Page 2 of A Novel Summer
Shelby spotted Noah across the room in conversation with a woman she didn’t recognize. He’d been oddly distant all night—all week, now that she thought about it. He’d even forgotten to wish her a happy publication day that morning. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand what the day meant; he was a novelist, too. An aspiring novelist. They’d met at the MFA program, but unlike Shelby he still hadn’t gotten an agent. He’d just sent out a revised manuscript to a few people, and was now waiting to hear back.
Copies of her novel were scattered throughout the bar, some now being used as coasters. It was still surreal to see her book out in the world.Secrets of Summerhad started out as a short story assignment; Shelby didn’t think it would evolve into a novel. And certainly not one that would get published. She hadn’t planned to write about her summers in Provincetown, but all during grad school she found her mind returning to it again and again, even as she threw herself wholeheartedly into her New York City life.
Before she reached Noah, she was intercepted by her literary agent. Claudia Linden was dressed in a sharply tailored pantsuit and towering heels and looked every inch the industry powerhouse that she was.
“Shelby, I must run. But—” she kissed her on the cheek “—I’m proud of you. Just the beginning! And I’m sorry I can’t be with you tomorrow, but Ezra will make sure everything runs flawlessly.” Ezra, one of the agency assistants, was a man so beautiful he looked like an actor cast in the role for a Netflix series.
Tomorrow, Shelby had a very early trip to Cape Cod for her first event of her book tour: Land’s End Books in Provincetown. For the first time in three years, she’d be back in the place that inspired her novel. When she told her friend Colleen that she’d gotten her book deal, Colleen made her promise that Land’s End would be her first stop. “Of course! Where else?” she’d said.
Shelby watched Claudia make her way to the exit, then checked the time on her phone. It was getting late. She’d been running on pure adrenaline, but the day was catching up with her.
“Hey,” she said, finding Noah. She’d met Noah Beauchamp during one of her first-year short fiction intensives. As a huge Cormac McCarthy fan, he wrote brooding, hypermasculine prose. His fiction was surprising because he appeared, on the outside, like a typical Brooklyn beta male, with a slight frame and almost feminine beauty to his features that even his carefully groomed facial hair couldn’t obscure.
“The lady of the hour,” he said, raising his glass. “Shelby, this is Beth—the bass player of the band downstairs.”
“Congratulations,” the woman said, smiling. “Writing a book must be hard.”
“It’s just a beach book,” Noah said.
Shelby’s smile froze in place. The musician looked confused. Either she didn’t know what a beach book was, or she—like Shelby—didn’t understand why Noah said something denigrating. Shelby waited for him to realize his mistake and self-correct, but he just turned around and set his empty beer glass on the bar. Okay, she’d chalk up the comment to him being a little drunk.
“Noah, we should probably head out. We have an early train tomorrow.”
She was so excited for him to see Provincetown, the place where she’d spent the best summers of her life. Noah, a native New Yorker, had never visited Cape Cod. She’d found that was common among people who’d grown up in New York or New Jersey. They had their own beaches and didn’t seem especially interested in staking out new ones. But after reading a few drafts of her manuscript, he said he wanted to see the place for himself.
Noah checked his phone. “It’s not that late,” he said.
The musician drifted off.
“We have to be at Penn Station in...” Shelby did a mental tabulation. “Eight hours.”
“Yeah, about that: I’m thinking I’ll just stay in the city and catch up with you when you get back,” he said.
She took a step back. “You’re not...coming?”
“It’s just, the timing is bad. You know I’ve got a lot going on.”
What did he have going on? He’d reserved the vacation days from his day job, and he was in wait mode with his manuscript.
“It’s only a few days,” she said.
“I just feel like, if I get a response from an agent, I should be here, you know?”
He looked her in the eyes and she could see that even through the beer buzz, he was upset. And the excuse that he needed to stay in the city in case an agent called was ridiculous. That wasn’t the way the industry worked.
“Noah, what’s going on?” She reached for his hand.
“Nothing. But you’re not the only writer around here. It’s not all about you.”
She dropped her hand from his. So that was it: he was upset about her book publishing. He waspunishingher. She’d thought that being involved with a guy who was also a novelist would make it easier to have a relationship. That he would understand the good and the bad about the writing life. Before Noah, she’d had a boyfriend in Provincetown who was the total opposite: he lived his life outdoors, working with wildlife. He never read fiction. Had never even been to New York! She’d known from the beginning that one wasn’t meant to last. But Noah? Their lives really fit.
Or so she thought.
“I know it’s not all about me,” she said, feeling a little stunned.
He shifted on his feet, looking around the room. Anywhere but at her. “I’m sorry. I need some space.”
She didn’t know what that meant. Was he breaking up with her? Did he just want to put a pin in it until after her book tour? Either way, deep down, she knew there was no recovering from the moment. If a person couldn’t share her happiness, what was she doing with them?
