Page 3 of Story of My Life
“Yeah, but I’myourpain in the ass. But I’d like to point out that I’m also thirty-five years old. I don’t need you clucking over me like some mother hen.” We’d known each other for longer than either of us cared to remember. From braces and prom dresses to book tours and bestseller lists…and the aftermath.
“You’re thirty-six.”
I blinked, then started my calculations.
“Remember your birthday? You said you had plans to write in an Airbnb in Connecticut for the weekend, and instead I broke in here to leave flowers and cake and found you in month-old sweats, knee-deep in aGolden Girlsmarathon, so I dragged you out for wine and more cake?”
Great.Now I was forgetting entire birthdays.
“Speaking of wine.” I opened the cabinet next to the fridge and found it void of any glassware. I rummaged half-heartedly through the dishes in and around the sink.What was that blue stuff growing up the sides of that bowl?
Spying a short, squat, and—more importantly—clean flower vase, I unscrewed the cap and poured the wine.
“You’re wearing a bathrobe with marinara stains on it in a dark, dirty apartment and drinking screw-top wine out of a vase,” Zoey said.
“A good editor would say that’s telling, not showing.” I took an exaggerated slurp of wine.
“I’m not your editor. I’m your agent, and I need you to get your shit together.”
This was a more aggressive version of the message Zoey had been delivering for the past several months. I roused myself into suspicion. “What’s the problem now?”
“I just came from a meeting.”
“Hence the ‘don’t fuck with me’ suit.”
“Very different from the ‘please fuck me’ dress. It was a meeting with your editor, Mikayla at Royal Press, who expressed some rather concerning concerns,” she said, reaching under the kitchen sink and producing a fresh trash bag. She opened it with a violent snap.
“Can I just say that it’s a good thing I’m the writer instead of you? Also, who the hell is Mikayla? My editor is Jennifer.”
Zoey stuffed a half-empty container of old fried rice into the bag. “They cut Jennifer and half of the editorial staff six months ago. Mikayla was younger and therefore cheaper.”
“Does she even read romance?”
“She prefers domestic fiction and psychological thrillers.”
“Oh, then she’lltotallyget me and my small-town rom-coms.”
“She might if you actually turn in a manuscript,” Zoey shot back.
“Excuse me. What happened to the ‘take your time; you’ve gone through something traumatic’ phase?”
“That phase ended about six months ago and you’ve been on borrowed time ever since. Bottom line, Urban Old MacDonald. If you miss your next deadline, Royal Press is canceling your contract.”
I scoffed and began to shovel to-go bags into another trash bag. “Nice try. They can’t do that.”
“They can and they will. They quoted your contract to me, which means they’ve already had their legal team look into it. You missed your extended deadline. Again.”
“I’m just getting back on my feet. They can’t expect me to just?—”
“Hazel, you signed on the dotted line twelve months ago,” she said softly. “Your publisher graciously pushed your deadlines backthreetimes. This time you didn’t even bother telling them any reassuring lies. You just didn’t turn anything in. And you know what that looks like to all of us on the publishing side?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“It looks like you’re done. Another burned-out author who couldn’t cut it anymore. One of those people who talks about how they used to write books.”
“You’re so dramatic. What are they going to do? Cut me loose? Readers will hate them for kicking me when I’m down.”
Zoey stuffed an entire plastic bag of plastic bags into the trash. “What readers, Haze?”
