Page 62 of Not a Strong Enough Word

“I did,” I grumble, poking around in the cabinets in the kitchenette for some coffee. “I read through it just now, and it’s garbage.”

“Scarlett, we’ve talked about this,” she admonishes. “You are a best-selling author. Your books have won awards. You are about to appear on two major television shows because your books have become pillars of contemporary literature. Your writing is not garbage.”

“No pressure,” I snipe, finally finding a coffee pod and tossing it into the machine.

“There is some pressure,” she singsongs. “JMP wants something to look at. Send me what you’ve got. I’m sure Ryan and I can put some makeup on it or something.”

“Terrible metaphor.” Apparently, my exhaustion has reduced me to responding in two-word phrases.

“Well, fine. I won’t be the one fixing it up. But send it. Please?”

The coffee machine burbles to life, dripping weak-smelling liquid into the nondescript mug below it. “Fine,” I say, but only because I’m too tired to argue.

“Great. I look forward to seeing those soon. Gotta go, but let’s do dinner when you’re back, okay?”

“Sure,” I say before we both hang up.

No sooner has the coffee finished brewing than my phone rings again. I’m filled with relief at just seeing his name on my screen. Somehow, that makes me even more tired, as if I’ve been a house on the shoreline held up by twin stilts of anxiety and desperation, and the flood of relief has washed them away.

I press the phone to my ear. “Hi.” Even I can hear how happy I am to talk to him.

“Hey, beautiful.” His deep voice is a balm, soothing over the debris in my heart. “Three more sleeps until I can hold you.”

Every day that I’m gone, he greets me with how many nights until I’m his arms again. I love it for its simplicity, for the way it anchors me in space and time. I’m here now, but soon, I’ll be there.

“I’m ready to be home,” I sigh as I curl myself up on the hotel bed with my mug of coffee. “Ready for some time off.”

“Three months,” he says, and I love him even more for memorizing my schedule. “I hope you know I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

I laugh, the sound foreign to my ears. “For three months? So you’re not going to work either?”

“It was hyperbole.” He chuckles, then puts on what I imagine he thinks of as a professor voice. “An extreme exaggeration.”

I roll my eyes good-naturedly. “I know what hyperbole is.”

“I know you do. Look, I have to get going, but I wanted to wish you luck today. I can’t wait to watch it.”

Ryan still watches every televised interview. He reads every review and article and sends me snippets of all the good ones. He’s one of the first people to like every one of my social media posts. If there were an entry for Most Supportive Boyfriend in the dictionary, his picture would be the definition.

He’s in my corner. That’s what matters. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when things get particularly difficult to manage.

A sudden emotion takes hold of me. This perfect man has chosen my imperfect self to love, and he loves me in the most perfect way. “Thanks, Ryan,” I choke out.

“I’m so proud of you, beautiful. You’re going to be great. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” I say, still holding back tears. We hang up, and I’m left alone once again.

I finish my weak coffee as I stare blankly out at the view beyond my window. One of these days, when I have time, I’d love to actually see some of the cities I visit for press. For now, the view will have to do.

After I dump my coffee mug in the sink, I send Trina what I’ve been working on before I can think too much of it. But not before I delete whatever that shit was that I wrote last night.

I should look at the questions, but every interview is the same. Arrive, green room, seating area offstage, smile and wave while I walk on, answer the questions, leave while they break for commercial. The questions are always the same, too. Summarize the book, talk about my process, flash an apologetic smile when I can’t tell them anything about what’s up next for me. That last one is in my contract not to spill the beans. Not that I have any beans to spill since it’s all garbage anyway.

“Oh, wow,” says Kathy or Kelly—I can’t remember which—her blonde hair teased as high as it can go, and her pink lips making a little O shape. “You are just living the dream of every little girl who carries around a notebook to write about her imaginary worlds, aren’t you?”

“I sure am.” If every little girl’s dream is to live in a constant state of stress and exhaustion.

“And you have a looker of a boyfriend, too,” says Janice or Janie from the other side of the kitchen table set. Where is this coming from? God, I should have looked at the show notes more carefully before leaving the hotel this morning.