Chapter 2
“When I saw that first video, I had no idea it was going to affect me that way. No idea I’d been waiting to hear those words all my life, until I heard you say them and suddenly the floodgates opened.”
The earnestness of the woman standing on the other side of the signing table is touching.
It never gets old, no matter how many people express this sentiment.
No matter how many cities I speak in, how many events I attend, how many guests I interview for the podcast, how many case studies I delved into for the book.
It will never get old to see people moved by the message in that first video I made almost six years ago.
It was intended to be a quick pick-me-up for Maral, and neither of us could have known how that video would change the course of our lives.
Mar had been in the second year of her urban planning master’s on the heels of a punishing environmental engineering undergrad, working on her thesis and at the end of her rope.
She texted me lamentations of the highest order.
what’s the actual worst that would happen if i dropped out?
and when my parents disown me, can i come live with you?
and i can work at the hospital’s coffee kiosk.
you’d get free coffee every morning. (if you say no, i’ll know you’ve been abducted and the response is moot…
oh and also will call Liam Neeson or at least the police.)
I could relate somewhat—it’s not like my own eight years of postsecondary education had been a walk in the park.
It may have looked that way from the outside—my parents sure loved telling people I could have slept through college and still graduated at the top of my class.
But high achievers are only high achievers because they work their asses off, and I had felt my fair share of frustration through school.
Empathizing with my cousin after a particularly depressing slew of messages, I ducked into the break room at my residency hospital and held my phone up to my face, pressing Record and starting with, “You can do this. You are a badass, a queen, a goddess of the highest order. You’ve worked hard your entire life and deserve literally every good thing the world has to offer.
If I could lay it at your feet, I would, but you gotta go get that shit.
You’ve earned it. No matter what happens, I’m so, so proud of you.
” Nothing I said in the rest of the three-minute video I sent her was new—I’ve lauded Maral’s capability, work ethic, intelligence, and myriad other strengths since time immemorial and encouraged her through countless academic challenges—but she credits the video for getting not only her through the rocky middle of her thesis, but her roommate, Emaan, through a tough cellular neurophysiology exam.
When Mar saw fit to post the video on YouTube (“Maybe it’ll help a few other people too”), it seemed to resonate so deeply with strangers that it was shared far and wide, garnering over thirty million views in its first year.
Mar asked me for a new video every time she was facing a particularly brutal exam or paper, and because people appeared to enjoy the messaging—which was always some evolution of the original—we uploaded each of them to YouTube.
Mar created a channel for the content, which transcended the college crowd quickly, garnering fans of all ages and from all walks of life.
Till then I’d only been a casual YouTube user—mostly to look up rudimentary DIY home repairs whenever my parents’ Dorchester bungalow needed upkeep, or the odd recipe that I had valiant hopes for but unfailingly butchered.
But seemingly overnight, the channel amassed a shocking number of subscribers, which led to Instagram and TikTok accounts that did the same, which led to Maral and I starting the podcast, which was followed by speaking events, a book deal, and, fingers crossed, even bigger things to come.
Whirlwind after whirlwind, all in service of people who desperately need the encouraging words no one else has ever said to them.
I finish signing the book and hand it back to the woman, whose eyes gleam as she thanks me and wishes me well on my tour. My phone buzzes, Mom’s name scrolling across the screen. I worry my bottom lip for a second before swiping to answer.
“Hi,” I say quietly so attendees can’t hear. “Everything okay?”
“When you and Maral are home next week I need you to move the couch so I can vacuum underneath. It is zuzveli.”
For the thousandth time I wonder when she’ll stop referring to Boston as home when Mar and I haven’t lived there in five years. “Maral is staying with friends while we’re in town, but I can do it, don’t worry. And it’s not next week, it’s in two weeks.” Boston is our last tour stop.
She sighs. “Have you called the gardener yet? If he doesn’t complete the job, you shouldn’t pay him the full amount.”
“Not yet.” I catch the eye of someone waiting in the middle of the signing line and smile. “I’ve been a little busy today.”
“Always so busy. It’s not like you are a doctor anymore.”
I count to five before answering—a trick Maral taught me since my mouth often doesn’t get the memo that it needs to consult my brain before doing its thing. “I was never a practicing doctor, Mayrik.” I hold my breath for another second before saying, “My book released today.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Is that what’s in the package you sent me?”
“Yes.”
She makes a sound that’s somewhere between acknowledgment and dismissal. “The courier kept ringing and ringing the bell while I was watching Drew Barrymore. I thought it was an emergency.”
Nope, just the fruits of my labor. I’m practically drawing blood with the way I’m chomping on my tongue. “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? And I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Oh. Okay, Anahid jan.” Then, more buoyantly, “I will have nazook ready for you.”
My shoulders release from around my ears at her mention of my favorite Armenian pastry. Feeding me is her love language—this is her trying. I smile. “I’ll bring my appetite.”
I drop my phone into my bag as the next person in line steps up, gently placing a copy of my book on the table. Standing on the other side is the one person I’ve kept an eye out for while hoping we wouldn’t have to interact all night.
“Great to see you again, Ana,” Ryan says. His ramrod posture makes it so he’s literally looking down his nose at me. Typical.
“Surprising to see you again, Ryan,” I say.
“I wouldn’t miss your launch.”
It certainly wouldn’t miss you. “I didn’t expect you, given you aren’t working on the book anymore.”
“This event is for fans, not just people working on the book,” he says.
He raises a brow at his copy, which remains untouched, so distracted am I by his implication that he’s a fan.
As if. “This is where we get our books signed, right? I wasn’t sure if you were the author because there’s just no indication anywhere…
” He makes a show of turning in a slow circle, indicating the room splattered with images of my face.
“That’s the kinda razzmatazz that sells influencer books, I guess. I know it’s not your standard fare,” I say.
“No, the books I work on are usually not Reese picks.” He bows a little. “Congratulations, by the way. I haven’t had a chance to tell you that since the news broke.”
That twinkle in his eyes. I almost forgot it, my memories painting him as wooden, dead-eyed, in all his standoffishness. But there it is, adding a golden glint to the green of his irises. Decidedly humanizing.
“I got your email,” I say. “That was plenty.”
His expression remains neutral but I see his Adam’s apple bob.
Shit—I didn’t intend to sound unkind, but my tendency to blurt out words without filtering them is one of the reasons Maral says I should be an indoor cat.
I know Ryan didn’t willfully try to harm my book.
At least, I hope he didn’t—he wouldn’t be much of an ambassador if he shot his employer’s product in the foot.
But his grumbly curmudgeon energy in every interaction we’ve had over our two-year acquaintance, mostly terse emails and clipped calls, has telegraphed his distaste for it.
I wanted tonight to be all positivity. Which means he and his opposite-of-the-Midas-touch vibes are non grata.
“I met your cousin,” he says. “Is the rest of your family here too?”
I pull his copy toward me. “They’re not local,” I say. Although even if Mom lived down the street and I sent a car to bring her here specifically, it’s a toss-up whether she’d come. Vartouhi Movilian is not really a crowd person. Or a reader. Or supportive of my career in general.
Dad might have come, though.
The thought comes at me, unbidden, like a boxing glove. All at once I feel knocked out, heavy in my chair.
I suck in a breath and point my Sharpie at the title page. “Who can I make this out to?”
“Me,” he says.
My eyes flash to his. “Why?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“I’m just surprised,” I say. That you’d want me to sign a book you clearly have no regard for. “That you’d buy a copy. Given you work for the publisher.”
“The bookstore requires proof of purchase if we want to get it signed.”
“And you just had to get it signed?” I ask.
His eyes are steady on me. “Yes,” he says. “I just had to get it signed.”
My brows knit together. What is this guy’s deal?
Whatever. Another sale is another sale. What do I care how he spends his money?
I scrawl my name on the title page before handing the book back to him. “Hope you enjoy it more than Kirkus did.” Clearly my mouth can’t resist the digs.
“Most people enjoy books more than Kirkus does. And I already have.” He taps the hardcover on the table. “See you soon, Ana,” he says, and heads off to join the rest of the Woodsworth folks by the bar.
See you never, Ryan.