Page 32 of Love is an Open Book
Are you free for a chat later today regarding season 4?
I stare at the email from my agent. My editor is cc’d. Turns out there is something more stressful than an unwritten book and a looming deadline, and it’s an unwritten book, a looming deadline, and an unexpected mid-week call about said book.
After replying yes, I’m faced with the daunting task of focusing on writing while I wait for the call. To make matters worse, whenever I sit at my desk, I think about Gavin scooting his chair closer and his words, low and intentional...You’d surprise yourself with how much you wanted more.
His words unspooled possibilities in my mind, yearnings buried beneath fear and doubt. But even if I did want to explore the shift in my feelings toward Gavin—and I’m not sure I do—that’s not going to get this book written. Days of uninterrupted writing time stretch between now and the forced proximity test, and I need to make the most of them. Deliberatelyturning away from the extra chair I seriously need to think about reselling, I open my manuscript.
I realized during my last writing session that Victor might have had feelings for Sydney all along. But what about her? Is she clueless, scared, or ambivalent? Desperate to cling to friendship in the face of the unknown, or simply too happy with what they have to want more?
My mind is full, but the page in front of me is blank. It feels like a judgment on my abilities as a storyteller. Normally a few days without writing leaves me cranky and annoyed. Lately, trying to write feels the same. My inspiration has tucked its tail and run, like love is a big scary thing. I wonder whether it’s Sydney and Victor’s story I’m more worried about or my own.
Too distracted to finish the scene where Victor almost ruins everything by sending Sydney a bunch of in-character texts that get read by one of their friends, I search for appetizer ideas to bring to Sera and Joe’s baby shower next month, only to get a flurry of texts on the group chat that result in a decision to pivot to catering. Faced with proof my procrastination was doubly useless, I return my attention to the manuscript, trying not to feel defeated.
One scene at a time. But in the midst of writing a funny moment where Sydney scrambles to delete the incriminating texts, my own phone chimes. I should’ve put it on Do Not Disturb, but it’s too late.
Evie:I’m dying to know how the method acting scenes are going. Send pages if you have them! No pressure. But you told me to ask. So a little pressure. Like a nudge, not the crushing weight of society’s expectations.
I grin. Evie’s texts read like her novels, off-the-wall in a charming way.
Evie:Also, I have a few chapters to send you, but I feel bad because lately you’ve been reading all my stuff without reciprocity.
Mia:Send away! Giving you feedback makes me feel productive.
My phone trills again, this time with an alert. Time for the video call. I carry my laptop out to the window seat and settle back against the plush cushions, hoping the comfortable surroundings will help me relax.
I log on and both my agent’s and editor’s faces appear on-screen. “Hello,” they say in near unison, and I know instantly it can’t be good news.
“Hi, Saheli.” My agent’s Pomeranian jumps into her lap, and she ruffles his ears. I wave at my editor. Her gray pixie cut is tousled and her fiery orange lipstick is on point. “How’s it going, Claire?” She’s smiling, but her posture is stiff, like she’s perched on the edge of her seat.
“First off, don’t worry,” she says. Guess that confirms it. “But we do have some less-than-ideal news.”
“Bad news?”
“Definitely not bad,” Saheli jumps in, always diplomatic. “Difficult.”
I wager a guess, wanting to get it over with. “They’re scrapping the fourth season?” I hate how hopeful I sound, but I’m dying to be let off the hook.
“That would be bad news.” Saheli’s black brows tug together in a frown. “You know I’d never sugarcoat things.” Face framed by a wavy bob, she meets my eyes, and I brace myself. “They’re moving up the filming date by six months.”
Before I can react, Claire says, “Apparently, Robert has a conflict with the next film in his espionage series.”
“What does that mean for me?”
Saheli nudges her dog gently away from the teacup he’s sniffing. “They need the story sooner than expected, in order to have time to adapt it.”
“Or else...” I prompt.
“Or else they’ll be within their rights to create their own series finale.”
The implication hits home. Exactly the outcome Ted asked me about a few weeks ago. “So my extension—”
“Sorry, this isn’t coming from us,” Claire says, meaning the publisher. “The studio is forcing our hand, but if you want this to beyourstory, then you’ve got to finish sooner.”
“How much sooner?”
“End of August.” That’s the same week I fly out for the premiere of season three in LA. “We can push the manuscript through copyedits, but they need something readable by mid-September.”
“A month?” My voice startles a pigeon who’d landed on the ledge outside the window. “That’s sooner than my original deadline.” So long, extension.
