Chapter 22
Trish and I were scheduled to do a multiauthor event with the Friendly Book Society, a community-based literacy, advocacy,
and funding group for Little Free Libraries all over the Lowcountry. The society always had events at the coolest locations:
museums, coffee shops, the Cedar Room at the former cigar factory, a brewery, and today’s choice, the Hart Meadow Ranch on
Johns Island inside a Mongolian yurt.
Five authors were present, each writing in a different genre, except for two of us in romance. I’d never met the other author,
but her life-sized poster indicated that she had been an instant New York Times bestseller. She was added after I had already agreed to participate. If I had known she would be here, I would have passed
on this event. She was going to get the sales.
Trish always had period-appropriate swag on her table, as did several of the other authors.
All I had was an eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch tabletop poster, some Sharpies, and a few bookmarks.
The thriller author’s line was outside the yurt.
It may have reached Mongolia. The romance star had a large display as well.
She had two assistants, one taking photos and the other prepping books for signatures.
Her table display included regular and sprayed-edge special collector’s editions of all ten of her books.
She might still be signing books next week.
This was why I didn’t do events with big authors. People always tried to tell you the sales would spill over, but nobody was
coming to see me.
“Let’s take a picture for our social media before we get busy.” Trish was squatting next to me, holding her phone and doing
that Miss-America-just-won-the crown smile she’d practiced in charm school as a child and perfected through work with a publicity
coach—another thing I couldn’t afford.
I swiveled my neck in Trish’s direction, but my smile was not in my eyes. It was not in the building. My self-confidence was
under the yurt. “I don’t want to stay here,” I cried through multiple poses.
Trish put down the phone and asked, “Why?”
“Because the real romance author is here.” I nodded in her direction and couldn’t fight the twinge of jealousy her long line
drew from my hurt ego.
Trish’s lips twisted with her words. “Smut sells, but there are people who love what you write too. They’ll be here. You’re
a staple in these Charleston book streets.”
But Trish was wrong. I used to be a staple before publishing and influencers made superstars . . . before my sales fell off . . .
before my stories started sounding the same.
Trish slid back over to her table. A group of six women walked up with copies of her new title fresh from the bookseller.
I overheard them complimenting her last book and sharing their excitement for this one as Trish signed the copies. Trish took
a group photo with the phone she had on a tripod behind her table.
One of the women scooted next to my table. Excitement leapt into my heart. “Could you play photographer for us? We want a group picture with Patricia.” She held her phone out to me.
“Of course,” I said. I stood and squeezed out of my space and took the picture for them.
“You have to read one of my friend’s books,” Trish said. “This is Alex Wesley. She writes romance.”
“Good and sexy?” one of the women asked.
My face cracked. I felt it. “Kind of. But wholesome,” I replied, holding up a copy of His Last Love. “This is the story of a—”
“Do you have any K-9 stories?” She picked up one of my bookmarks. “I only like the clean books if there’s a dog in it.”
I fought to hold my smile. In fact, I nearly laughed in her face. She couldn’t read a book without sex unless there was a
dog in the story? “No dogs today, but I have written a series that you can order at your local bookstore or get on your e-reader.”
“Oh good,” she replied, dismissing me to join the rest of the group as they animatedly debated whether they were getting in
one of the longer lines.
I thought I was going to hate this day, but it wasn’t all bad. I signed about twenty-five books, most purchased in the bookstore,
and took some pictures with longtime fans. I convinced myself that even though others were signing what looked like hundreds,
my draw was sufficient. God must have appreciated my heart of gratitude, because Gabe appeared through the entrance of the
yurt, filling the opening with biceps and cut abs. I couldn’t believe he was here, but he was. Gabe always looked bigger than
his six-foot height. He was followed by three of the kids from the center, one being Regina.
I popped to my feet to greet them, but my eyes locked with his and we said hello way before he was actually in my space. “What
are you doing here?”
Gabe removed his sunglasses. “Getting books signed.”
One of the bookseller’s staff came rushing to my table with a carton and placed it down. It was a case of my books.
“And what’s this?” I asked.
“The books I purchased,” he said. “I want them all signed, please. Just a first name signature will do.”
I was overwhelmed by his generosity. I knew what he was doing—trying to make me feel better about my career, but I asked him
about his intentions anyway. “Why are you buying all these books?”
“The society is shipping them out to the little libraries. I want to make sure yours are included.”
I fought crying as I rounded back to my chair.
“We need these stickers in them,” one of the boys said, pulling a package out of his backpack and putting it on the table.
“After she signs, it’s you guys’ job to put the sticker inside and put the books in the box.”
“What’s this?” I asked, picking up one of them, but I could see it was a request for donations to the literacy center.
Gabe shrugged. “You never know, we might get some donations from people who don’t know we exist.”
“The QR code makes it easy,” Regina said. “All they have to do is hold their phone to it.”
I was aware but loved that she thought she was educating me. “It’s brilliant,” I replied, looking at her and then sliding
my eyes up to Gabe’s.
Before I could say something else, the event coordinator slipped into our space and stole Gabe away with some talk about getting
him booked through the speakers bureau.
I signed books and supervised the sticking of stickers in the back by the kids, making sure they weren’t doing a haphazard
job.
“I want to be a writer just like you,” Regina said. Her face was open and sweet. She meant it.
Even with all the rock stars in the room, her vision saw only me. I spelled success as a writer for her.
“You will be. I’ll help you, and so will Mr. Gabe.”
Regina smiled and placed another pile of books in front of me. Our hearts connected and hovered over us, adding warmth to
my section of the room.
It didn’t take long to sign forty books. Gabe resurfaced, and I took a few pictures with him and the kids. We did a selfie,
which allowed us to touch each other. He squeezed my fingers and flashed me a heated look. This was what it was like after
you kissed people—not the same, secretive longing and wanting. They left me with a group of five patient readers waiting in
line at my table.
Sales begat sales. Several readers from the other lines did eventually find their way to me. By the end of the event, I was
glad I’d attended. I walked away feeling like I could write some more. Someone wanted to read my books.
“Are we going to eat?” Trish asked as we made our way to our cars. “I owe you dinner.”
She did not owe me anything, but I decided to let her treat me. I followed her to one of our favorite restaurants, and we
settled into a booth.
A text message chimed, and I looked. It was from Gabe.
Gabe: Regina is your biggest fan.
Me: And I’m hers. ?? Thanks for supporting me today.
Gabe: Our pleasure.
“Your smile is as wide as the bay window. Who is that?” Trish asked.
I put my phone face down. “Just a work thing.”
I thought about Gabe. Poetic, community-service oriented, connected to culture and all good things. Surely he wasn’t a cheater. Whoever ended up with him was going to be so lucky. She’d have him and beautiful brown babies with perfect teeth, and she’d have a good kisser.
Trish asked, “Are you still there?”
“I was thinking there must be some good men. God wouldn’t make half of the human race bad.”
Trish grunted.
I added, “I’m serious.”
Trish squinted as she looked at me. “Oh no. You’ve got a crush on him too.”
I waved her away. “Maybe a little one.”
“Maybe a huge one,” Trish said. “He’s easy on the eyes, and he’s a deep thinker. That’s as sexy as the number one spot on
a national bestseller list.”
I couldn’t help nodding.
“Make a move, girl. Put a period on the sentence.”
I laughed. “You’re hilarious.”
“I’m serious.”
“I don’t know if I can be trusted with a good man. I get in my own way, Trish. It’s got to be the daddy thing.”
“Most of us have daddy issues. Even when they’re there, sometimes they fail,” Trish said, and then she got that look on her
face before she said, “Or we make their failures bigger than they are.” Trish and I had had a conversation about this before.
She struggled with being honest about her feelings for her father because I didn’t have one.
“Stop apologizing. Just because your father is alive doesn’t mean you have to like him. Your truth is your truth.”
She gave me a weak smile, but I saw all of her pain in the hollows under her eyes. She didn’t date any more than I did. She
was injured too. My loss didn’t make her experience with her father invalid.
Trish picked up her drink. “This is a losing conversation.”
I laughed again, loud enough to cover my mouth. “We were doing better when we were talking about Gabe’s abs,” I said.
“And his a—” Trish stopped herself. “The apples in his cheeks.”
We laughed loud again. But I thought about those abs and dimples, and his butt. He was perfect. A man with a soul. Could I
even handle that?
We finished our meals and got into our cars.
“Text me if you want to jump on Zoom and write later,” I said. It was time for me to get back to my project.
“I’m whipped.” Trish raised her hand and dropped her wrist. “I’m tired from signing all those books.”
I smirked. “Girl, whatever.”
“I’ll let you know,” she said, driving off.
A FaceTime call came in from Gabe. My excited inner teen was back. I answered.
“I have a question,” he said, forgoing the greeting. “How would you like to go to New Orleans with me next weekend?”