Page 1 of Not a Strong Enough Word

Chapter 1

Scarlett

“It’s the best thing you’ve ever written.”

I’m a writer. It is my job to combine words into sentences. Or, at least, it was back when I was doing it regularly. But I still can’t think of a better combination of words in the English language than the seven that come breathlessly from my agent’s mouth the minute I answer the phone.

“Five years in the making,” I grumble. I might be on cloud nine, but I can’t resist a little self-deprecation. I’m fishing for another compliment. Sue me.

“Worth the wait,” Trina rewards me again. She sniffles, and I hear the soft sound of tissues in the background.

“Are you crying?” I ask incredulously.

She’s silent for a moment as the tissue makes noises against the phone. Then, without warning, she wails, “It’s just so good.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s a harsh sound, raspy from disuse, and it almost hurts my chest. But this all feels so perfect. Even sad little me wants to jump for joy.

It’s been five long years of beating myself up over blank pages. Five long years of depression, reclusion, lots of therapy, and some medication. Five long years of wishing I could call my former friends but being too afraid to be shunned again.

My agent, Trina, is the only one who has stuck with me through it all. I still can’t believe she didn’t want to drop me completely, but the way she put it, I was her first writer. I guess that means something. That and the royalties from my early books are still making her enough money to pay for groceries, so it’s in her best interests to keep me around. I like to think it was more than that. A sense of loyalty, maybe. Or friendship. Genuine care and concern. But who knows.

Either way, she’s still with me. She loves the new draft. This might be my way to get back in the game.

“Before I launch into anything else, I need to ask if you’ve eaten today,” Trina says, dragging me back to reality.

“Uh…” I eye the dirty dishes that have piled up in my sink. It’s unclear which is the most recent or what was on it. I’ve barely been able to clean my small condo since I started furiously writing about a month ago. Normally, this would be a concerning signal that I’ve relapsed into a depressive episode, but there’s also an old adage that a writer can have a finished draft or a clean house. This is definitely a product of the latter.

I must hesitate too long because Trina sighs. “Please get some food. We can talk later.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’ve been waiting for two days for your feedback. If I have to wait any longer, I’ll burst.”

“You need food.”

I grab a piece of bread and hold the phone close to the toaster as I noisily press the lever down. “Hear that? Toast. I’ll eat it while we talk. I promise.” Even a year ago, I’d have lied and told her I had eaten recently so we could get on with the conversation, but she’s known me for too long now. She can see right through my bullshit. And besides, she’s right. I need to do a better job of taking care of myself, especially if I want to sell this book.

She hums, unconvinced. “Do you have anything to put on it, or are you just going to eat dry-ass bread? You need more than refined carbs, Scarlett.”

Sighing, I look around my small kitchen for anything else that’s edible. A bunch of bananas I did actually buy only a few days ago. Two empty takeout containers. An apple core…gross. I collect that and the takeout containers and throw them into the garbage.

Jackpot. “Cookie butter,” I say triumphantly when I see the container that my little bit of tidying up revealed.

“You need protein,” Trina protests.

“I’ll go to the store after we talk. Promise. Now, please. I am begging you. Tell me you think you can sell this book.”

“I think I can sell this book.” I can picture her bright red painted lips breaking into a huge smile when she says it. “In fact, I know I can. JMP has acquired a new press and—”

“No,” I cut her off. “Absolutely not. I’m not going back to JMP or any of their subsidiaries. Find somewhere else.”

Now I can just about picture those red lips pressing into a thin, frustrated line. “Scarlett—”

“No,” I repeat, more firmly this time. My toast pops up out of the toaster as if punctuating the sentence. I’m seriously lacking clean plates, so I toss it onto a paper towel and use the spoon that was resting in the jar to spread a generous helping of cookie butter on top.

“It’s a totally separate imprint, despite the acquisition. New editors. Way better vibe. I’ve been working with one of the editors, Casey, on another project. He’s great.”

“Casey is not a new editor,” I say around a mouthful. “I remember him from JMP.”

“Well, yes,” Trina says slowly. “He came over from JMP to help get the ball rolling. But as far as I know, he’s the only one who made the move. And more importantly, his wish list has ‘highly emotional literary fiction’ right on there.”