Write What You Know
The last bands of pink stream across the sky, and Cooper-Brad’s fingers entwine through mine. He tilts his head, and the puffer
vest he’s wearing crinkles. “Here it comes.”
At the front of the parking lot, a team snaps the projection screen into place.
An uncharacteristic warmth brims in my chest and I trace the outline of the compass rose tattoo on his wrist. If I were a
character in one of my books, I’d probably already have a matching one. (And be making myself nauseous.)
I look over at him. “To think. The silver screen.”
Cooper-Brad nods, then cocks his head. “It was, you know. In the early nineteen hundreds, movie screens were painted with
a reflective metallic silver that better displayed the—”
“Not now, Coop,” says the woman beside me. She takes my other hand and squeezes. “You hate this, I know, but let me have it,
for a millisecond?”
For a single heartbeat, I squeeze Hartley’s hand back, and the fading sunlight reflects off my grandmother’s ring—resized to fit my middle finger.
Fans and locals continue to settle into the tiers of seating brought in days ago. With tourist dollar signs in its eyes, the
town enthusiastically supported transforming the main parking lot overlooking the harbor into an outdoor movie theater. A
much better use. Maybe I can convince them to keep it.
Hartley, Cooper-Brad, and I sit in the cushioned VIP chairs up front, breathing in the scent of salt and fish and listening
to the clank of boats against the dock. Along the water side, individual tents house vendors selling steak sandwiches and
macarons and dirty martinis. The seafood store offers lobster rolls and fried clams. Ice-cream cones and sundaes drip in the
lingering heat. Roxanne sells my book amid her own curated list of “Roxy’s Rocking Reads.” She’s trying to make it a thing.
I’m helping. (Or rather, Lacey’s helping me help.)
It is the height of summer. It is a year and half since Hartley and I saved ourselves from being arrested by making up that
preposterous story. A year and a half since we delivered our joint keynote at the Romance US convention.
I’d like to say I embraced her as my co-speaker. That after Cheetos took our statements and our offer of free copies of our
books for his wife’s book club and Tommy wrapped an ice pack on the bruise forming from the EpiPen, we were all singing campfire
songs and sharing s’mores.
Cooper-Brad had betrayed me.
Hartley had protected me.
Each for their own gain.
I admired them and despised them equally.
Cooper-Brad had been intent on playing me by playing the hero. He took a metaphorical page from Hartley’s book and gambled that “saving” Hartley West from the clutches of Sofie Wilde would be a boon. He figured that all the attention he’d receive for thwarting the kidnapping of an in-the-headlines author would skyrocket him to fame. Agents and publishers would be clamoring for his work.
Or, at least, that’s what he let me think. Hartley did too. For a little while.
Music plays through the tall speakers flanking the screen. A group of women all blaming the other for taking too long in the
porta potties or at the cocktail tent or browsing at Harbor Books shush one another as they fill their VIP seats. Rosie, Grace,
Fiona, and Tara Kara with Lake and her sexual storyboarding husband on video.
I booked them all rooms at the inn in the harbor. I didn’t want to find notes from Fiona in my container of jasmine rice or
stuck beneath my vaginal dryness gel. Besides, the guest rooms in my house were already claimed by Hartley, Blaire, and Lacey.
Claimed being the operative word. I didn’t offer. Apparently forcing themselves upon me as houseguests is some type of intervention
for my lack of social graces.
All I can say is they use a lot of towels.
The opening credits begin, and the title glimmers onto the screen: ROMANTIC FRICTION. As the names of the main actors and
director pop up, Lacey nudges Blaire, who leans across Hartley to wink at me, clutching her long-stranded pearls. Because
of what is coming next.
“Written by Sofie Wilde and Hartley West”
“Based on the novel Romantic Friction by Sofie Wilde and Hartley West”
We’re a Riley Read, a Read with Jenna, and a Reese selection. The trifecta of book club picks. A first. One of many firsts. The novel is the first writing collaboration for both of us. It is my first non-romance title and hers too. And it’s certainly the first time any of our books have been made into a film. All done without AI but because of AI.
Hartley was right. (I hate that she was right. Except I don’t. Not really.)
We wrote our story. Our actual story. Meet-cute and all. Details changed (Chicago became New York) and embellished (bruised
toe became broken ankle) and invented (torrid romance with “Hunter-Jon”). My actual torrid romance with Cooper-Brad started
after my tour when he and Hartley admitted that they’d planned the police raid—the whole EpiPen thing a pantsing opportunity
Cooper-Brad took full advantage of. They waited to tell me, conspiring as armchair psychologists that my rage at Cooper would
allow me to better bond with Hartley.
The police raid and the “filming” of the fake kidnapping was his idea. He gave me an exit strategy at the cost of me having
to share the stage with Hartley. She had planned to stick with the story she started with: that the fake kidnapping was our
way of tearing down the hashtag. It was me blurting out “book trailer” that sparked her to upgrade to coauthoring.
She had me on video. Still, Blaire had been sure she could come up with some contractual excuse that prevented the use of
my name on anything but solo projects. Lacey too was hesitant. As interested as she’d been in having Hartley and I partner
at Harbor Books, the discussions at the convention were beginning to resonate. She feared a backlash was coming.
It did. Led by Hartley West. She admitted her actions were a ploy to draw attention to the consequences of authors using AI.
And the reasons why they feel they need to. This industry that could and should be better. Our keynote centered on it. We
prompted a new hashtag: #WildeWestTakeAim.
We were booked for speaking engagements for months.
“Sofie,” Hartley whispers and I turn to her. Her face glows with joy (and the bronzer she borrowed from Lacey). She tucks her arm through mine and draws me close. She’s going to ruin this moment. I know her. She can’t help herself.
We’re partners. Friends, if the definition includes sometimes thinking dancing on broken glass would be less painful than
being in her company. Our cowriting came alive with the same rush I felt with Cooper-Brad as we weaved a backstory for the
waiter with the bald patch. Our cowriting also came close to putting one of us in an early grave. She randomly shows up at
my house now, living only an hour away. She made herself a key, and I’ll find her in my recliner drinking my wine by penguin
candlelight.
I really should change the locks.
She is one of my phone favorites though. Just ahead of my massage therapist. Roxanne says that’s progress. It’s profitable,
I’ll tell you that.
My fifteen-city tour that Roxanne saved ballooned to twenty, with Hartley joining for half. The dates we added included her
hometown and the one where I grew up, where my parents still live.
They would have come tonight except my dad fell while lunging during pickleball and broke his wrist. Lacey set up a link for
them to watch from home. They texted a photo: their house filled with friends and neighbors and probably random people they
pulled off the street. Exactly who they’ve always been.
Thanks to the convention, tour, and previously made plans ensuring she would indeed have enough copies in circulation, Hartley
hit the list for a week. I hit at number five, hanging out for a solid twenty weeks. A personal best. And Roxanne didn’t have
to buy a single leftover copy.
Hartley’s “Genevieve Lily” books were acquired by a traditional publisher and rereleased under Hartley West. She now has a solid fandom and steady sales. News leaking (is it leaking if your own team does it?) of Riley Moore wanting to age down Jocelyn prompted the Hollywood A-list of older female actors to clamor for the part. Season one premieres next spring. The more complicated and expensive production meant it would come out after Romantic Friction .
I don’t mind the wait. I’m writing another romantasy (spoiler: Vance is back!) and a contemporary novel. I’m not going anywhere. Even if that means one day writing with the help of AI. This is a game, and
even if the rules change, you can’t win if you don’t play.
Hartley tugs harder just as the first frame of me (but not me) peeking through the shelves at Harbor Books (but not Harbor
Books) flashes on the screen.
“What is it?” I hiss.
“It’s just... I’m ravenous. Do you have anything to—”
I push aside my own long strand of pearls that still feels foreign to me. Hartley wears a matching one—a movie tie-in, sold
at bookstores nationwide. I click open my small sequined clutch and shove aside the packets of stevia stolen from Starbucks,
because yes I am now my grandmother, to pull out a nut-free protein bar. A year of touring with a hangry Hartley taught me
a lot.
“Add it to my tab,” she says.
“Your tab is two thousand seven hundred and twelve dollars.” She thinks I’m joking. But I have a spreadsheet and everything.
“That’s a lot of protein bars.”
“Includes interest. And hazard pay.”
A hand cups my shoulder. I spin around to see Rosie’s smiling face.
“Adorable, truly,” she says, her eyes traveling between me and Hartley. She’s pushing the idea of all of us forming an imprint. Be the agent of change. A role model for others. “But can you please shut the fuck up.”
The more time we’ve spent together, the more her vocabulary includes the f-word. I’m pretty sure it’s not a direct correlation.
Under the joint byline of Sofie Wilde and Hartley West, I found the courage to write about something other than love. Something
I wasn’t sure I needed. Something infinitely more devastating when it goes wrong and exponentially more rewarding when it
goes right. I wrote about friendship—the kind the whole world thinks we have.
But remember: we both lie for a living.
And we’re very, very good.
* * * * *