Page 109 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I don’t feel like I’m going to get any revenge here, of course not, but at the very least I feel like a professional in what she laid out for me. My pantsuit gives off dignified vibes. The black satin pant legs swish slightly with each footfall, little whispers of encouragement to keep going. I can do this. Nobody looks at me like I’m out of place.

Nobody looks at me here, really, at all.

I’m invisible. Just another somebody employee walking through on her errands. And that’s good for me.

I pull a wash of brown curls behind my shoulder.

Pause in the tap-tapping of my low-slung, much-too-expensive-but-will-wear-forever heels at the sign on the wall.

There’s a set of big blue doors opposite. The one I was directed to look for in the ensuing emails from last week. I didn’t even read them. Gloria took over. Read and communicated the information to me.

And here we are.

Big blue double doors.

People moving in and out with importance.

Penny spots me from some sort of foyer inside and rushes toward me. “Bryony! There you are!” Grinning widely, she takes me up around the shoulders and ushers me inside.

I follow numbly.

The world already is starting to spin a little.

Everything is starting to feel like a dream.

That’s because you need to breathe, Bryony. You have literally cut off your oxygen and are about to pass out.

I take in two huge gulps of air.

Continue the simple act of moving forward.

There are no windows. We are in the heart of this massive building, it feels. And behind me, I hear the click of a door shutting.

The walls are bright yellow, forcefully so. Even the batch of sunflowers on the receptionist’s desk seems to scream, “BE HAPPY!! WE’RE ALL SOOOO HAPPY!!”

Susanna, for her part, is sitting on the edge of a chair in the corner, seeming equally as uncomfortable as me. A receptionist is hidden behind the massive bouquet of flowers. A small cluster of people surround Amelia, and I avert my eyes immediately. I don’t want to know who they are. I don’t want to see or talk to any of them.

Susanna spots me and her eyes light up. She pops up from her chair quietly and is at my side in a moment.

“Bryony!” she says in a hush and gives my hands a little squeeze.

It seems we are on the same page here.

“Hello.” I smile softly.

“This book.” Her eyes are wide, trying it seems to express the depth and weight of her words. “Your book,” she says more quietly. “I just wanted to tell you. It’s . . . going to make the world a little bit brighter.”

I press my lips into a grateful, if bittersweet, smile. Thankful for the reminder in all of this of what I have to hope for.

There is hope today.

But then my brows knit together. Susanna’s an editor. Not in marketing. Not in publicity. Why is she here?

As if she can read my thoughts, she gives my hands a squeeze and says, “I just wanted to be here to cheer you on.”

My eyes glisten momentarily before I push the tears back in. I nod, noting how personal this is. She never showed up voluntarily for any of Amelia’s other books. But she’s here for mine. She knows: this book, especially, is mine.

Amelia is set to go live at 8:00 a.m. sharp, and while she answers fluffy questions here and there on this fluff show, there is a moment at the end where she announces her next book. Forty emails must’ve flown through my inbox this week over the announcement. Sales wanting to announce Meet Me Under the Bridge at the final moment. Marketing wanting to wait to keep the attention on the current book that has just launched. Editorial even jumping in with their thoughts here and there.