Page 5 of Here for a Good Time
Good night, COWARD,she replies, which makes me laugh. Then,Tell Zwe I say hi. Hope you two have a good trip. Let’s talk soon. I miss you.
TWO
I get to the store at 10:52A.M.,and release a sigh of relief when I see the line. Ayesha says that I am now permanently part of the elite club of authors who never again have to worry about nobody showing up to their signings—but that feels presumptuous. As the queen (Beyoncé, not the dead one) instructed, I make it a point to always stay gracious. And although the fact that I accomplished all of this—an accomplishment that, at times, still feels like a delirious dream, like one day I’ll blink and my name will be nowhere to be found on all those bestseller list pages that Zwe had framed—with my debut novel means that I was fortunate enough to never have undergone that supposed rite of passage of zero-person signings, I do still remember what it was like before I got published. I remember the literalyearsin the agent query trenches, the high of an agent requesting a full manuscript followed by the devastating low of the email that said some variation ofIt’s not right for us right now.
Even after I signed with Ayesha, for years, not a single publishing house wanted the first manuscript we sent out, or the one afterthat. “Lucky three,” Zwe had told me the night before Ayesha was going to submitGive Me a Reason,but by that point, “pipe dream” no longer felt sufficient to describe my dream of being a published author; “a fool’s errand” or “insanity” seemed more appropriate. It was the terrible, corny, embarrassing adage: I was terrified to keep dreaming, because if you had dreams, that meant they could get crushed. I think ofGive Me a Reasonas myfuck itbook (not that I’d ever say that in an interview; my publicist would have an aneurysm). I drafted it in a whirlwind—eight weeks, the fastest I’ve ever drafted any book—and made it exactly the book I wanted to write if it were the last one I’d ever get to write (after reading several blog posts and X threads about other authors who had had multiple books that never sold, I’d gotten it in my head that Ayesha was going to drop me if this one didn’t sell, too).
But then one editor made a preempt within twenty-four hours. When Ayesha emailed me, I thought she’d sent it to the wrong client. In fact, I literally responded, “Ha ha, I think you sent this to the wrong person.” But she hadn’t, she wrote back immediately. This editor was, in her very Ayesha-esque way with words, “shitting her pants” to get this book.
And then another editor had replied sayingtheywanted it.
And then Ayesha had asked how I’d feel about taking it to auction, which could be risky, especially so soon, but this was averygood sign and she wanted to capitalize on the momentum.
Sometimes it still feels like it didn’t happen. Or at least, like it didn’t happen to me. Like I didn’t start sobbing when Ayesha called and told me the amount of the winning bid. Like a few months down the line, I didn’t get flown out to the Netflix offices because they knew they weren’t the only one fighting for film rights. Likeeverything I had ever wanted since I was approximately nine years old didn’t all happen over the course of eighteen months. I wish I’d known back then that the only thing scarier than none of your dreams coming true is having all of them do.
A copy of my own book is waved in front of my face. I follow the hand holding it to a teenage girl, who whispers, “Oh my god, it’s actually you!” when we make eye contact.
“Hi, thanks for coming,” I say. Then, leaning over to look down the line, I say a little louder while forcing myself to make eye contact with as many more people as I can despite the bubbling anxiety in my stomach, “Thank you all for coming. I’ll see you in there! Make sure you stay hydrated in this heat!”
I push open the door to Sar Oat Sin, and although it takes a beat for the cool of the air-con to hit, once it does, a small, satisfied “Mmmm” escapes me, wisps its way out between my lips like the gorgeous lavender scent that’s always wafting from the various reeds strategically placed around the space. That, combined with that woodsy book smell, is exactly like coming home. If I could, I would live here andmakethis my home.
“Your Majesty, welcome,” Zwe says with a dramatic bow from the metal signing table that he’s already unfolded. He’s got the setup in its usual space: the corner beside the cash register, which Uncle Arkar is manning today.
“Please, the honor is mine,” I say, returning a small curtsy of my own.
Uncle Arkar beams, coming out from behind the desk to give me a hug. “How’s my favorite author today?”
“The usual. Anxious,” I say with a small laugh. “And I thought Toni Morrison was your favorite author.”
He winks. “She was, until you came along.”
His words help placate my anxiety. “Where’s Auntie Eindra?” I ask.
“Right here.” Auntie Eindra paces out of the stockroom in the back with a mug in hand. “And what do you have to be anxious about? We had people lining up before we even opened. But because I knew youwouldbe—here.”
When she hands me the mug, my face instinctively scrunches up into a smile as my fingers hug the warm ceramic. “Thank you,” I say, taking a deep inhale of the peppermint scent to calm my nerves. I had kept a stash of peppermint tea at our apartment as well as the store the whole time I was working onGive Me a Reasonsince they were the only two places where I wrote, and it took me a while to realize that my stash here never ran out because Auntie and Uncle kept refilling it.
“Are you still okay to stay behind afterward and sign the online orders?” Uncle Arkar asks.
“Of course.” I take a careful sip of the tea, feeling myself already start to become calmer as the liquid trails down my throat. “I cleared out the whole afternoon for you. Zwe, did you get—”
Zwe holds up a rattan pencil holder with several of the same pens: the quick-drying UNI Jetstream Ballpoint 0.7mm in black. Myfavoritesigning pen. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says with another, smaller bow.
I roll my eyes. “Ready?” I ask, and they all nod, and we take our places. I round the signing desk, place my mug down on a coaster, and settle myself into the pink armchair. To my right, Uncle Arkar returns to his spot behind the cash register, and tohisright, Auntie Eindra sits on the stool next to the carts lined with their bookstore’s exclusive edition ofGive Me a Reason,the pink-and-black spine sofamiliar to me by now I could point at it even with the lights out. Zwe takes his usual position by the door, ready to guide customers into a neat queue.
“Let’s go,” he says, pulling both doors and deftly propping them open.
This part never, ever,evergets old. I hate 99 percent of the public-facing aspect of this job, but this is the 1 percent that I enjoy. The girl that I met outside is at the front of the line, and power walks over to me.
“Hi again!” I say.
“Oh my god, hi!” she says as she puts down her copy of the book, along with the slip of white paper that Zwe had handed out beforehand for them to write whatever name they wanted me to make the book out to.
“Are you Chu?” I ask as I sign the title page.
“Yes, oh my god, you know my name,” she squeals. “I love this booksomuch. I know you must get it all the time, but this is, like, my favorite book of all time.”
“Thank—”
