Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“You heading out?”
Frannie swings around, the momentum of getting her backpack onto her back nearly careening her into the wall. “Yep,” she says with a sheepish shrug.
Gretchen withholds a laugh and fiddles with her bright purple vest. “Wanna grab coffee on the way?”
“Sure,” Frannie says, offering her what she hopes is a genuine smile.
Gretchen grabs her bag, and they leave the apartment together.
The ride down in the uncomfortably narrow elevator feels stilted.
Frannie tries to hype herself up as they cross the empty, echoing lobby and push onto the street.
Gretchen made the first overture; she’s got to pull her roommate weight here too.
“You haven’t picked up as many night shifts in the last couple weeks,” Frannie says, squinting in the sunlight when they hit the street.
“We got a new group of interns, and they’re taking the graveyard watch, which is nice,” Gretchen says, pointing toward the Messy Mug Café at the end of the block.
“Sucks for them, but yay for you. How’s the office during the day?” Frannie asks, having to skip-step to keep up with Gretchen’s longer stride.
“It’s still mostly fluff assignments, but they’re making Shelly get the coffee now, and I’m allowed to sit through the whole rundown meeting, so it feels like progress,” Gretchen says, reaching out to hold the door open for Frannie.
The Messy Mug is one of Sugar Hill’s newest bougie coffee shops, all done in neutral millennial grays with woodgrain tabletops and counters. There’s nothing messy about it. Frannie’s not sure if it’s meant to be ironic, or if it’s merely a painful reminder of gentrification.
“What’s good here?” Frannie asks, following Gretchen to the back of the thankfully short line.
“You never come here? What are your actual hours?” Gretchen asks.
“When Henry’s here, ten to about eight or nine, usually,” Frannie says, eyeing the almond croissant, even though she shouldn’t. She still has Henry’s weekly grocery order at the Dakota. She keeps forgetting to cancel it.
“Isn’t he out of town?” Gretchen asks.
“Yeah, but he’s got stuff I need to look after, and his apartment’s amazing,” Frannie says brightly, noting Gretchen’s pinched eyebrows.
“It’s shitty that he’s making you go in when he’s not there,” Gretchen says.
Frannie shrugs, avoiding her eyes by looking up at the truly astonishing menu boards. “It’s not so bad. How’s the … cookie butter latte?”
“Uck, really?” Gretchen asks, disgusted. “You might as well eat a bag of sugar.”
“Delicious,” Frannie says, pleased when Gretchen snorts a laugh.
They take turns ordering, and then shuffle around to the far side of the counter to wait for their drinks. Frannie stuffs her croissant into her backpack while Gretchen hums and rocks on her feet.
Frannie casts about for another topic. She finds things to talk about with the ghost kids; surely she can manage decent roommate small talk with Gretchen.
“So, what’s your favorite fluff piece they’ve given you to research?”
“I helped with stories on a few minor dog shows, and a beauty pageant in Jersey that were kind of fun. Oh, and I’m covering a book signing for some D-list celebrity next week, which should be interesting. Might ask to pick your brain.”
“Ooh, that should be good. It’s always fun to listen to them try and talk about the writing process when you know they had a ghostwriter,” Frannie says.
Gretchen laughs. Her black coffee appears beneath the “Pick-Up Here” sign, while Frannie’s pumpkin spice swirl vanilla cream latte is nowhere to be seen. Gretchen shoots her a smirk.
Frannie rolls her eyes, trying to remember what she’d seen in Publishers Marketplace recently. “I don’t remember the title, but I’m pretty sure there’s a Bigfoot book coming out in January from another imprint at Henry’s publisher. Want me to snag you a copy? You’re into Bigfoot, right?”
Gretchen’s smirk turns into a grin. “That would be awesome! Maybe I can pitch them for the morning show at my channel.”
See, Frannie can do the bonding thing. “I bet I can connect you to the publicist if you like it.”
“I can offer truly terrible breakroom coffee and a greenroom that’s smaller than my closet,” Gretchen says imperiously.
“Who could ask for more?” Frannie wonders, grabbing her latte when it appears on the counter. She takes a sip. It’s … hideously sweet.
“Good?” Gretchen asks knowingly.
“Perfection,” Frannie lies, laughing when Gretchen nudges her and pushes her toward the door.
Maybe they really can do the friend thing, one coffee at a time.
Four hours and a massive sugar crash later, Frannie stretches and stands up to collect the last of Henry’s manuscript pages from the overheated printer she set up on the top of the rolltop desk. She digs in the drawer for some brass brads to bind it together. It’s heavy in her hands.
Cushions rustle in the living room and she looks over to find Bridgette and Michael squishing onto the couch, the TV already on.
“Hi, guys,” she says.
“Hi, Frannie!” they chorus, not bothering to look over at her.
Frannie shakes her head and turns back to her desk, only to jerk in the opposite direction as Hot Ghost Mom appears by the window.
“Jesus,” Frannie mutters.
“Did I startle you?” Hot Ghost Mom asks, looking far too pleased with herself.
“Don’t be smug. I jump at everything,” Frannie says, flushing a moment later. That’s not—
“It’s true, she does,” Bridgette calls from the living room.
Hot Ghost Mom’s lips twitch and Frannie feels herself flushing more. “Getting a lot done?” she asks, gesturing to Frannie’s laptop.
Thankfully, there’s only one sentence of her Ghost Book showing on the screen. She thinks she might actually combust if Hot Ghost Mom knew what she was writing.
“A bit,” Frannie admits, glancing back at the kids before standing up and hefting Henry’s manuscript from the rolltop.
She’s still not sure this is a good idea, but paying attention worked with Gretchen, so she at least wants to try.
“Here,” she says, extending the manuscript out to Hot Ghost Mom. “I know you like reading Henry’s novels. He just finished.”
Hot Ghost Mom stands still for a moment, eyes wide, before her hand snakes out and she takes the half-ream of paper from Frannie, careful not to touch her. She curls it to her chest, swallowing once before parting those beautiful, full lips.
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”
Frannie nods and offers her a tight smile before sitting back down at the desk. She shuts her personal laptop and grabs her work laptop to scroll through her email, leaving Hot Ghost Mom to figure herself out. She’s not going to push.
After a moment, Hot Ghost Mom walks away from her and into the living room. Frannie watches from her periphery as she settles into Henry’s exceedingly buttery black leather armchair and curls up with the manuscript. She smiles at the kids for a moment and then begins reading.
Frannie forces herself to focus on Henry’s latest email.
She glances into the living room a few minutes later and finds Hot Ghost Mom staring back at her.
A flush creeps up the back of her neck, and she turns back to her computer, sitting straighter, chest pushed out a little.
The feeling of Hot Ghost Mom’s eyes on her makes her stomach clench and heat flood her cheeks.
But this isn’t her book, so she needs that to turn off, right now.
The manuscript was just a nice gesture. It would simply be good to get to know the kids’ mom as a person. To have an adult to talk to at the Dakota. Nothing more, nothing less.
“You make a compelling point,” Henry says, sounding thoroughly annoyed about it.
Frannie fights a smug smile. “Thank you. If you want to talk about any of my other big-picture thoughts before I start the edit, I’m here,” she says.
Henry bobs his head, which makes his screen wobble. He’s always a little too close to his camera when they Zoom, the screen tipped back at the most unflattering angle. She’s tried explaining this numerous times; it never seems to stick.
“While I’m thinking through your very detailed notes, I expect you’re hard at work on your own pages. Turnabout’s only fair play, so I should get to give you notes before Thanksgiving,” he says, looking a bit more animated.
It figures that thinking about critiquing her would make him feel better. He’s dependably predictable that way. Which is unfortunate, because that means the best way to soothe his ego would be to tell him about her Ghost Book.
She’s written almost thirty thousand words in the last two weeks. Hyper-speed, by her standards. She’s done just as he asked.
But the words stick in her throat. Ghost Book has her in a chokehold, but she’s not ready to talk about it yet.
“I’m working on it,” Frannie says.
“You won’t give me a hint?” Henry pouts, tilting his head, which puts half of it out of frame.
“I want to make sure I’ve chosen the right idea,” Frannie says, wincing as he frowns through the screen at her. It would be reasonable, if it were true.
“If it takes three weeks to decide whether it’s the right idea, that probably tells you something.” Ugh, she hates his pedantic tone. “Try not to intellectualize it to death. I want pages I can read when I come back.”
“I know. I’m working on it,” Frannie says, panic leaching into her voice.
Henry holds up his hands. “All right. Let’s end for the night. You’re punchy.”
She’d like to punch his smug face through the screen. “Fine. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The call winks off and Frannie sits there staring at her work email, jaw clenched so tightly it’s starting to hurt. She closes the laptop with a none-too-gentle slam and stands up, pacing the length of the dining room.
He doesn’t trust her creative process. Doesn’t trust that she could have an idea complicated enough to need a few weeks’ thought. Doesn’t trust that she knows her own methods. Doesn’t trust that she’s writing the book he asked for.
But she is.
She just doesn’t know how to explain it yet.
“Hey, Frannie!”