

hotel room. Maybe she’s filming something right now to release online. I can’t stop her. I’m not Vance. I can’t change the

future any more than I can change the past. Like Jocelyn, I can only move forward with the talents I have.

My phone rings with a video call from Cooper-Brad. I slip into a corner and hit Accept.

Then my screen fills with Hartley’s face.