Page 9 of Not on the Same Page

Isabella snorts. “Right, because the chances of you walking away from that event with a new author are slim to none.”

“You never know…” I start, but when I see Isabella’s look of disbelief, I laugh harshly and slump forward. “Yeah, I don’t suppose the next Hemingway is attending a conference to learn how to pitch.”

“Got any good queries?”

I’m grateful for the change of subject, though I don’t have much to report on that front, either. “I had only looked through three of them when you called, but big nopes on all of them.”

Isabella sighs and takes a sip of her drink as she leans back in her chair. “It’s rough out there. The literary fiction market is oversaturated, and the economy is down. Even good books aren’t selling anymore. Editors have to be extra tough on new work. Sometimes I worry I chose the wrong profession.”

“It’ll turn around,” I say, trying to remain hopeful, but she’s not the only one feeling the pinch. I have a hunch Suzanna wants me to sign new authors, at least in part, to try to stay ahead of what is clearly a sort of publishing recession. The only problem with that is no one can tell what the next cultural zeitgeist is going to be. Not to mention I already struck gold once with Scarlett. What are the chances that I can do it again?

“Hey.” Isabella’s voice drops to almost a whisper as she leans forward conspiratorially. “Isn’t that Casey Endersen?”

Before I can stop them, my eyes widen. My heart rate also ticks up a notch, but hopefully she can’t see that part. “Where?” I ask. It has been over a year since I’ve seen or spoken with him, and I’m not about to frantically look around the coffee shop only for him to catch my eye in some kind of poorly written rom-com moment.

Isabella’s gaze flicks over my shoulder, then back to me. “In line. I could be wrong, but it sure looks like him.”

Slowly, I turn around as if I’m afraid any sudden movements will draw his attention. Sure enough, there he is, standing in line waiting for coffee. He’s dressed more casually than usual in a heathered gray T-shirt and athletic shorts, but I’d recognize the lines of his broad shoulders and the curve of his ass anywhere—which is especially juicy in those shorts. It doesn’t escape me that I know exactly what that ass feels like beneath my touch, late at night as I grazed my fingernails over it and made him shiver as his tongue danced with mine.

I whip back around and lean forward on the table, bringing my hand close to my mouth before redirecting at the last minute to half-hide my face. “That’s him.”

Isabella frowns at me, a deep crease forming between her brows. “Why are you being weird? Did he reject one of your pitches or something?”

Why am I being weird? It’s a great question. There’s no reason to react this viscerally to seeing Casey in public. We slept together a few times over a year ago and agreed to keep it casual until we were more or less forced to walk away. I haven’t seen him since because I haven’t had a reason to pitch anything to him. And, I mean, maybe I’ve been avoiding him a little. But what was I supposed to do, walk into his office a week later with a new manuscript and pretend like I don’t know the exact spot under his left earlobe where he loves to be⁠—

“Hello? Earth to Trina?” Isabella waves her hand in front of my face. “What the hell is going on with you?”

I need to get a grip. Clearing my throat, I drop my hand to my lap and straighten my shoulders. “Sorry, I’m just worried I look like a mess. I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I work with today.” I mentally pat myself on the back for coming up with that one. It’s not exactly untrue—I’m wearing cut-off jean shorts, an oversized graphic T-shirt that hangs off my shoulders to show one bright red bra strap, and ancient Birkenstocks. My hair is in the messiest of buns, and I didn’t even bother to put on lipstick before I left my apartment. I’m not exactly channeling Helen of Troy today.

Isabella eyes me up and down, then pulls the corners of her lips down and raises her eyebrows as if I have a point. For half a second, I’m almost offended until I remember that’s the reaction I wanted.

“Well, it’s your lucky day. Looks like he’s headed out the other door.” Her gaze tracks what I assume is Casey leaving the building before she turns her attention back to me. “Coast is clear.”

I blow out a breath of relief, but try as I might, I can’t ignore the fact that a part of me is disappointed. I swallow hard against the bitter wave that rises in my chest, but it’s no use. The emotion is unmistakable, and for the rest of my work date with Isabella, it nags at me.

After we finish our drinks and say our goodbyes on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop, she turns in the direction of her apartment. I start to walk toward mine too, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is off balance. I take an abrupt right turn on Fullerton and pick up my pace slightly.

Before I know it, sweat is beading on my upper lip and hairline as I make my way along the sidewalk in the Chicago sunshine that feels like it could be July. It’s actually that liminal space between spring and summer where it could start raining and drop twenty degrees in the next hour. The air is heavy, like that could really happen, but I can’t be concerned with that now. My destination is in sight.

The red brick of the Lincoln Park branch of the Chicago Public Library looms in front of me like a beacon. This isn’t my favorite branch, but it’ll do in a pinch. As soon as the doors close behind me, the hustle and bustle of the city streets are muted and replaced by the whisper of pages and soft feet on carpet. An explosion of noise comes from somewhere in the kids’ section, but even that is a welcome sound—the youngest readers finding joy in stories.

That used to be me, in what feels like a different lifetime, when my mom used to pack up my water bottle and a sleeve of crackers in her ratty tote bag and walk me to our local library in California for story time each Sunday morning. It was just her and me in those days. I never knew my father, and she never mentioned him to me. Aunt Donna suggested once that my mom didn’t know who he was either. That comment stung for a long time.

Usually when she took me to the library, Mom was strung out or hungover depending on her previous night’s activities, but I was too young to know what that really meant. All I knew is that when she brought me to the library on Sundays for an hour, I didn’t have to worry about why her expression was pinched or what—if anything—we’d eat for lunch. The librarian would always read the best stories, imitating voices and sometimes using props or puppets. The other kids and I would listen raptly from start to finish, and then we’d dance and sing songs and color pictures. At the end, I’d get to check out a new-to-me book that I’d read over and over and over again when I got home until the next week when I’d bring it back and do the whole thing over again. Mom would sometimes doze in the corner or watch me with a sadness in her eyes I didn’t quite understand until much later, either.

When I was older and living with my aunt, the library remained the one place I could go that would help me feel human again. It didn’t matter the emotion—loneliness, nervousness, excitement, fear—the murmur of patrons and that vanilla-and-almond aroma of old books would always settle it.

I don’t fully know why seeing Casey has me feeling topsy-turvy. Maybe the unexpected phone call from my aunt that I ignored earlier has something to do with it, too. But I know that spending some time among the stacks here will help. I’ve always been able to count on it.

As I make my way slowly through the adult fiction section, I run my fingers lightly along the spines of the books, letting them ground me and trying not to pay attention to how bitten-down my fingernails are. I decide to play an old game where I close my eyes and walk a bit, raising and lowering my hand to reach different shelves. After a few steps, I stop when my hand lands on a spine that feels slightly larger than the ones surrounding it. Eyes still closed, I pull it off the shelf and flip through the pages, inhaling their scent.

When I open my eyes, I let out a laugh that’s much louder than I intend. In my hands is Scarlett’s debut novel, In the Time Before. Normally the rules of the game are to check out and read whatever book I land on, but I might know this book almost as well as I know myself, so I put it back on the shelf and take the one next to it instead. I flip to the back to read the synopsis, and it seems to be some kind of artsy literary fiction. If it hadn’t been for this little game I play with myself, I probably wouldn’t have ever picked it up, but rules are rules.

Uninterested in returning home to find my laptop staring at me and making me feel guilty for not working, I settle onto a couch in a quiet corner and crack the book open. Before I know it, I’ve read about a third of it, the sun is starting to set, and my stomach is rumbling.

I fish around in my purse for something to use as a bookmark. The best I can find is a bobby pin, which I stick in the crease before closing the book. I check it out and slide it in my bag before making my way back to the noise of the city, feeling much more settled than I was before.

Tomorrow, I’ll look through more of those queries. Next week, I’ll start preparing for the panels I’m going to be on at this conference. It might be a veiled punishment to have to attend, but I’m still going to knock it out of the park. Suzanna doesn’t need another reason to be annoyed with me, and botching this will surely provide one. And then I’ll be in Denver. Hopefully, the mountain air will be cleansing, and when I come back, I’ll be closer to a plan that will keep Suzanna happy and not make me want to pull my hair right out of my head.