Page 10 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
I wanted to believe him with every fiber of my being. But all I could think in that moment was: Where the hell am I supposed to findanotherbig-time agent willing to be chased down a hallway by a bleeding lunatic with a manuscript?
“Thank you, sir,” I said, picking up my manuscript with one hand and my dignity with the other. “Sorry for wasting your time.”
I walked out, trying not to limp from the bruising to my pride, as the associates and assistants behind the glass watched me like I’d just beamed down from a UFO. I felt like I was in one of those slow-motion sequences, the kind whereeveryone stares and you pretend not to care.
And honestly, I didn’t. Not really.
I was still in a daze.
I passed the receptionist’s desk and murmured, “Sorry for making you look bad.”
She looked at me for a beat. Then, with a faint smile, she said, “Happens to everyone, sooner or later.”
I slipped into the elevator just as the doors were closing. When they opened again on the ground floor, the soft ding snapped me back to reality.
And because the universe clearly had the sense of humor of a sadistic playwright, the first thing I saw when I stepped outside was the glistening front window of a bookstore. Of course.
I stopped to stare. Romance novels, neatly arranged, all in pastel covers. A parade of hearts, curly fonts, and flirty titles likeA Manual for LoveandBrunch, Kisses & Little White Lies. Romantic comedies, steamy flings, sugary fantasy. Books written to sell, not to last. I could never write something like that. Not because I thought I was above it—well, okay, maybe a little—but because it just didn’t come naturally. It would be like dressing Kafka in sequins.
Writing stories like that—what difference did it make from doing someone’s taxes? None. Except at least the accountant got paid on time.
But apparently, my words—my beloved, hard-won, hand-polished words—didn’t leap off the page.
Maybe they’d said the same thing to James Joyce. Though I doubt James Joyce ever left the house. What could his personal experience possibly have added?
I thought about Tess. If Tess ever looked inward, she’d write the perfect rom-com novel. Shewasa rom-com. With her drama, her heels, her voice that could swing from chipper to tragic in under a second.
Me? I was the unfinished Great American Novel type. Stacks of yellowing pages. Rejection letters tacked to the wall like reverse trophies.
And I’d probably starve to death.
But at least I’d die knowing I never wrotePistachio KissesorThe Contractual Boyfriend. What a poetic little comfort.
I pulled my coat tighter and walked away from the window.
Still not sure if my life was a tragedy... or the best damn comedy no one had dared to write yet.
4
I walked home. Partly to clear my head, partly to kick off my own personal walk of shame. A funeral march for my writerly ambitions.
Truth be told, there wasn’t much to clear up: it was over. Kaput. Dead and buried. If a manuscript I’d poured my soul into—along with my heart and at least twenty liters of coffee—didn’t get read past the second line… maybe writing wasn’t my calling. Maybe I was meant for something else entirely: snake charmer, international drug dealer, or—the most exotic of the three—a mid-level import-export clerk.
I dragged myself through the streets of Manhattan at an excruciatingly slow pace. New Yorkers flew past me with the aggressive grace of marathoners on steroids, throwing shade every time I clogged the pedestrian flow. I didn’t care. I had nothing left to lose.
I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Halfway across, I stopped and leaned against the railing. The EastRiver flowed beneath me—gray, cold, indifferent. A sanitation barge passed below, slicing through the water with funereal dignity, trailed by a noisy flock of nosy seagulls.
I pulled the manuscript out of my bag, held it up, looked at it one last time—and waited for the barge to be directly underneath me.
Then I let it go.
Only it wasn’t bound. So instead of plummeting like a dignified book seeking redemption, it exploded midair like a piñata that burst too soon. Pages scattered in every direction, fluttering through the indignant squawks of seagulls that bolted in outrage. Some sheets splashed into the river, others wedged themselves between the bridge’s steel beams, and a few rode the wind all the way toward Manhattan.
Not even the trash wanted it.
I glanced downtown, toward the skyscraper of Bronson Literary Agency. Pulled a face that tasted of surrender, hitched my purse strap higher on my shoulder, and kept walking toward Brooklyn. Without once looking back.
By the time I got home, the sun had already set. Tess wasn’t back yet. Odd. She’d finished her shift at the public library over an hour ago. Maybe she’d swung by Chad’s place to set his car on fire. Not exactly far-fetched.
