Page 103 of Wish You Were Her
“Well, if I’m honest, I’ve interviewed nine people fresh out of graduate school and their resumés are nicely padded, but I’m not sure they’ve ever read a book published after the Hindenburg.”
“Ah.”
“You know the type?”
“I like the classics.”
“Sure, but you’re not allergic to the Women’s Prize or the Newbery?”
“No, but shortlists can be very dry and trauma-dependent. I’ve recently found my impatience for people who overlook genre fiction and commercial writing.”
“Not exactly what we publish.”
“Right,” Jonah acknowledged, unbothered. “But maybe you should.”
The publisher who owned the small press was in his forties. He wore corduroy trousers and old t-shirts. His teeth were slightly yellow, possibly due to a coffee habit. He was drinking from the largest mug Jonah had ever seen. His hair was thinning but a nice color. He was affable but clearly looking for someone to engage the parts of his intellect that had become as comfy and soft as him.
“I love your poetry anthologies,” Jonah said honestly. “And the essay collections. But you should publish more women and marginalized writers. The literary writing you promote is all a bit… samey.”
This was met with stunned silence.
“I’m autistic,” Jonah said, feeling emboldened by Allegra’s earlier courage. “Your job description said someone who isn’t afraid to say what they think and push the envelope when it comes to editorial direction. Now, if that’s neurotypical code and you actually just want someone to boil a kettle, file things and take minutes, fine. But that’s what I think. And your relationship with bookshops is pretty legendary. But you have to engage with the internet, too.”
Jonah forced himself to make eye contact with the publisher, who was regarding him with an unreadable expression.
“Are you a writer?” Charlie Matuschek eventually asked.
“I,” Jonah hesitated and then decided to be brave. Like Allegra. “Yes, I am.”
The interview continued for an hour. When Jonah was finally allowed to leave, there were two other candidates sitting in the main part of the Matuschek Bookshop, where the press also had their offices. Both interviewees looked disgruntled at having to wait and, as Jonah walked back to Allegra’s building, he felt the timid glow of certainty, the kind one felt after acing a test or excelling in front of a group of strangers.
And no one had brought up the pictures.
It had gone well. He had experienced enough occasions where things had not gone well in his life. That was how he knew the difference.
Perhaps it had all come to a point.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Photographers followed Allegra to a hot yoga session. She ended up hiding in the bathroom for the entire hour, too anxious to brave the class and face the irritable faces of the people who had been forced to push their way past paparazzi to get into the studio. She emailed Natalie, who reminded her about a style consultation for the premiere.
“We need to talk about our narrative for press on the movie, post photos,” Natalie added in a voice note.
Jasper texted, asking if Allegra needed a pickup from the back of the building. Allegra felt horrible asking, but Jasper would hear none of her apologies. They drove to the cast recording ofSunday in the Park with Georgefor fifteen minutes before Allegra was able to relax, knowing that no one had seen or followed them.
“Ready to be back in Lake Pristine?” Jasper asked.
“Yes,” Allegra said. “I don’t like how I left things with Dad, I took off like I did something wrong, and I know I didn’t.”
“Parents have a way of making their kids feel guilty over stuff they would never dream of judging others for.”
The words suspended time for a moment and when Allegra glanced at Jasper, she noticed a touch of melancholy on the woman’s face. She wondered, not for the first time, what it must have been like, growing up autistic in a tiny town. Tohave everyone witness your worst days, and your disability before you were even able to give it a name.
“So, how are things with Jonah?” asked Jasper, in what could only be described as a big-sister voice.
Allegra let out one final cough of indignation, as her chest was almost clear, and gave Jasper an affronted look. “We’re… friends.”
“You’re friends?”
