Page 7 of Story of My Life
“Sorry. I forgot. He Who Shall Not Be Named.”
I shook my head even as my mouth went dry and my throat closed up. Could you be allergic to the sound of someone’s name? “It’s fine. Let’s get to work.” I would feign the energy and enthusiasm that I didn’t feel.
Within minutes we had the book and swag display dialed in, the pen supply organized, the roll-up banner of a younger, less jaded me unfurled, and our coffee and Wild Cherry Pepsi guzzled.
“Five minutes until the doors open,” a disembodied voice trilled over the loudspeaker.
The panic was instantaneous. “Oh, God. I don’t know if I can do this. He always said these events were like human stampedes,” I said, gripping the table with both hands.
“Yeah, well, he also said romance novels were ‘cheap smut pandering to the basest’—ow! Shit,” Zoey yelped, dropping thepacking knife. She clutched her left hand by the wrist as blood welled up from a shallow cut in her middle finger.
“You are the most accident-prone agent in the history of agents,” I complained. I dug into my purse and pulled out the small first aid kit I always carried for when Zoey went all Zoey and started bleeding.
“Ouch,” she whined, as I swiped an alcohol pad over the cut.
“Don’t be such a baby,” I said fondly as I bandaged her up. “At least we got the first bloodshed out of the way before we had a line of readers. Remember in Beaver Creek when you bled all over that box of preorders?”
“I’m choosing to ignore that memory in favor of reminding you that even though you may not feel like it, you are Hazel Hart. You’ve written nine books that were beloved by readers?—”
“That’s optimistic.” My last three releases hadn’t exactly burned up the bestseller lists.
“Shut up. You’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
I sighed. “What are you seeing?”
“I’m seeing the heroine of her own story. Sure, you’re at rock bottom right now. But that just means you’re one chapter away from pluckily pulling yourself up. You can do this, Haze. You’re primed for a comeback.”
I did love a plucky, down-on-her-luck heroine. I just didn’t feel like one.
I grunted. “Yeah. Right. Whatever.”
It wasn’t that long ago that I’d been the one giving Zoey the pep talks. After fights with her parents and forgotten electric bills and messy breakups. Now the tables were turned, and I was the only one needing constant validation that I was still a functioning adult.
“Not quite the spirit I was going for, but it’ll have to do. Now, sit your ass down and I’ll tape you up so you don’t destroyyour patellar tendons while signing fifty books and dozens of children’s foreheads,” she said brightly.
“Your lack of anatomical knowledge concerns me.”
“Good thing I’m an agent, not a hand doctor.” She used her teeth to tear off a strip of blue tape.
“Just in case this ever comes up on a date or a game show, your patella is your knee bone.”
“Good to know.” She efficiently finished wrapping my right wrist.
The loudspeaker came on again. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Gird your loins. The doors are open in three, two, one!”
I popped my customary ibuprofen tablets, rolled my shoulders, and wiped my damp palms on my jeans as nerves fluttered to life in my intestines.
“Prepare for the chaos,” Zoey said, standing up and fixing a smile on her face.
“Want to play tic-tac-toe again?”Zoey offered.
“I’m too busy cleaning my glasses,” I grumbled as I aggressively wiped the lenses on my sweater.
There had been no stampede. No need for the protein bar stash. In fact, I’d had more than the allotted hour for lunch after the morning session had petered out early. I’d signed thirteen books. Three of them had gone to a trio of young, good-hearted readers who had taken pity on my linelessness and come over to introduce themselves.
The squirrel had a dozen readers waiting for a chance to shake her paw. The gothic author on the other side had velvet ropes in place to control her lengthy line.
I felt exposed and invisible at the same time.
