Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“You know her?” One of them asks.
“Sort of. Just a sec,” he replies as I reach for the door handle.
“That’s the men’s room.” His hand covers mine, peeling my grip from the handle and redirecting me to the next door, a few more feet down the hallway.
It’s locked.
I sigh, rolling to the side, pressing my back against the wall, and closing my eyes so things stop moving on me. “You ‘sort of’ know me? Well, that’s just fantastic. Go,” I mumble. “Blond girl’s ass is probably missing your hand. Can’t blame her … I remember what that feels like.”
“You’re drunk, and I didn’t have my hand on her ass. It’s called her lower back. What are you doing here by yourself getting wasted?”
I rub my temples. “My mom didn’t love the book. Freya has a dick up her ass, and she’s being loud about it. And my chances of finding a publisher are nearly zero, so I think I deserve a few shots.”
Eric glances down the hallway to his friends. “Can you get home by yourself?”
The door to the bathroom opens. The woman coming out gives us a quick smile and turns the corner.
I laugh. “You have a date, and I have to pee.”
He shrugs. “It’s not a date. I just met her here. I … we …”
I rest my hand on his chest. “You…” my head tries to spin again “…will sleep with her. She’s not a psycho-author. She seems like a good distraction. I get it.” I turn and flip on the light to the bathroom. “I used to be a good distraction until you ruined it.” Closing the door, I lock it and find the toilet before I wet my pants.
When I emerge, he’s gone. His friends are gone. And I’m oddly disappointed. It has to be the tequila.
I take my inebriated self home. The apartment is quiet. After erasing my mom’s text without responding, I resist my usual urge to jump online and check my book sales. I wouldn’t call four copies a day something that will pay the rent. Tequila, Mom, and Eric mix into a potent cocktail of self-doubt. I decide to face the truth.
I’m not a writer.
The following day, I awaken with a nasty hangover but a new lease on life. I’m not a writer, and this means I can figure out what I am good at. For now, it’s marketing at the bouldering gym.
“Morning,” Finn says as I arrive for my morning java.
“Good morning.”
“Usual?”
I nod.
“So I heard you’re an author.”
I peer up from my phone. “Um …”
He nods behind me. I glance over my shoulder to Eric sitting at a table with his coffee and a stack of papers.
He smiles, much like he did the day we met.
I turn back to Finn. “I’m not.” How nice of Eric to blab it to everyone, and I can only imagine what he said about my subpar abilities to pen something worthy of a spot on someone’s bookshelf.
Grabbing my coffee, I march toward the door, keeping my gaze away from Eric.
“Do you want it?” His voice stops me.
“Want what?” I ask, both words lined with exasperation.
“Your manuscript.”
I glance to the side as he digs into his messenger bag, pulls out another pile of papers, and plops them on the table.
I squint at it while inching a little closer. “I didn’t send a physical copy.”
“They print it. I’m old school like my parents, and I like to make physical notes the first time through.”
I pick it up, the slew of red marks from the second page bleeding through to the title page. “Did you edit it? Why edit something you don’t intend to publish?”
“As a favor to you.”
“How kind. Maybe you’ll also critique the cellulite on my legs and my small boobs as a favor.”
“I haven’t noticed your cellulite, and your boobs are fine. What is it they say … anything more than a mouthful is a waste?”
“You’re a dick.” I hug the manuscript to my chest and bring my coffee to my mouth with my other hand.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Just so you know…” he nods to the manuscript, “…I wasn’t in a good place when I made the edits, which means I mentioned every little thing and used many exclamation points in my notes, which was very unprofessional. My bad.”
My bad?
How did I let myself get entangled with this guy?
Dropping the manuscript on top of the other manuscript in front of him, my lips pull into a firm line, and I set my coffee down before removing the lid to his large coffee and dumping it all over both manuscripts.
Eric jerks back in his chair, attempting to avoid it spilling onto his lap. “What the hell?”
“Sorry. My bad.” I grab my coffee, pivot, and don’t look back.
“Get your stubborn ass back here!” He grabs his bag and gathers the wet manuscripts, depositing them in the garbage as he follows me out the door.