Page 81 of Love is an Open Book
I don’t need to ask him if he’s sure, because I’m sure of him. Even if he forgot to remind me of the time or memorize where all my swag is. He’s here to support me, like he always has, and no matter how late I am for a work event, knowing he’s on my side makes everything okay.
Everything is not okay. My bladder is fit to burst, courtesy of the water I’ve been chugging all day to keep from losing my voice and the coffee I drank to make up for lack of sleep. Sitting down, it had been fine, but now I’m really wishing I had stopped to use the bathroom. Thanks to a wrong turn and an out-of-service escalator, it’s been ten minutes by the time I hurry in through the backstage entrance, sweaty and disheveled, momentarily blinded by the stage lighting, and take the last remaining open seat on the panel.
In the center of the row. With a full water glass, taunting my near-to-bursting bladder.
It seems odd that this is the only seat left. I expected to slide into the last seat at the end of the row, as unobtrusive as possible for someone at the front of a packed auditorium. But events since the success of the TV adaptation have been wild. I attribute the placement of my chair to the upcoming season premiere.
There’s a lull in conversation as I slide into the chair, and I lean toward the microphone. “Sorry, lost track of time,” I say, which is true, but also sounds like this wasn’t a priority, which it really was. The problem is, so was engaging with readers at the table. I want to do everything to the highest level and lately feel like I’m falling behind.
“But I’m so glad to see everyone!” I give a wave, discreetly crossing my legs.
All the other authors on the panel are staring at me, and that’s when I realize I don’t recognize any of them. I was supposed to be speaking alongside a couple of my friends and two debut authors who I haven’t met but am familiar with on social media.
I turn in my seat to check the projector behind us and have a jump scare. An eerie cemetery scene is displayed in lurid tones. Overlaid is the cover ofNew York Timesbestselling author Marshall Anthony’s latest book, and standing beneath it with a laser pointer is the renowned author himself, whose vacated seat I’m guessing I just took.
I lift the mic in front of me and say, “Somehow I don’t think y’all are here for the panel on Euphemisms and the Rise of Chili Pepper Ratings.”
This garners a few titters from the audience, but this clearly isn’t my crowd. “My mistake. Happy sleuthing!” I stand and give a small bow, letting out a squeak when the motion exerts even more pressure on my aggrieved bladder. I all but run from the auditorium in a haze of embarrassment and collide with Gavin right outside the door.
“I was coming to get you,” he says, catching me with both hands on my arms. “They switched rooms for your panel.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a little late.” I huff out the words, uncomfortable and cranky. “I just crashed Marshall Anthony’s panel.”
“Marshall who?” Gavin still isn’t a big reader and mostly sticks to recommendations from me, so I’m not surprised he doesn’t recognize the name.
“He’s been writing bestsellers since before we were born, and I just waltzed in and took his seat.”
“Like, wrestled him out of it?” A corner of his mouth twitches, but at my glare, he wisely sobers up.
“He wasn’t in it, obviously. He was presenting and I created a commotion in the middle of it.”
“So what? It was a mistake.”
“I don’t make mistakes.” I realize how that sounds and try again. “I don’t make mistakes at events.” I plan ahead and memorize the schedule and familiarize myself with fellow panelists’ work. I prepare, but this time, I was too busy wallowing in writer’s block and then too wrapped up in the glow of things with Gavin to get ready.
“You missed one panel.” He rubs his hands up and down my arms soothingly, but his casual dismissal is getting on my nerves.
“This is my career we’re talking about, not just a job.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you wouldn’t understand. You say all the time that the garden center is just where you work, not your whole life.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.” He lets go, crossing his arms. “You think I’d turn down working for my family for just any job? Hill and Dale is my second home. But you’re right, it isn’t my whole identity, because I recognize that I need a life outside of it. Balance.”
“You think I don’t have balance?”
His brows pinch together. “You were considering dating again just because you were blocked. That’s pretty extreme. I know you’re a creative person, and your life is always going to be wrapped up in your work, but at the end of the day, you’re more than what you produce.”
He’s not saying anything I don’t know, but it’s the last thing I need to hear right now. I thought I’d been doing a good job of maintaining balance considering that I’m behind on the biggestbook of my career and my least complicated relationship has transformed into the messiest one.
I tug at my lanyard, feeling like today is spiraling out of control. “At this moment, today, work is all I need to focus on. I shouldn’t have pulled you into this.”
His nostrils flare, and he opens his mouth, then shuts it, like he’s decided against a retort. “How are you going to get everything packed up by yourself?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Mia—”
