Finding peace, p.23
Finding Peace, page 23
“Anica, you genius.”
“What?”
“I got an email from St. Martin this morning with an offer—very close to Avon’s, so I reached out to everyone else. Four other publishers, Avon not included, want to put in offers. You’re going to auction.”
I can hardly breathe. “Which ones?”
“So you can obsess over them all weekend, looking up their other books on Publisher’s Marketplace?” Phoebe laughs. “I think I’ll let that wait until Monday when we look over the numbers together.”
“Monday?” I practically wail.
“Three of them asked to have until Monday afternoon to get their best offer together, so it’s set for Monday at three.”
“That’s so long.”
Phoebe sighs. “It takes a long time to put together a package—and consult with publicity, marketing, the publisher budgeting people, etcetera. You know that. And also, our agency policy is to reach out to film agents when a book like this goes to auction, which means I’ll be busy the rest of today as well.”
My heart hammers against my rib cage so loudly that I worry she can hear it.
“Try to enjoy your weekend.”
This feels Significant. When I walk into the game night, I’m beaming. I can’t help it.
“Someone looks happy.” Geo crosses her arms.
I tell them my news.
“I hate you,” Trudy says.
“Rude.” Mary arches one eyebrow at her sister.
“I’m now the only ordinary person in the group. Again.” Trudy scowls.
“She’s kidding,” Mary says.
“Yeah, don’t be ridiculous, Trudy.” Geo walks past me and into the kitchen. “There are plenty of us plebeians.”
Trudy winks at me. “I was kidding, but not because the rest of you aren’t special. It’s because I know that I’m special by association. What amazing news.”
“This is the happiest I’ve seen you in weeks,” Mary says. “I think maybe it’s time.” She looks pointedly at Geo.
“What does that mean?” I pour Coke in a glass and take a sip.
“We’ve tried not to push,” Mary says, “but we’ve all got a few ideas for setups.”
I choke.
“My friend Matt is really cute,” Trudy says, “and he’s smart too.”
“But he spends way too much time looking at himself in the mirror in the bathroom,” Paul says. “It’s not normal.”
“Which is why I vote for Geo’s suggestion,” Luke says.
They’ve been talking about this . . . together?
“I’m not so pathetic that I need you guys to find me someone,” I say.
No one meets my eyes.
“Look, I’ve been busy with work and—”
“Geo’s put together a bunch of events for the Atlanta Braves,” Mary says. “And guess what? That handsome Francisco Guerrera? He’s not only single, but he also loves books and hates big parties. His last girlfriend was cheating on him—”
“Mary,” Geo says. She shakes her head slightly.
“Oh. I thought that was okay to share.” Mary’s face pales.
Geo sighs melodramatically. “Now that you have, I may as well explain. He found his last girlfriend had been unfaithful right before one of the events I planned. We had to spend some time together to coordinate his media events, and he asked me where I’d suggest he find . . . a higher caliber girl.”
“His actual words were that he wanted to find a woman of integrity.” Mary winks at me.
“And you said, ‘Don’t worry. I know the only one in Atlanta’?” I roll my eyes. “For all you know, I’m not a woman of quality either.”
“Oh, I’m willing to vouch for you. You can be a little mulish at times, but you hold yourself to very high standards.” Mary sits down at the dining table. “Balderdash tonight.”
“I am really, really good at Balderdash,” I say.
“Then we’ll be sure that’s on the list for next week,” Geo says. “Because I might have mentioned game nights and told him he could come to the next one.”
“You’re kidding.” As I look around the room, I realize they all already knew. “What if I don’t find him attractive?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Trig grumbles. “These four were all gushing last week.”
“I was at game night last week and he never came up.” I glance around.
“You were writing last Saturday,” Luke says. “Remember I invited you to that fundraiser?”
“Well that’s the last time I miss a group event,” I say. “I had no idea you’d all be conspiring against me if I skipped.”
“Conspiring for you,” Paisley says. “It’s a subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless.”
Trudy sits next to me. “They did this to me, too, you know.”
“Who did?” I ask.
“Luke and Mary badgered me about setting me up for months.” Trudy sighs. “I insisted on finding my own guy.”
“See?” I ask. “You get it.”
“I ended up marrying the guy they wanted to set me up with,” she says with a smile. “Although, to be fair, I met him on my own first.”
I shake my head. “Wait, why haven’t I heard this story? I feel like it would make a great book.”
“Oh, no,” Paisley says. “We aren’t writing books about our love lives. I feel like neither James nor I would come out looking very good in that story.”
I laugh. “Fine, fine.”
By Sunday, I can’t think about anything but the auction, so when Mom calls me, I agree to meet them for dinner. I’ve avoided them for too long. Besides, I should let them know what’s going on with the books. I check and double-check my makeup and hair before going over. They’ve always loved Lizzie so much more than me—no reason to give Mom any excuse to pounce.
“Anica,” Mom says when she opens the door. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks.” I hug her. Dad’s waiting for his hug next.
“We were beginning to worry you’d fallen into a hole,” Dad says.
“A deep hole, populated with lions,” Mom says.
“I kind of did,” I say.
“What?” Mom’s face falls.
“I’ve been writing again.”
I expect her to beam, but Mom frowns. Typical.
“I actually sold a book six weeks ago to Avon.”
“Great, that’s great,” she says. “Does that mean you’ll be heading back to California soon?”
What? I only moved there because of Patrick. “I can write anywhere, Mom.”
She nods. “Of course you can. Why don’t we go to the kitchen? The meatloaf will get cold.”
Dad tells me about his newest project at work while we eat, and I pretend to care about mechanical engineering. See? Not so hard to act like something matters to you when it doesn’t—they could try it. But I don’t mention that they change the subject every time my writing comes up. There’s no reason to point out their flaws and make them like me even less than they already do.
I help Mom clear the table, piling dishes in the sink. “My current manuscript goes to auction tomorrow.”
Mom blinks and pushes past me to start loading the dishwasher. “Wait, you can buy it already? Isn’t that fast?”
“No Mom, that other book was an IP project. I don’t own it—it won’t even come out under my name. Remember?”
“I’m sorry, dear. I don’t really understand all the book stuff.”
But I could explain it if she cared. I start to move along to another topic, but a little rebellious voice inside says NO. I decide to explain what’s going on, even if they don’t want to know. “Mom, this is another book. I’ve written two in the last few months.”
“That’s wonderful,” Dad says. “Didn’t it used to take you a year to write just one?”
“Yep,” I say. “I’m clearly getting faster. These two only took me five months together.” I laugh, but neither of them does.
“Okay, so look, auction means that the manuscript I just sent to my agent went out to a bunch of editors, and more than one of them wanted to buy it. It’s really rare, and it’s a really, really good sign. They all put in their best and highest offer, and then I can pick which one I want to go with.”
“So it’s not actually an auction,” Dad says. “I mean, they can’t quite bid up.”
I give up. “The point is that it’ll be sold on Monday—my fourth book will be out in the world before you know it.”
“Technically your fifth,” Mom says. “Right?”
I suppose that means she’s paying attention. “Right, but that other one won’t be under my name. So this will technically be my fifth, but to the world, it’s my fourth.”
“I think your dad and I are going to go into the family room and watch some television,” she says.
Really? I haven’t been over in more than two months. “Okay, well.”
“You could come watch with us for a bit.” My dad’s tentative smile breaks my heart. They’re awkward and they don’t get me, but they’re the only parents I have.
“Alright,” I say. “I guess so.” It can’t be worse than researching the list of acquiring editors Phoebe sent and wondering which ones are offering. Or googling updates on Ethan.
My mom is clicking through screens like staying on one too long will set her hair on fire . . . until she finds Bonanza—really??—when it hits me.
I’m as big a mess as they are, but in a different way.
Could they act like this . . . because they’re as broken about Lizzie’s death as I am? They’ve seemed to handle it totally fine, as though it didn’t even faze them, and I’ve faulted them for it. It’s like their daughter died and they don’t even care.
But maybe this weird, false joy front is them being broken.
I grab the remote and turn the TV off. Then I turn toward them and face it, head on. “You didn’t used to watch super old TV shows and never talk about anything. You used to get excited for me when I had news.”
“Used to?” Dad swallows and turns toward my mom, for all the world like he’s saying ‘line’ on a movie set. Like he’s hoping she’ll tell him what to say.
Did aliens replace my parents with pod people? “You can tell me what you’re thinking,” I say. “Whatever it is. I’d prefer it, honestly.”
“We find that we’re happier with a routine,” Dad says.
So they aren’t dead inside. “But your routine hurts me.” My whispered words sound so pathetic.
Mom’s shoulders collapse and her face falls. “What?”
“Lizzie died and you guys just . . . ignored me.” I can’t cry, not yet. I need to talk to them about this.
“You stayed in California,” Mom says. “Like nothing had changed.”
I hurt them, too. “I was bleeding out there,” I say. “My world fell apart, and I was so alone.”
“You could have called me,” Dad says.
“You guys can’t even talk to me right here in your own kitchen,” I say.
Mom bursts into tears and catapults off the couch and out of the room.
“I’ll talk to her.” When Dad stands up, he does it slowly, like his joints hurt. They’ve been aging and I didn’t even notice. He walks toward the hall, but stops in the doorway and half turns back toward me. “Can you wait?” His eyes plead with me. “It won’t be too long.”
I nod.
I’ve been thinking they aren’t here for me, and they’ve been thinking I didn’t care. We’re not Ethan’s family, but we’re not nearly as healthy and whole as I thought. Dad’s gone for more than half an hour, but when he comes back, Mom’s trailing behind him, her eyes on her embroidered moccasins.
“Can we talk about Lizzie?” I ask.
Mom’s eyes fly up to mine, and she nods. “I think that’s a good idea.”
Dad sits next to me and pats my hand. “I’m sorry we haven’t been there when you needed us.” His voice cracks on the last word, and I pull him against me for a side hug.
I can’t quite keep from crying anymore, but then they both start to cry as well and I don’t care about my own tears. We talk about Lizzie for two hours before I notice the time. “You’ve got to work tomorrow?” I ask.
“He does,” Mom says. “And I’ve got a brunch at the church.”
“We need to do this more,” Dad says. “We miss you.”
“Me too.” I stand up. “Thanks for dinner.”
Mom walks me to the door and hugs me before I leave. “We’re very proud of you.” She wipes a tear I can’t even see from her cheek. “We don’t know quite what to say. I’m a regular person, and so is your dad, and you’re a super star.”
“I’m just me,” I say. “But all you have to say is that you’re proud. That’s enough.”
On the way home, I wonder whether I’ve done the same thing to everyone—assumed they weren’t interested in spending time with me . . . when I’m the one staying away.
Ethan.
But I told him that he should. . . I think about that night. I told him that he didn’t know how to love. I told him we were breaking up.
Has he been waiting for my call? Have I been avoiding making it because I was too harsh and I regret acting like I knew everything when I barely know what he went through at all?
When I go to sleep that night, all I dream about is Ethan, telling me he’s over me.
Too bad I’m not over him.
The next morning, right after my shift, I walk by Harrison’s gym, but it’s closed. I’m too early—on purpose. That was the point of the breakfast shifts, after all.
When my phone rings, I jump. Phoebe again.
“You ready to talk strategy?” she asks.
“Uh, sure.”
She tells me the list of players, and it’s the most welcome distraction. I sink into the details of my book and then I fall into the rhythm of the breakfast crowd, and I hardly think about Ethan at all. By the time three p.m. rolls around, I’m nervous as a tick awaiting a scheduled flea bath.
The chime on my laptop bings, announcing an incoming Zoom call. I answer.
“Okay, I just got the last email,” Phoebe says. “You ready to open them?”
I nod.
“Okay, first, Avon. They came in with a hundred and fifty thousand. So much for a hundred being their limit.” Her chortle is not very ladylike. It makes me wish I could hug her through the phone.
“Alright, that’s good.” It’s not two hundred and fifty or more, which is ‘significant,’ but it’s not bad at all.
“Now I’m opening St. Martin’s. . . It’s two hundred and ten thousand, plus they’ve got an attached offer for the movie rights. They want to lock it in for their Macmillan Film arm.” She mutters under her breath for a moment and then says, “Oh, there it is. They’re offering another seventy-five for that, and you’ll have ‘reasonable creative control.’ That’s nice. They’d like as close to a simultaneous release as possible, which makes sense from a marketing perspective. Usually the movie lags pretty far behind the book.”
My mind is swimming.
“Oh man, Hachette’s offer is worse than Avon, so they’re out.” She clicks on something. “And it looks like Simon and Schuster is only offering two hundred flat.”
“So does that mean we go with St. Martin?” I ask. “Right?”
“I saved the best one for last,” Phoebe says. “Ballantine. Random House has a partnership with RHFilm, which in turn partners with Warner Brothers. They sent a combined offer, two hundred and fifty for the book, and a hundred for the movie, and they’ve got funding already.” She whistles. “I think that’s why they asked me to give them until three.”
“Whoa, really?”
“We could counter any of these, but I wouldn’t. I’ll send them all to you now, but I’d suggest taking the Ballantine offer unless we see something concerning in the fine print.” She laughs. “This is very, very good news.”
The next few days are a blur. I call Barbara and ask for a little time off, since Ballantine wants to meet with me in NYC. I fly out Tuesday morning, review details with Phoebe all day, and then meet with executives from the imprint all day Wednesday and Thursday. By the time I fly home Friday morning, I’m exhausted.
And I’ve decided that I didn’t get my life on track with my writing until I stopped worrying about whether I was writing the right thing and wrote what mattered to me.
I should have realized that and reached out to Ethan before. It’s less about whether I was supposed to call him or he was supposed to call me and more about the fact that he’s still the only one I want. The second my plane lands, I take the shuttle to my car and head for Ethan’s house.
Mary calls me when I’m right around the corner. “Anica?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Are you back yet?”
“I just landed,” I say.
“Great. Welcome home.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Did you need anything?”
“Just wanted to make sure you’re coming home for game night,” she says.
“Sure, right, yeah, I’ll be there soon enough.”
“Great.” Kids are screeching in the background. “Well, I won’t keep you.” Which basically means she’s busy, but too polite to say that since she called me.
“See you later,” I say.
And then I’m parking in Ethan’s driveway. His fight is tomorrow, so there’s a chance he’s not even home, but I can’t wait another second. My hands shake as I walk toward the door, but I squeeze my right hand into a fist and bang loudly and clearly. If I got through it with my parents, I can do it with Ethan. Right? I hope.
Only, he doesn’t answer.
I sit down on his porch steps and bawl like a toddler.
I know he’s likely in Vegas, but it feels like it’s a metaphor. I did like I did with Patrick—even though I walked away right off the bat, it took me too long to figure out my crap, and now I’m alone.
Again.
Only, with Patrick it was the right call. This time, I feel like I really had a chance at never being alone again.
And I blew it.
19
Ethan
“I will be there,” I say. “I said I would.”
