Page 33 of Love is an Open Book
“Five weeks,” Saheli says, like that’s much better.
“Five weeks to write a whole entire book?”
“You haven’t started?” Claire’s head tilts, green eyes sharp behind her bold red glasses.
Oops. “No, I have. Of course I have.”
Saheli’s expression is full of concern. “Mia, how bad is it?”
I can’t bring myself to divulge the whole truth. “It’s bad enough that I can’t make any promises.”
“How much time do you need?”
Three to six years? A lifetime? An eternity?
I’m quiet for so long that Claire leans forward, close enough for me to see the smudges on her lenses. “If you don’t think you can deliver, the show’s writers know the characters—”
“I don’t want that.” The screenwriters adapted my previous three books and stayed true to the bones of the stories. I evengot to weigh in on some of their stylistic choices, which is kind of unheard of. But the idea of them crafting Victor and Sydney’s story from start to finish? The two characters most precious to my heart? I can’t let that happen. “Tell me you didn’t imply I’m leaning that way,” I say to my editor.
“I would never,” she says. “This is your story. But it’s also Hollywood, and they have their own rules. If you don’t produce the manuscript on time, they’ll make sure someone else delivers the story.”
“I just feel a lot of pressure to do right by them. Not just the characters, but the actors, too. This is their time to shine.” There’s no question of recasting at this point. To most people’s minds, Jayla and RobertareSydney and Victor. “This is different than all my other books, and now I’m expected to rush it?”
“You’re a fast writer. How far along are you?” Claire adjusts her caftan casually, but her brow tightens in a way that suggests she’s nervous about my reply.
I usually produce about three thousand words a day. More than some writers I know, far less than others. Everyone has their own pace, but mine is quick and steady. Right now I’ve got the opening chapters. Less than a typical week’s worth of work.
“I’m not going to lie. It’s not coming easy.”
“Want to talk about why?”
Avoiding the weight of her speculation, I track the progress of a squirrel navigating the leafy branch outside. “I don’t know that there’s anything to talk about. I just can’t find the glue to make their relationship stick. That’s why I asked for more time.” Humiliation, wasted.
“And I hate rescinding the extension, but this is out of my hands,” Claire says.
Saheli’s dog jumps down from her lap, and she leans on the desk, deep brown eyes sympathetic, but wary, as if she’s more worried than she lets on. “From what I’ve heard, Roan Watkins asked for Robert personally.” The acclaimed directoris synonymous with box office success. “Robert wants to stick with the show, but he made it clear the film will take precedence.”
I don’t blame him. A spy thriller with the legendary Roan Watkins could be a career maker. But the timing is immense pressure. Maybe I should bow out. But that would mean letting someone else have the final say on the fate of my two favorite characters. Stories are remembered for how they end, and I want the last word.
“I’ll make it work.”
“Knew you would.” Claire smiles warmly. “I know it must be throwing off your creative process to have so many people involved. Do your best to tune them out.”
Saheli nods in agreement. “It’s your story, Mia. Tell it.”
My story.That’s the problem. It’s too close to me, or at least the me I was before I realized friendship is no basis for romance. But at the end of the day, it’s not actually my story. It’s Sydney and Victor’s. And I don’t need to convince myself their happy ending is real, I just need to convince readers.
Five weeks to get this done, minus an afternoon in an escape room. But it’s for the good of the story, I tell myself. Anything to justify my sudden craving for time alone with Gavin where the usual rules of friendship don’t apply.
Twelve
Gavin
I’m no writer, but an escape room seems like a pretty good metaphor for how I feel after spending the entire game last Saturday trapped between a brother who wants me to move and a friend pushing me tomakea move. The pressure is building, and I’m pretty sure an hour trapped in a confined space is only going to make things worse. On top of that, every time I’m around Mia lately, my feelings get harder to ignore.
I had trouble sleeping all week, imagining her getting married and starting a life somewhere else. Or settling down with someone local only to watch our friendship get eroded by the trajectory of family life, growing apart until I only hear about her through social media or mutual friends. No more late-night doughnut excursions or advice on what to wear to a wedding when the invitation mentions “cocktail hour trampolining.”
Would it be better to take the proactive step and move back to Wisconsin? Put some distance between us before my heart gets more tangled up with hers? Normally I would’ve texted Mia for advice the moment Scott left, but my feelings about Dad’s decision are tied up in my feelings for her, all of it a confusing mess.
