Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
We are not a collection of our behaviors and tendencies and actions. Hell, I’m not even sure we’re a collection of thoughts, feelings, and ideas. I’m determined to believe that we are more than that, some unknowable, ineffable thing that is beyond description or definition, and that all of us have the ability to become more than we are.
And I don’t think that’s just something I tell myself on the days I can’t get out of bed because the world outside seems too big to deal with.
I really don’t.
“The book. May I read it?” Steve, the brother of SS, the biggest, most bestselling, independently published romance novelist in the world, asks me again as he continues to tug at the manuscript in both of our hands.
And that’s when I realize it’s not because I don’t know this distractingly handsome and charming guy who I just met and have no reason to trust that I don’t let go. It’s not him that I’m anxious about. It’s his sister. SS.
This is sort of what I wanted. Sort of. My plan had been to come here, meet some big authors, get something like a co-sign or a validation from them, and start fast-climbing my way up Mount Romance so that I can, as Sheila advised, get to a point where I no longer have to change my books so that nobody gets mad at me and, I dunno, turns me into a meme on the internet.
And this guy has just told me that he’s actually read me. That he knows my work and that, in fact, he encouraged his sister to rewrite her own work based on mine.
It’s all so insanely flattering and unexpected that it makes me automatically skeptical. Which is another one of my possibly toxic traits. It’s like that old Groucho Marx quote, ‘I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.’
I have an incredibly hard time not believing that if someone, Britney notwithstanding, tells me they like my work, or like me for that matter, there might be something wrong with them. Like they have bad taste or something? Or they’re trying to get something from me? Like it’s a totally transactional thing they’re after.
Which I can’t really get too judgmental about considering that my whole, entire thing right now is trying to use this experience to get to the next rung of the ladder. That is, I think, transactional by definition.
“If you don’t want me to, I don’t—” he says, letting go of the book.
“No, no, please. Of course. I’d love to hear what you think.” Jesus. Stop being so weird, Cord.
I re-offer the book to him and he takes it with the same effortless smile on his face. “Thank you.” I feel myself smiling back without necessarily meaning to. And then I start scratching at my arm again.
“What’s going on with your arm?” he asks, pointing. And, for a change, I have an answer I can offer that isn’t me deflecting or obfuscating in any kind of way. Because I’m not scratching at my arm because I’m nervous or it’s a habit or anything like that. I’m scratching at my arm for a very simple, physical reason…
“Bedbugs?” I say.
“Bedbugs?”
“I think?”
There’s a pause where he scrunches up his brows and tightens his lips. “Like, here? In the hotel?”
“Oh, no. I—”
“Because that’s a problem. There are thousands of people staying here and if there’s a bedbug issue, I swear, I’ll—”
“No, no. I—”
“The whole reason I picked the—that Essie picked the Aria is because it’s centrally located on the Strip, and it’s nice without being—”
“No,” I finally say firmly enough to stop him. “No, I’m… I’m not staying here.”
“Whaddayou mean? Why? Or… why not?”
“There was a mix-up. My friend-slash-assistant, Britney, made the rez and somehow they only gave us one room.”
“Oh. Well… why didn’t you take it?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you take the room?”
I feel myself getting flushed. It’s some combo of embarrassment and shame. I don’t need to tell this guy I just met that it’s because I don’t feel like I’m deserving. Or worthy. Or whatever. I know he just came up from out of nowhere and started telling me all about himself and asking to read my book, but just because he’s an over-sharer doesn’t mean I have to suddenly become one.
“Dunno.” I shrug.
He studies me for a moment before deciding to let it drop, I guess. Because then he asks, “So, where are you staying?”
“The Siegel Suites.”
He blinks at me. Once. Twice. Thrice. Ha. I do that. That’s funny.
“The Siegel Suites?” He asks it not like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but very much like he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Yeah.”
“The Siegel Suites,” he repeats, emphatically.
“Yes.”
He kind of laughs to himself. But not in an amused way. More in an ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ kind of way.