Page 116 of Going Viral for Christmas
The second is a romance book tree, naturally, covered in mini paperbacks, tiny fake candles, and a sign that reads:All I want for Christmas is fictional men with emotional availability.
The third is all gold and white, strictly for ShelfSpace. And the fourth? That one’s for spite. Red, black, moody ornaments, and a garland that spells out:Jingle Hell.
Every door frame is wrapped in garland. Every candle smells of pine, or gingerbread cookies, or one named “Snowman’s Balls” that Fisher sent as a joke.
There are seven throw pillows on my “way too big for one person, but I love it” sectional couch, all holiday themed. I bought them in a fugue state at three a.m. while watchingThe Holiday, drinking two bottles of wine, and eating mini candy canes like they were painkillers.
I sit at my desk, open my laptop, and stare at the screen. Taking a sip of my coffee, I think maybe that will help.
Nope.
I survey my Christmas crime scene that is my house, breathe in the cookie scented air, glance back at the screen.
Nothing.
No matter how much tinsel I string or how many sugar cookies I stress-bake, the words won’t come. My document remains blank. My brain is static.
I’ve never had writer’s blockthisbad. It’s not only the story I’ve lost,but also the thread that ties me to my work. Who I am. Who I was in those quiet, solitary moments with him.
Free.
Unmoored from the past that’s kept me caged, the hands that once pressed me small. With Soren, I wasn’t measuring, second-guessing, shrinking myself to fit someone else’s needs. I was flame and flood. I was hunger, unashamed.
For the first time in nearly a decade, my body wasn’t something to guard, to silence, to barter away—it was mine. And in his hands, in his arms, it becamemorethan mine. It became infinite.
In theory, the distance sounded like a relief. I could finally breathe without his gaze heating me.
Except now, my thoughts surround only him, remembering back to how he watched me across the dinner table, sizing up my every reaction. He never flinched when my family grilled him and swooned over him. He kissed me. I wanted–no, let’s be honest,want–more.
I take another sip of my coffee and exhale. I’m not built for this. For high heat and emotional vulnerability. For slow-burning sparks that are starting to develop into a raging inferno. I’m built for edits and deadlines, and I fall for fictional men who can’t disappoint me in the end.
I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I believed in love.
Until Jon Perry happened.
Literary agent. Smooth talker. Promiser of the world. Destroyer of innocence.
I was a senior in high school when he found me on InkWell, a digital playground where authors uploaded half-finished chapters at midnight, and by sunrise had entire fandoms arguing about ships, tropes, and cliffhangers in the comments.
Jon Perry slid into my DMs and told me I was a genius. He was a twenty-five-year-old, fresh-faced literary agent—or at least, that was his story—who wasscouting hidden talent, building a roster of voices the world hadn’t heard yet. Mine, apparently, was the one he’d been “waiting for.”
He said he’d help me shape my career, protect my art, guide me through the noise. He played the long game with patience and praise.
I mistook manipulation for mentorship. I was young. Hungry.Desperate to be seen and make a name for myself. I didn’t know what red flags looked like yet. I thought attention meant progress. I thought charm meant respect. I thought being chosen meant I was something special.
That’s what I was led to believe, anyway.
Everything between us was strictly professional. He was the teacher and I was the eager student, sending him pages and waiting for his praise like oxygen. He spent time challenging me to hone my craft. He’d mark my stories up with red ink and notes that made me better—tighter pacing, sharper rhythm, cleaner tension, taught me how to trust my voice, and for that time in my life, I did. Not so much anymore. But other than that, he showed me that my stories were worth finishing.
Once I graduated from high school and became a freshman in college with a laptop, a dream, and no clue how cruel life was about to become, Jon signed me, called me his star, his prodigy, the next big one.
After that, things between us mutated. The compliments started to drift. They weren’t about the writing so much anymore. They were about me. My smile. My voice. My body language in social media photos. Lines dissolved quietly,soquietly I almost didn’t notice until it was too late. What once felt like mentorship morphed into ownership. And by the time I realized what he’d taken from me, he’d already convinced me I’d offered it willingly.
Which leads me to the night I lost my virginity to him. I met him at a hotel outside of Chicago, still believing the promises he whispered into my skin. Still believing I was the exception. Still believing he’d make me a household name, build an empire around me.
Still believing he loved me.
That hope held my dream for the remainder of my college career. Three whole years of missed opportunities. Of silence instead of submissions. Of being told to wait, to trust, to stay small and grateful while he spun elaborate stories to cover his tracks.
