Page 12 of Love is an Open Book
I’m not saying I single-handedly keep this store in business with impulse buys to feed my penchant for pretty office supplies, but they did recently add a shelf labeled MIA BRADY’S FAVES. Seeing my name on the display gives me a hefty dose of impostor syndrome. Doesn’t stop me from choosing a geometric-patterned notebook and matching pen from the curated selection.
“Knew you’d love that set,” Amari says, when I take my items to the register. Her name tag is hand-lettered in swooping calligraphy, the wordMANAGERwritten beneath in neat block letters. I’ve got a hunch she’s behind the fan account that made the viral highlight reel of scenes from the show titled “Ten Times Sydney and Victor Proved Love Exists (And They’re Adorably Clueless About It),” but she’s never brought it up and I don’t want to make things awkward by asking.
She scans the bar code, then gasps. “Did I just ring up a notebook that’s going to hold part of Victor and Sydney’s story?” She clutches it to her chest, dark eyes sparkling. “Those two are the absolute swooniest. I cannot wait to see Robert Cho in the spotlight. I mean, the stolen glances from last season alone?” She drops one hand to the teak countertop for support, fanning herself with the notebook.
All signs point to her being invested enough to make thatvideo, and who could blame her? Robert is every bit that dreamy. The man managed to make spam calls sexy when he played a victim of identity theft in a public service announcement. Watching him unleash his trademark charm in the role of quippy best friend alongside powerhouse actress Jayla Lewis is enough to make anyone’s heart race.
Amari starts to slide the notebook into a paper sack, but I say, “No need. I plan to put it straight to use.” If I can write a solid meet-cute today, I’ll be able to call off my date with Gavin.
Passing it over, she says, “Does it sometimes feel surreal to have Hollywood demigods bringing your characters to life?”
“Pretty sure Jayla’s earned full goddess status.” She’s been delivering knockout performances since her early twenties and deserves a lot more recognition than she gets.
Amari’s eyes practically glow. “You’re on a first-name basis with her? I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re probably on set all the time.”
Not often, but it has been pretty amazing to get a peek behind the scenes. Hard to believe that several of Hollywood’s reigning stars occasionally slide into my DMs with questions and updates. I’ll even get to walk the red carpet next month at the season three premiere, though the idea of seeing the cast and crew in person before I have a good handle on the final book is stressful.
Before I can answer, Amari goes off on another tangent. “Are you writing the next book with the actors in mind? I know the first book came out years ago,” she says. “But seeing your vision come to life on-screen must have an impact. It’s probably a lot of pressure, right?”
Pressureis an understatement. Lately I feel trapped between the fandom and my own insecurities, and this conversation is no exception. Taking my receipt, I back toward the exit, lying through my teeth. “No more so than any book. I always want to do right by my characters.” The last part is true at least.
She flicks her braids over one shoulder, brows arched in surprise. “So this is business as usual? No biggie to write a book people are saying might be the breakout roles for two rising stars?” The question hangs in the air like an accusation.
Maybe it’s my inner critic, but I can’t help but feel like she suspects this notebook will sit unused on my shelf, like the one I bought last week and the week before. That I’ll wind up drowning in a sea of blank pages because I can’t bring myself to write a happy ending I don’t believe in.
Back in college, when I set out to write a romance novel, I dreamed up two characters who had chemistry galore but, in the end, Sydney and Victor couldn’t find a way to let go of their doubts and trust love. In the final chapter, their failed relationship sent them out of each other’s lives for good.
That’s why I shelved that manuscript and wrote them into my next book as side characters. Gave them their own version of happy-ever-after by shielding them from the inevitable pain of trading the solid ground of friendship for the quicksand of romance.
But now the biggest advance of my career, not to mention my personal sense of responsibility to my publisher and everyone involved in the show, is forcing me to throw caution to the wind and push these friends into each other’s arms—and beds—for good this time.
“Yep. Business as usual,” I say, throat dry. “Just me and the story.” I shove the notebook into my tote next to my trusty character journal. Carrying around multiple notebooks at any given time isn’t unusual. Doubting my ability to fill them is.
Before Amari inadvertently pokes any more holes in my deflated confidence, I wave goodbye and make a quick exit out into the warm late-morning sunshine.
Hurrying toward the café, I walk past shops, restaurants, and boutique gyms, nose wrinkling at the rotten smell of garbage as I pass an alley behind a restaurant. The odor seems out of place on this beautiful summer day, but the memory of that scentcould come in handy for a future book when a down-on-her-luck bartender steps out the side door at midnight for some air and decides to chuck the eviction notice she tore off her door that morning into an open dumpster.
Cataloging my surroundings has become second nature. I’ve always been attuned to the world around me, particularly people, but translating my observations onto the page took a lot of purposeful effort. Now I pay attention to things like the grittiness of the sidewalk under my soles, filing the impressions in my toolbox for later when a scene might require it.
A few blocks down I pass an abandoned lot, overgrown with weeds. Despite the sketchy appearance, it’s prime real estate, near the commuter line. There have been rumors of a grocery store moving in, but it’s been empty for as long as I’ve lived in town. A shed with a splintered door hanging off its hinges sits in the far corner. Not the right vibe for my rom-coms, but the perfect setting for my friend Krish’s psychological thrillers. I snap a photo and text it to him with the caption:Cover inspo?
Krish’s reply comes while I’m waiting by the pickup counter at the coffee shop. We’re texting back and forth about what he’s been up to since the last time we connected at a book festival when a text from Gavin pops up.
Gavin:Still on for tomorrow night?
Not if today’s writing session goes well. I hesitate, lip caught between my teeth. Hearing my name called for the order, I stuff my phone back in my bag without replying. Great, now I’m dodging his texts. Another consequence of messing with the equilibrium of our friendship. But all I need to do is write a dreamy meet-cute and everything can go back to normal.
The hiss of the milk steamer and clink of silverware comes into sharp focus when the steady sound of typing from Evie’s sideof the table stops abruptly. I look up from my laptop screen to find her watching me.
“Do you realize,” she says, and I know whatever’s coming next doesn’t bode well for me—her head is cocked, her sleek black ponytail falling to the side, “that you’ve finished an entire latte without typing a single word?”
A quick glance at the dregs of foam at the bottom of my mug confirms this. We’re at our favorite table in the back corner of the café. We spent the first half hour of our writing session catching up, per our usual routine. We’ve been cheering each other on and commiserating over the tough parts of publishing ever since we met in a local writers’ group. She shared a chapter for critique, and it moved me to tears, some of which fell on the pages, smearing the ink. Embarrassed, I explained what happened, but she told me it was the best feedback she’d ever received, and we’ve been close ever since.
Her historical romances are sensual and angsty, and while I haven’t shed any more tearsonher work, her writing never fails to move me, and she cried tears of her own when I called to tell her the show based on my books broke viewing records in its first week.
All I ever hoped for from my career was a steady paycheck and the chance to write every day, but she always told me it was a matter of time for my stories to hit it big, and I believe the same for her. For now, she’s working part-time in Admissions at the local college while releasing several books a year for a growing group of loyal readers.
I, on the other hand, have been stuck on the same book for ten months. One scene, that’s all I’m asking for today. Sydney and Victor’s meet-cute. The moment they realize there might be more between them than simple friendship. The hook sets up the resolution, and so far, nothing has panned out. All their motivations fall to pieces by the time I reach the midpoint, and I keep having to start over.
