Page 24 of A Storybook Wedding

I have completed my first manuscript.

I email Dillon Norway to share the good news. I also tell him I’ve been researching potential agents and that I want to spend the rest of the semester revising and polishing this first draft so that I can begin the querying process in January. It is my New Year’s resolution, I explain proudly. I am grateful when he doesn’t laugh at me. Instead, he gives me the green light to send along the manuscript in its entirety and suggests that I begin to venture out into the literary scene. He says there are a lot of areas where I’m still super green. For example, I’ve never read my work aloud to an audience. In fact, I’ve never even been to a reading, outside of the few mandatory ones I attended at the residency.

Now that I have some breathing room, I take Dillon Norway’s suggestion, because any and all words that he says are gospel truth that fill my soul with hope and possibility.

A Google search of “NYC literary scene” pulls up some events that are contenders. I ask Ramona if she’d be willing to come with me into the city. There’s a thing on Wednesday night, I say. She points out that it’s the day before Thanksgiving, but neither one of us is hosting or cooking, so it’s fine. It’ll feel sort of like a Friday night.

And I already know the talent.

Nate Ellis, as it turns out, will be reading selections from his New York Times bestselling debut, Work, along with selections from his current project. This is taking place at the Book Club Bar in downtown Manhattan, 8 p.m. on Wednesday. “An Evening with Nate,” it’s called.

I check the Book Club Bar’s website though, and the event is sold out.

No sweat, I tell myself.

An email ensues. Dear Nate, I hope this note finds you well! I am writing because you mentioned on board the SS Titanic that you’d be happy to see me at an event over the course of the semester. Wondering if that offer still stands? I am interested in attending your thing at the Book Club Bar, but tickets are sold out. I would need two—one for me and one for a friend. Any chance you can help? Please let me know. Warmly, Cecily Jane Allerton

A few minutes later, a response lights up my inbox.

CJ! It’s great to hear from you. Unfortunately, I can’t distribute extra tickets because there’s a very limited capacity at the venue. However, I have a ticket for myself (that they never use/scan) so you’re welcome to it if you want. It’s only one though. Sorry I can’t be of more help. Let me know if you’re still interested.—Nate

I am, I reply. Please send it—that would be great! I’ll see you Wednesday!

I text Ramona to cancel with her, and she’s great about it; she was just trying to be a supportive friend, she says, but is happy to return to her regularly scheduled programming of bingeing Never Have I Ever on Netflix in her sweatpants.

And that is what brings me here, standing at the doorway to the Book Club Bar in Alphabet City, a half hour shy of what has become my bedtime.

I’m dressed like a person this evening, in faux leather pants that I bought off Poshmark last year but never had the guts to wear, a drapey gray sweater, low platform boots, and a long black winter coat with a fur-trimmed hood. My glasses don’t match my ensemble, but I don’t care enough to break into my box of disposable contact lenses, and plus, glasses give you character—at least that’s what my mom always told me. I look city-ish, I decide. A couple pushes past me into the space: the man’s jeans are so tight they look like they’ve been painted on his legs, and the woman has pink dreadlocks that almost reach her ankles. My pants sound a little like a fart if I move the wrong way, so yeah. I totally blend, I tell myself.

I take a breath and follow them in, scanning the ticket on my phone at the door. I’m nervous, but it’s a bar, so there is a remedy. I shall have a drink.

The space is cool; in fact, this might be one of the most interesting bookstores I’ve ever been inside of. The punched-tin ceiling gives off a very Brooklyn-meets-Savannah-Georgia vibe, and the chairs set up for the event point toward a red brick wall. It’s warm and cozy, kind of like what I’d imagine F. Scott Fitzgerald’s living room to feel like, as if perhaps one should sit down in an overstuffed leather chair and smoke a pipe and sip scotch from a lowball glass. There’s wine and craft beer available at the bar, but sadly I drink neither of these, as beer smells like subway urine (in my humble opinion) and wine reminds me of the gaggle of moms on Halloween who gulp from red Solo cups while their children trick-or-treat on my block.

When the bartender asks me what I’ll be having, I pick up the wine list and point to the second most expensive thing on the list, hoping that it won’t taste like pure swill. “Would you like a glass or a bottle?” the bartender asks me.

“Just a glass, thank you,” I reply.

I sip from my stemless glass and find myself a seat. The wine tastes kind of like medicine, but it works quickly, and seeing as how I am in a rush to take the edge off being in this kind of situation alone, I drink it much like I do all other things lately: with purpose.

Before too long, Nate Ellis is on the stage in front of me, and when they call his name, I foolishly applaud, only to immediately learn that this is not what one does at a bookstore reading. The girl to my right glares at me through her extremely cool vintage-sixties-vibe glasses, which make me feel as though my spectacles are best suited for a fifth grader. But alas! Nothing another sip can’t cure, am I right?

Nate spots me in the crowd and smiles before getting started. He begins with a selection from his new piece, explaining that the inspiration for the setting came from a new school he’s working at that offered him the good fortune of spending eight days this summer on Block Island. Yes! I cheer, but inwardly, now that I know that public readings are not unlike visiting a monastery. The tone of the narrative is different from his first book, lighter and maybe a little bit more playful. It’s surprisingly enjoyable, I think. Although it could just be the wine talking.

Anyway, after that selection, he moves on to a piece of what’s being referred to as “bonus material” from Work—essentially, we’re looking at deleted scenes here. I drain my wine and laugh at my own thought that the glass is neither half-full nor half-empty but quite literally fully empty, and this earns me another snarky scowl from the thrift shop model next to me. By the time Nate’s done, I’m feeling a little floaty, and I can’t help but think that was seventeen dollars well spent.

People around me stand, and one of the Book Club’s owners pulls Nate to the side for a chat, leaving me to return to the bar for a refill. Dillon Norway’s words fill my brain: Immerse yourself in the culture, he said. See how it makes you feel.

So far, it makes me feel like I’ve been giving wine a bad rap for years and that compared to High Noon, this stuff is pretty legit.

I wish I brought a notebook to write that gem down in.

Upon receipt of glass number two, I take a hearty sip and fearlessly approach the area where Nate Ellis is holding court. He excuses himself from the small crowd around him and waves me over, into his personal bubble. “CJ!” he exclaims. “So happy you made it.”

“Thanks for the ticket,” I reply.

“Of course,” he says. “Sorry again about your plus-one.”

“No worries,” I say. “Ramona’s into mysteries and thrillers anyway. She would have thought this was a big snoozefest.” I realize what I’ve said, and it makes me giggle. “Not that this is a snoozefest, obviously. I mean, this was great. Is great. Did you try the wine?” I ask, holding up my glass.

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