Page 5 of Story of My Life
“Yeah, well, you better start making it your mantra because I don’t want them to make me cut you loose.”
“You want to drop me? Zoey! After everything we’ve been through? After Zack Black asked us both to the junior high dance? After the stomach flu in Vancouver? After we missed ourflight to Brussels and ended up hitching a ride on the tour bus of an Amsterdam punk band and then they wrote a song about us?”
She threw a hand in the air. “Idon’t want to drop you! I want to be your agent and make lots of money with you, but you’re not making that easy right now!”
“I know,” I said pitifully.
“Look, Haze. Not to be an assface or anything, but your sales are at their lowest since you were a baby author. Readers haven’t seen your face in forever. You haven’t sent out a newsletter in over a year. Your last social media activity was when your account got hacked and Fake Hazel started DM-ing your followers for ‘monetary aid for a luxury high-end kidney transplant.’”
“Are you this mean to all your clients?”
“You don’t respond to gentle hand-holding. You respond to hard truths. Or at least you used to.”
“Oh my God. You’re so dramatic. Okay. Fine. I’ll do the thing.”
Zoey stacked the full trash bag on top of the other full trash bag on top of the full garbage can. “What thing?”
I waved my vase of wine. “The signing thing I said no to.”
She drummed her glossy red nails on the butcher block and studied me. “It’s a start, but I’ll tell you now, it’s not enough.”
She reached into her sleek briefcase and pulled out two fat folders, dropping them on the nearly cleared counter space with athwack. “Read these.”
I sighed. “If the ass-kicking is over, would you like a vase of wine?”
“I wouldn’t ingest anything in this apartment if Pedro Pascal appeared and offered to spoon-feed it to me.”
2
GREAT ASS PANTS
HAZEL
Pens?”
“Check,” Zoey said, patting her rolling suitcase as we speed-walked toward the Hoight Hotel’s Ballroom B. My disastrous attempt at a DIY hairstyle had made us both late. I hated being late, especially when I was already nervous. This was my first-ever multiauthor event, and I was worried my digestive system was going to rebel.
We dodged a clump of excited lanyard-wearing women in homemade T-shirts professing their love for various book boyfriends. None of them looked up as we scooted past.
“Wait. Pen pens or myspecialpens?” I asked.
“One time.One timeI showed up with a pack of Sharpies and you never let me live it down.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes. I brought your special pens, you writing utensil snob,” Zoey assured me.
“Uh…okay. How many attendees are expected?” I asked, wracking my brain for signing-related information.
“Six hundred.”
I came to a screeching halt, my emergency ponytail bobbing. “Sixhundred? As in one hundred more than five hundred?” I’donce signed for two hundred and fifty readers, but that was the Spring Gate four release, which had turned out to be the height of my career…and my self-confidence. It was a shame the universe didn’t tell you when you were in the middle of the best years of your life.
Zoey grabbed my arm and dragged me forward. “Look at those math skills. You’re so sexy when you calculate. Relax. They’re not all here to see you. This place is chock-full of young, relevant authors who are actually publishing books.”
“Oh, good. I see you wore your mean pants again today.”
“Actually, they’re my great ass pants.” She turned around and pointed to her butt.
