Page 8 of Not on the Same Page

I like this job. I really do. Being on this end of the process of bringing new books into the world is a dream come true for me. But so much of publishing is luck and timing, and I got lucky when I first started out and signed the Scarlett Frye as my first author. Now, my name is out there. And while I’ve had lots of successful authors on my list over the years, everyone thinks I’m the magic piece when, in fact, it’s the manuscript. But that doesn’t stop them from querying me in droves.

I wiggle further into the soft cushions of my couch. Then I shift my laptop over so I can grab a blanket and spread it over my lap. I’m going to need to get cozy before I attempt to tackle these.

I click open a query letter and start reading, but it reeks of artificial intelligence. Pass. The next is from a writer who seems to be submitting to me as some sort of assignment for a creative writing professor. If she doesn’t really want it, neither do I. Up next is a thriller written by someone who noted, and I quote, I know it likely needs some editorial work, but I don’t know where to start because I don’t read thrillers. That’s where you come in! Hard nope. Even if I had thrillers on my wish list, I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole.

“Okay. Three down and nine hundred ninety-seven to go.” I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. I pride myself on being great at giving my authors pep talks. Apparently, I cannot use those considerable talents on myself.

Luckily, at that moment, my phone rings. “Oh, thank god,” I mutter, stretching sideways to retrieve my phone from the other end of the couch, where I had put it face down to avoid doomscrolling as procrastination. But when I check the screen, I flip it right back down and let it keep on ringing.

It’s my aunt. And I’d rather look through the rest of these query letters than talk to her.

I click through a few more duds, but my phone rings again. Grumbling, I reach over to silence it, but this time it’s Isabella, another agent at Northbridge.

“Saved by the bell,” I mutter as I answer the call. “Hey.”

She skips all pleasantries and gets right to the reason she’s calling. “I hear Suzanna is sending you to Writers and Agents.”

I groan. “I don’t suppose you want to take my place?”

“Fuck no.” She laughs. “Are you kidding me? There’s no way I want to sit in a room with aspiring authors for a weekend and listen to their questions and bad pitches. I’ve worked too long to get thrown to the wolves like that again.”

“I’ve worked there longer than you,” I protest.

“Yeah, by two months. But that means you shouldn’t be going either. What the hell did you do to earn the honor?”

“More like what did I do to piss Suzanna off,” I say.

“I mean, that’s the reason why I’m calling. Give me the juicy details.”

“You want to meet for coffee in a few minutes? I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Isabella immediately perks up. “Is there that much to tell?”

“No.” I twirl a piece of hair around my pointer finger. “I just don’t want to sift through more queries and need a reason to get out of my apartment.”

“Bitch, you had me all excited.”

“And yet, you’ve never refused to stand between me and an honest day’s work.”

“Very true. But coffee’s on you. See you in twenty.”

As one of the only other Northbridge agents in Chicago, Isabella and I meet semiregularly for lunch or coffee or work sessions. Being an agent is a fantastic job, and I make my own hours, but it can get lonely when there’s no office to report to and most of my meetings are video conferences. It’s nice to have someone nearby to commiserate with in person.

By the time I get to the coffee shop we always go to, Isabella is already seated at a table by the window. She’s sipping her drink—an Americano if she got her usual, which I’m sure she did—and there’s another cup of something iced in front of an empty chair.

“I thought you said coffee was on me.” I pull out the chair and plop into it. Using the back of my wrist, I blot some sweat from my forehead. “I don’t know how you drink hot coffee when it’s so warm out.”

“It’s busy, so I had to buy coffee before taking a table. Next round’s on you. And the only way to drink coffee is hot. Whatever this contraption is”—she waves at the drink in front of me—“is an abomination.”

“Agree to disagree,” I say, taking a sip. As usual, Jake the barista got it exactly right. An iced oat milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla syrup. Perfection.

“Okay, you’re caffeinated. Now spill it.”

I tilt my head, idly stirring my drink with the straw. “Maybe I just wanted to go to Denver. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t been able to travel much⁠—”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine,” I concede. “Suzanna is getting nervous about Scarlett taking some time off. She wants me to sign a few new people, and she thinks sending me to the conference will… I don’t know. Inspire me?”