Page 7 of Not on the Same Page

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “It’s been at least six months since I’ve forgotten to feed myself, thank you very much.”

“Why are you going to Denver?” I ask around my own mouthful.

Ryan gapes at me as if I’m asking a stupid question. “The Writers and Agents Conference next month? Anastasios sent out a memo looking for people who wanted to go, and when no one responded, he personally asked me.” He raises an eyebrow.

I must have deleted that email without looking at it because I don’t remember it at all. “Do you want to go?”

Now it’s his turn to push food around on his plate and avoid eye contact. “At the time, I didn’t mind, but that was before we found out Scarlett is pregnant…”

“I’ll be fine,” she says softly, her voice devoid of any of its normal bite.

“I know,” he says quickly. “And it’s only three days, Thursday through Saturday. It’s not like it’s three weeks.”

You’d have to be completely ignorant not to notice the way his eyes pinch with concern as he looks at her. Frankly, I can’t blame him. Scarlett experienced some major depression while she was recovering from burnout. When they talk about her forgetting to feed herself, it’s not a joke. And I can only imagine how much more concerned he is now that she’s pregnant.

Suddenly, my chest feels tight. I rub at it to try to ease the sensation, but it’s no use. I should have read my email, and I should have been the one to volunteer to go. Anastasios likely asked Ryan because he’s still atoning for not immediately disclosing his relationship with Scarlett a year ago, but I could have jumped in and saved him the trouble.

Given how little I’ve been out of my office these past few months, a break might be nice. It’s not like I have much keeping me here, except my brother. But if I’m only gone until Saturday, I can be back in plenty of time to see him Sunday morning, as always.

“Why don’t I go instead?” The words are out of my mouth before I can overthink it.

Ryan’s eyes go wide with hope, but Scarlett regards me warily.

“Do you want to go?” she asks.

I shrug. “I don’t not want to go. I must have missed the email.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Don’t do this because of me. I’m fine.” She directs the last part to Ryan, who has the good sense to look at least a little sheepish.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I tease. “I hear Denver is beautiful in the summer. And besides, sitting in pitch sessions is always educational and enlightening.”

“Said no editor ever,” Ryan mumbles.

“Do you want me to go or not?” I ask, trying to hide my laughter, because he’s absolutely right. Pitch sessions are the worst.

He looks at Scarlett for a moment, but her face is unreadable. Eventually, he sighs. “I really don’t want to go,” he admits.

“Okay then. I’ll let Anastasios know on Monday. I’m sure it won’t be a problem to swap me in for you.”

Ryan grins at me, and it’s impossible not to see the relief written all over Scarlett’s features. I may not know her very well, but I do know that she puts up a tough front even when she’s feeling vulnerable. Maybe especially then.

A little nugget of pride overtakes the guilt and jealousy I’ve been fighting all evening. It feels good to help my friends out. Hell, it feels good to have friends to help out in the first place.

I could get used to feeling this way.

3

TRINA

I give it about a week of being open to queries again before I even bother to look at them. In my defense, I have plenty of other things to be working on. Scarlett and I brainstormed a second time, which, sure, isn’t paying the bills right now, but it will eventually. Another author sends me a manuscript they’ve been working on for a while, so I get that ready to pitch. And another wants me to look over the first ten chapters of something they’re playing around with and give feedback.

That last one takes me two days. While I have a degree in English lit that I’m still paying for, I’m not an editor. It takes some time for me to offer editorial feedback, even though it’s something I like doing. It has nothing to do with the fact that I’d rather scoop my eyes out with a spoon than read through queries.

Eventually, I run out of things to do. After refreshing my inbox fourteen times and manifesting an urgent email that I need to deal with immediately, I move over to the app we use to manage queries. Squinting one eye closed and gingerly typing in my login information, I hold my breath as I hit Enter.

And then I let out a loud groan.

My queries have been open for a week, and I have over a thousand to go through.