Finding peace, p.22
Finding Peace, page 22
“You haven’t talked to me at all.”
Trig smirks. “So? Was I wrong?”
I shake my head.
“Okay then. So Geo’s got a friend,” he says. “She knows him from some parties she threw for the Braves. He’s their pitcher, and he’s a big deal, and she wants to set him up with Anica. She thinks they’d hit it off. Apparently his mom’s also an editor for a big publisher, and the guy loves to read.”
“A match made in heaven.” My voice is flatter than a highway in West Texas and my hands itch to crush something.
“He’s a catch,” Trig says, “if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“Great.”
“Alright, then.” He stands up. “I figured when you thought about him pressing her up against the brick wall outside Luke’s house to kiss her—”
I fly out of the chair and reach for Trig’s collar.
He leaps back. “That’s what I thought.”
“What do you want me to say?” I ask. “That I love her? That you’re tearing my heart out right now? I’m trying to do the right thing, here. Do you really have to rub my face in the fact that she’s moving on?”
“What’s the right thing, Mr. Noble? Hiding in this little house? Making Anica as miserable as you?”
“I’m not right for her,” I say. “I’m all broken. I’m trying to fix myself, but if she’s ready to move on, she should do it.”
Trig shakes his head and steps toward me. “You are the dumbest—” He pauses inches away from my face. “You don’t get to sit around and wait until you’re fixed. Life doesn’t work that way. Fix yourself right now, and then tell her you’ve done it. Or if you’re working on it actively, tell her that instead. She’ll work on it with you—that’s who she is. But if you sit in the penalty box, that pitcher will walk up and steal your base.”
That was officially the biggest bunch of mixed metaphors I’ve ever heard in my life. Even so . . . is he right?
“You don’t learn how to love someone by yourself.” He shakes his head and walks toward the door.
“Hey, when is she supposed to meet this pitcher guy?” I ask.
“Tonight.”
I swear under my breath. “I’m supposed to leave in a few hours—my fight is tomorrow. You couldn’t have given me a little earlier heads up?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. I only found out Francisco was coming to game night a few hours ago.”
I want to rush over to her house right now. I want to fix this—tell her I’m working on it. I’m not at peace yet, but I’m working toward it. I want to get wherever she needs me to be. I want to beg her to be patient, but how can I do that without having even fixed things with Adriana?
This time, I don’t hesitate. I call Phillip.
“Ethan?”
“It’s me, yeah.”
“Is everything okay?”
I close my eyes and inhale and exhale.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Look, I’m working really hard to forgive you—”
“I don’t—”
“Not for you, for me. You’re like a cancer that has eaten away at me for twenty years. Look, that’s not the point. I’m calling to tell you that I was wrong.” The thought of telling him he can see Adriana cuts me like a blade, but I push forward. “You don’t have to ignore Adriana, okay? If she wants to see you, it’s fine with me.”
“I can’t give the Porsche back.”
“Oh my—you’re kidding right? This isn’t about that. I don’t want the stupid car back.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I—look—what I’m saying is that I had no business interfering with whatever Adriana wants to pursue in terms of a relationship with you. Okay?”
He swallows. “Yes. Thank you. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m proud of you.”
I’m making progress, but not that much. I hang up.
I don’t call Adriana—I drive to her school. Even though I stop to grab flowers, I’m lucky and I arrive in time for her lunch break.
“Ethan?” She looks around, as if I might be there for someone other than her.
“I’m sorry.” I hold the flowers toward her.
“Wait, what are you sorry for now?”
I shake my head. “No, I mean, you were right. I was just like Dad. I’ve known for a while now, but it took me a while to wrap my head around calling Phillip to rescind our deal. I didn’t figure I could convincingly apologize to you before doing that.”
“He was willing to trade me for a Porsche,” she says. “I think that tells me something valuable.”
I sigh. “Look, he was, but it wasn’t as much about the car. I think it had to do with his guilt.” I know the feeling. “I’m not saying you need to spend time with him. You already know how I feel about that—we’re both better off without him. But if it’s something you need, well you know better than anyone whether it is. I’m sorry I tried to wade in and force things on you in your life.”
Ana steps closer and wraps her arms around my waist. “With mom and dad gone, I needed you to take care of me for a long time. I get it. But I’m old enough now that I only need you to wade in when I ask. Alright?”
I nod. “Yep, deal.”
“Nice work,” she says. “That was an excellent apology.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I wish I could take full credit, but I’ve been seeing a counselor.”
Her eyes flutter. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
“That’s brilliant. It may be the most impressive thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
Instead of the fury that usually floods my heart, this time it’s a feeling of light and air and joy. “Thank you.” It’s way better than the rage.
“Hey, good luck tomorrow.”
“Do you mean tonight?”
She frowns. “Tonight?”
Oh, right, the fight. “Kidding. It’s tomorrow. And thanks.” I let her go and step back. “I’d better go,” I say. “I’ve got another apology to make.”
“A harder one, I imagine,” she says. “But I really hope you do that one right. I like Anica a lot.”
“She’s way too good for me,” I say. “But if I play this right, she might not realize it until it’s too late.”
Ana laughs. “Play it perfectly, then.”
18
Anica
The editing on the IP project I did was relatively painless. Since the publisher technically purchased the book, they could really change whatever they wanted, so there wasn’t much back and forth.
But working with a new agent on my most recent project is strange. Unlike Henri, who mostly sent my manuscript to publishers as it was and then sent me their comments, Phoebe wants to be involved in every step.
“You want me to change what?” I ask.
She explains.
“But if I change that, I’ll have to rework the entirety of chapter eight.”
“Which is why I’m calling. It’ll take some thought and time—”
“You stayed up all night reading it, right?”
“Anica, I love your book. That doesn’t mean it can’t be better before we submit to publishers.”
After reading over her laundry list of requested changes, it doesn’t feel like she loves it. “Alright, let me think about it.”
Once I read the sections she’s talking about, I realize she’s right. The main character isn’t acting consistently. It takes me eleven days of almost nonstop edits to fix the problem. I write two extra chapters, but it’s better. Much stronger. She calls me the next day.
“It’s dramatically improved.”
“So are we going on submission?” I shouldn’t have to be nervous about asking my agent to do what agents do.
“Of course,” she says. “But I had a few more thoughts before we take that step.”
Breathe, Anica. Breathe. “Okay.”
“I’m emailing you now. When I reread it—and I loved the new chapters four and eight, by the way—I realized that the pacing is a little slow from chapter twenty through the end.”
“It’s a romance,” I remind her. “That’s the wrap up.”
“Right.” She sighs. “I know it is, but think about what we might do to make that move a little . . . faster.”
“You want it shorter?” How long are we going to be making dumb little changes like this?
“Not shorter—I want it to have more tension.”
Forty minutes later, I get what she’s saying and I have a tentative game plan. I hate that she’s right again, but I also love that she cares so much. Which is why I spend the next week fixing the pacing issues. Then I send it back one more time . . . and I hold my breath.
Of course she calls me with yet another issue. “We’re so close this time,” she says. “I just think we could work on dialogue tags a little bit.”
This time, I listen carefully, shoving my frustration deep, deep down. And then I make her changes in three days.
“Now,” she says the next day. “Now we can go on submission. I’ll send you my list tonight.”
“Are we going to cast a wide net?”
“I’ve been thinking about this,” she says.
My heart falls. She’s only sending it to a few people.
“I don’t want you to think this is anything but strategic. I love your book so much that I want to send it to a very curated list, specific editors who I know have latitude to make a deal. I think this is going to be big, Anica. A wide net catches a lot of little fish. We want to use a spear—for the swordfish.”
“Significant?” I can’t help thinking about Patrick’s last deal.
She laughs. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This is romance, after all. The advances aren’t always as large as other genres that don’t have quite as much competition.”
“I know,” I say. “I know.” The list she sends over is killer. She’s assembled these publishers with a lot of strategy—competitors, and editors with a lot of seniority and pull. Which means if none of them want this manuscript. . . Breathe, Anica. Just breathe. Someone will want it. I just might not get much. After my last project bombing and then the IP project, I promise myself that I won’t be too picky.
I’m a total basket case for two full days, waiting for any word. I keep reminding myself that the publishing world moves slowly—like lichen growing on a rock. It could be weeks before I hear a peep from any of them.
But the next morning while I’m on my way to the diner, Phoebe calls me with news. “We have an offer.”
My foot slams into the gas and the car shoots forward. I yank back to avoid slamming into the minivan in front of me.
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m here. Who is it?”
“Lena Paul with Avon.”
Why does it always have to be Avon? “Is the offer good?”
“A hundred thousand for world rights, plus standard royalties.”
It’s not as good as my last rom-com deal, but it’s not bad. It’s also way more than I got for the IP project I just did with them. They’d know that and assume I’d rush to take it. “What do you think?”
Phoebe sighs. “I knew you’d ask me that.”
“A pre-empt means it’s a done deal. It sells, and there’s no guarantee we’ll get that money elsewhere if we wait.”
“Yeah, they wanted me to make it clear that they’re offering their absolute highest figure because they want to keep you on board. Brett was clear that if we don’t take this, we’re looking at less for a formal offer.”
I hate this part. I like to write the stories, not work the deals. “But?”
“But I think this is a really good book. Unique premise with a main character who’s strong on STEM. That’s hot right now. It’s also got sizzling chemistry, witty banter, an empowered lead and an enlightened man—all the things they’re looking for, and you may not have published recently but you’re hardly a gamble. You’ve got an excellent sales record in this genre.”
In this genre. That’s her subtle reminder of the risk factor. My last book bombed and everyone knows it. It tanks my sales record, which is the reason for the lower offer. That and the time lag. People won’t remember me like they would if I’d kept up the momentum.
I should take the pre-empt. Loyalty isn’t bad, and that’s a lot of money. If it earns out, I’ll get more on the next one. Industry standard. I open my mouth to tell her to take it, and my stomach lurches. I never felt queasy like this when I took my past deals. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure,” she says.
I pull into the parking lot for work and call Trudy.
“Anica?”
“Hey Trudy. I know you’re probably busy, but I’ve got a big decision to make and I wasn’t sure who to call.”
“I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”
I explain. “And I think I ought to take the pre-empt, but then I felt totally sick when I started to say yes.”
Trudy laughs. “I know this one. Your head says to take it, but your heart doesn’t agree.”
Ugh. “Crap, I think that’s right. But what do I do? Head or heart?”
“If I tell you to turn them down, how do you feel?”
“Exhilarated,” I say. “I’ve never done anything like that in my life. I always make the smart move and take the sure thing.”
“You’re a new Anica,” Trudy says. “I’d say go with your gut.”
“But what if it comes back to bite me?” I bang the heel of my hand against my forehead. “What if no one else wants it, and I end up getting twenty or thirty percent less from Avon because I’m overconfident?”
“You’ll take that bottom paddle as the lesson it was, and you’ll do better next time. But if your agent loves it this much, and if several agents called about it based on sample chapters, I’m guessing that’s not what’s going to happen.”
When I call Phoebe back, the fingernails of my hands dig into my palms, I’m clenching them so hard. “Turn it down,” I say.
“Atta girl.” She hangs up.
My phone taunts me during my entire shift. Not a call. Not a text. Not an email. And then a New York number calls me as I’m wiping down my last booth. Everyone in publishing lives in NYC. My fingers shake as I answer. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Maggard? This is Kevin with Carsure USA, calling to ask you about the warranty on your car. Do you feel as covered as you could? You never know what could happen on the road these days, and you want to make sure you’re protecting yourself.”
“My car is eleven years old,” I say. “I’m guessing you’ve got the wrong person.”
He hangs up, and I slide my dumb phone back into my pocket. So much for my hopes that another publisher would reply quickly or that Avon might realize that I’m playing hardball and up their offer. Even though I know it’s stupid, I check my phone twice on the way home from work and again when I get out of the shower.
It sits on my desk and taunts me as I try and work on a list of ideas for my next book. I write up a dozen different opening lines, but none of them really drag me into the story. And every time I close my eyes to imagine how a couple might meet, I see Ethan.
Always Ethan.
It’s probably only because he’s all over the news right now. They just announced that he’ll be taking over his dad’s company and the stock price jumped. And he’s got another fight coming up, soon. Last time he fought a local UFC guy, someone who had never fought in Vegas—a big deal, but only in the South. This next fight is in Vegas, and everyone in Atlanta is talking about it. It’s happening in ten days, which I probably shouldn’t know. And have marked with a big red circle on my calendar.
At least it’s easy to find images of him online when I get really lonely. Most of them are of him working out at Harrison’s—someone there is getting a decent chunk of change selling live images, I’m guessing. None of the photos show him next to any women. I’ve even found a few articles speculating about what happened between us—most of them blaming me for being too high maintenance.
“Looking at photos of Ethan? Why not just call him?” Luke’s not smiling, but I can hear the mirth in his voice.
I slam my laptop closed and spin around. “What’s up?”
“You’re coming for the game night tomorrow, right?”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Apparently Paisley just told Mary that James can’t come, so she wants to claim you as a partner. She was going to call, and I said I’d just ask you.” He beams. “I had no idea you were busy.” His eyebrows wiggle up and down.
“Knock it off.” Although if I’m being fair, Mary and Luke haven’t teased me at all since Ethan just disappeared. I expected it, but it never happened.
“I don’t get it.” He sits on my bed. “I liked him and you did too, I thought. And then bam. Gone.”
“You date someone until you find something you can’t live with, right?”
“I guess,” Luke says. “And you’re sure you can’t deal with it, whatever it is?”
I exhale slowly. “I thought maybe he’d see that I was right, but . . . ” I shrug. “He never called, so I guess not.”
“Did you call him?” Luke frowns. “Because with guys, if you yelled at him for something, he might just assume it’s over.”
I blink. “I—” I shake my head. “No, I was pretty clear.” But what if he was too upset to even remember what I said? With Patrick, I stayed waaaay too long. Did I bail too fast with Ethan? “I hate dating.”
“The only cure to that is to do it long enough that you don’t have to anymore. If you keep dumping good guys, though, you could be dating forever.” Luke stands up. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better you wrote that one off.” He pauses by the door. “You know what they say. Rock-hard muscles, brains, generosity, and a good sense of humor aren’t everything.”
“Who says that?”
“Oh.” Luke scratches his head. “I guess no one does. Way to buck the norm.” He’s chuckling when he walks out.
I’m brushing mascara on before the game night when my phone rings. Phoebe. “Hello?”
