Page 4 of Always a Chance
“It’s probably true, but how can someone sound like they’ve gained weight?”
He shrugged. “You just do.”
Aidan had always been hyper-weird, and it was one of my favorite things about him. “Okay.” I reached toward the bowl of bread he’d cut just to spite him and stuffed a piece in my mouth. “Why does the publisher hate me?”
“Not you, your new chapters.”
“Same difference. I worked really hard on this new idea.”
Aidan snorted, turning back to the chili. “No, you didn’t. You whipped it out the day before it was due, like you’ve done for every part of this book. I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”
“Many things.”
“I’ve never seen you write a horrible word, but lately…”
“They’re all horrible?” I sighed because I knew he only spoke the truth. I wasn’t blocked exactly. The words still came in time to meet deadlines, but some part of me had locked down, the part I used to draw deep from for my characters. It was like they lacked life. Or maybe I did. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Aidan turned the heat down on the stove and pivoted to wash dishes in the sink. “Are you burning out?”
“Yes. No. Maybe.” I paused. “How do I know if that’s the problem?”
He was quiet for a moment as he rinsed a pan. “Do you think it’s something you just need to work through?”
“Probably. This book I’m writing… it’s not me, not up to my standards. I know that, but it’s like I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it or with me.”
“Maybe you need a break.”
“What would I do with a break? No, I need to keep working.”
“Well, the publisher won’t wait forever. And…”
“What else?” There was something he wasn’t saying. I knew Aidan as well as I knew myself.
“Wendy called.”
My agent. Great. She loved to tell me things I didn’t want to hear. “And?”
“She said she forwarded you a bunch of emails.”
I walked into the living room, where I’d left my laptop on the leather sectional. Lowering onto the couch, I powered it on and opened my email. There were about twenty unread emails. A few from the publisher—I ignored those.
Others forwarded from Wendy were interview requests, but they’d already been answered by my publicist, who was also on the email chain. She informed Wendy she’d send in the stock answers, answers to questions I’d never even seen.
Another email aggregated messages from fans, who thought they were sending notes to Trinity. I rubbed my brow to stave off the oncoming headache dealing with fan emails always gave me. It wasn’t that talking to them was a chore, only that everything was a lie. This persona, this author they loved, she didn’t exist.
There was only me and a pen name.
I wanted to come clean, had wanted to ever since my family learned the truth months ago. My publisher claimed it was too late, that they couldn’t continue to support me if I was a man writing romance. They’d rather I be a man pretending to be a woman writing romance.
Go figure.
Sometimes, I wondered if their support was worth it.
Another email caught my eye, one with the subject: Gulf City High Graduates. It was an invitation to our ten-year reunion. Ten years.
Aidan sank onto the couch beside me. “Anything from Wendy, oh…” His eyes caught on the invitation. “I got that too. Was hoping you didn’t see it.”
A ten-year reunion should be exciting, especially for someone who loved every minute of high school. Skipping class to surf when the waves were in, hanging out with my two best friends in the world. I had a lot of friends, a lot of girlfriends.
