Page 9 of A Novel Summer
Shelby nodded. But what happened when she begged for forgiveness and didn’t get it?
“I know that in many ways, writing the second novel is harder than the first. You’ve lost a sort of creative innocence. That’s normal.” Claudia leaned forward. “But Shelby, do get cracking. You don’t want to miss publishing next summer. Readers have short memories.”
Shelby swallowed hard. It was time to get back to work.
Eight
Freshly motivated from her lunch with Claudia, Shelby walked a few blocks to one of her favorite SoHo coffee shops, aptly named Back to the Grind. Actually, writing wasn’t a grind. Not even with the pressure of a deadline.
She’d always wanted to be a writer. Maybe every book lover felt that way at some point, and for Shelby, it just stuck. She suspected it was because her family moved around a lot when she was a child. Until high school, she was never in the same place for more than two or three years because of her father’s job. Since she couldn’t keep friends, books were her only constant and reliable companion. In sixth grade, marooned in yet another new school where no one talked to her, she read Sarah Dessen, Ellen Hopkins, even the Eragon novels by Christopher Paolini even though fantasy wasn’t her thing. It didn’t matter: a book was a book. A book was company. A book was belonging.
It was funny, though. She thought once she found a literary agent, she’d have “arrived.” Like she’d reached the finish mark—from wannabe tobeing. But then, the mark moved: she would feel like she belonged once her agent sold her manuscript. And after that, she’d feel it once the book was published. And after that, she’d feel it if the book became a bestseller. Well, now she had a bestseller. But the mark, that tricky little thing, had moved again: she had to write another one.
Her phone rang. She still half expected it to be Noah, but they hadn’t spoken since the night he came over to pick up his things from her apartment. Instead, it was Colleen. Shelby resisted the urge to send it to voicemail.
Although they’d been messaging back and forth as usual, she hadn’t actually spoken since Shelby left town.
“Hey, Colleen,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.
“Hi! Is this an okay time?”
“I’m at a coffee shop. It’s a little loud. But I can talk for a sec. What’s up?”
There was a long silence. Shelby checked her phone screen to make sure the call dropped. “Colleen?” she said.
“Yeah, yeah—I’m here. Um, I was wondering: Can you come back to Provincetown?”
Shelby frowned. What did that mean? Was she worried she’d never come back because of the blowup with Hunter?
“Of course I will. I just feel like I should give Hunter some space. Maybe in the fall.” She resisted the urge to ask if Hunter had said anything more to her, to gauge if Hunter had softened towards her even a little. But didn’t say anything. She had to focus on work.
“I was thinking more...immediately,” Colleen said.
Shelby picked up on the urgency in her voice. She hadn’t noticed at first.
“How immediately?”
“This week? For the summer. To run the bookstore.”
So, she was teasing her. “Very funny,” Shelby said.
“I’m serious.”
Shelby froze. At the table next to her, two women passed their phones back and forth with loud TikTok videos.
“Hold on a second, okay?”
Shelby stood from the table, scooped up her laptop and bag, and walked outside. Spring Street was hot and crowded and she squinted at the sunlight that hit her from above. She had the urge to walk, as if movement would ward off whatever Colleen was going to say to justify such a request. As a friend, she’d listen. She’d take the time to talk Colleen gently down from whatever ledge she’d climbed onto.
She crossed the street to the shady side, the cobblestones knobby through the thin soles of her sandals. She leaned against the building on the corner, out of the way of people rushing along the sidewalk.
“Colleen, what’s going on?”
“I just found out I can’t work right now. And you’re literally the only one I can reasonably ask to manage the bookstore. You worked here for three summers, my parents love you. They trust you.”
“I don’t understand: Why can’tyouwork in the bookstore?”
“I have to restrict my activity,” Colleen said. “For at least a few weeks.”
