Chapter 1
Chapter One
EXTRA HOT AMERICANO
LOUISA
The Double Shot coffee shop is walking distance from my apartment, close enough that I can do the walk in four minutes if I’m not stopping to look at things.
(Which I always am.) So realistically it takes fifteen, because some days it feels like the whole world exists in these few short blocks, and what a waste it would be for me to walk right by it.
Today, it takes twenty-three. Not because there are new additions of roses for me to stop and smell, but because I’ve been on the phone with my producer (and friend) Roma, for almost the entire walk.
“Lou, I’m serious, the files need to be in the dropbox by the end of the week.
” Roma’s voice comes through my headphones, with only one earbud in, allowing me to eavesdrop on the lives people are living during their commutes to work.
But Roma has been my producer for the last few years, one of the first people I trusted as I became a voice actor, at times acting like a mentor as needed.
We eventually became friends as well, but right now, it’s not the friendship that had her calling me rather than an equally long voice memo which is usually more her speed.
“I’m working on it, they will be ready for review and pick-ups by Friday,” I say, pausing momentarily in front of a bakery window as if the trays of cookies require supervision from my face pressed against the glass.
But it will be an inspiration for me when I make my own batch later, even though I haven’t quite mastered the pignoli, so sometimes I do have to stop in.
Antonio, the baker, spots me as usual, with a wave and a motion inside where I know he will offer me my choice in cookies while also telling me about his son (and daughter) in the event I might be interested in either.
(I’m not. Since Ben, I haven’t really been interested in anyone.) But I just smile, mouth the words ‘no thanks’ as a woman brushes by me and opens the bakery door.
The wave of sugar and butter escapes into the street and I inhale it deeply like it was escaping just to meet me.
“I think you are stalling because the last round of feedback wasn’t what you wanted.
” She’s not wrong. The last round of feedback was great for everything except the sex scenes.
Any scene where the characters are ravishing each other she called ‘distant.’ Every other bullet was about how perfectly I captured them, it was just this.
Apparently my inability to convey real genuine passion between two people.
(Or more than two depending on the book.)
“I’m sorry, I’ll get them over to you.”
“This isn’t criticism for criticism’s sake.
I can tell you’re shutting down, but I need you to hear me, that this conversation is not me saying you’re bad, you have nothing to apologize for, there’s no one I’d rather listen to.
” I leave the bakery window to continue my walk to work.
(Or my part-time day job.) The one that allows me the ability to actually talk to people (people not Roma or the voices in my head) and emerge from the small velvet-draped closet I call my recording studio where I spend most of my time.
I know she isn’t calling to be cruel, her feedback is usually on the nose. Which is why I hate it. Because she’s never been wrong before. (Don’t you just hate those people?) But my lack of response just gives her the wide open space to keep going, which she does.
“You are technically excellent. You have so much depth, and humor. But when it comes to the spice, that’s just not the same as being compelling, babe.”
“I’m compelling,” I say, with some weak attempt at convincing the both of us. I bend down to pet Mrs. Saraceno’s three Pomeranians on their morning walk with Jamie, the dog walker. These fluffy piranhas are a nice momentary mental break for the crippling feeling of inadequacy and disappointment.
“You used to be more compelling,” Roma corrects gently, which is worse.
Knowing like she does that recording, acting, as these characters really comes from a part of yourself it’s sometimes harder to channel.
Do I need to be in a polyamorous relationship with three winged men to be able to convey that strongly?
No. Does it help if I’m at least having semi-regular orgasms?
Yes. “The last book you sent over, there’s more distance, you’re farther than you used to be.
Maybe not to anyone else, but I’ve spent hundreds of hours listening to you, I know what you sound like when you’re reading like an observer, not the protagonist.”
“If I start experiencing it, that’s a whole different career that would do better on OnlyFans than Audible, and I’m not sure we’re there,” I say with more sarcasm than she deserves while beelining it right for the fruit stand where Ramon always lets me nab a bag of cherries to eat for the last block of my journey.
(And whenever he comes into the coffee shop I repay the favor with a ‘cafecito’ as he says.)
Roma sighs, she’s coached dozens of narrators through creative crises (and even coached me through a breakup) and now here she is, staring down another one.
Creative crisis, not breakup, it’s been about six-months since either.
“Lou, you narrate smut for a living. You cannot sound like you are standing outside someone else’s bedroom door and knocking politely just to sit in the chair and watch. ”
“Some people are into that,” I say just as I reach the fruit cart, Ramon looks up eagerly, clocking me immediately, handing me a small bag of black cherries. Also pointing to bananas to see if it's banana bread week. (It’s not.)
“Thank you,” I say in a whisper, balancing the two conversations at once, and I can hear Roma breathing, waiting. As I take a bite out of an apricot Ramon hands me from the mound because I ‘must try.’
“Are you dating anyone?” she finally asks.
I almost trip over the curb in response.
Not for lack of trying, it just hasn’t been easy for me to find someone willing to spend time to actually build a connection before racing to whatever physical finish line they have.
It’s almost ironic, the level of emotional intimacy I require before engaging in a level of physicality others can enjoy freely on a Friday night.
I’m the person who really means ‘come over and watch a movie’ when I ask someone to ‘come over and watch a movie.’ I’m also the person narrating some of the most graphic, other-worldly romance books currently on the market.
(Apparently, sometimes just as a spectator.)
“What?” I ask, with the small hope this isn't going where I think it is.
“It’s a simple question,” she says, then repeating it. “Are you dating anyone?”
“Doesn’t feel like it.” There’s a pause, not long, just long enough to be loaded.
“Maybe you should consider it,” she says.
My laugh in response is thin. “So, you’re prescribing dating now?”
“I am suggesting,” she says carefully.
“As my producer, or my friend?”
“Whichever one will motivate you to get out there… sometimes the well needs to be refilled, babe. Passion is not theoretical, you read enough of it to know that. I’m not saying to go out and just sleep with the first person you come in contact with, I’m saying you tell stories of love and desire, and right now you sound untouched by it. ” (Ouch.)
I don’t have anything to respond, so it just hangs there on the telephone line.
It’s not like the Ben Breakup was a catastrophic heartbreak, but it certainly reinforced the philosophy I try to live by, which is that things are temporary so enjoy them as much as you can, as long as you can. (Especially with people.)
I pass Howard on the bench outside his building, he lowers his newspaper like he’s been waiting for me.
“Markets are up,” he says. “Bad time to be cautious.” Every time I see him he gives me the headlines like a custom news algorithm just for me.
Often talking about the stock markets in a way I never understand, but always appreciate the effort of.
“Your horoscope says the opposite,” I say.
“Same time tomorrow,” I tell him in a whisper while handing off a couple of the cherries, as I cover the receiver on my headphones to try and block out the noise to not give Roma another chance to feel like I’m ignoring her.
(Which I’m not, I’m just multi-tasking.)
“I don’t think it works like that, Rome,” I say finally, quieter now as I turn the corner toward the shop. “My personal life should have no impact on my performance.”
“No?” she asks, but it’s not a real question. “Then why does it?”
I push open the door to The Double Shot, the bell chiming overhead. “I think passion is…earned. It’s an investment, it takes knowing someone well enough.”
“You sound like a romantic,” she says through a soft, sincere laugh.
“I’ve been called worse.” I am a bit of a romantic, maybe not always love-at-first-sight level romantic, but the big, earth-moving gestures? Gets me every time.
I move behind the counter, nodding hello to Chandler as I tie on my eggplant-colored apron, and point to the dangling headphone so she knows I’m on the phone.
“It’s not just physical,” I add, reaching for a cup.
“It’s everything underneath that.” I stop, because the sentence is about to say more than I want to.
“I don’t think I’ve ever really had that,” I finish, softer.
Speaking now more to my friend than the woman who has single-handedly helped me make the jump from Black Friday commercials to best-selling romance novels.