Page 115 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“Perfect,” Melinda says.

“WHAT?” I cry out. I look to Jack now accusingly. “What’s going on?”

And then a thought comes to mind. A terrible, horrible thought.

First Jack threatens to sue. Now this. Is he somehow trying to destroy my life entirely? The vengeful agent who couldn’t handle his client leaving him? The angry lover who has now locked me into this safe room and broken my mic system and nobody will believe me, that I gave the right answers? That I was doing my absolute best to do the right thing and get out of here?

I have no evidence.

Nobody will believe me.

It’s just Jack and me in here. All alone.

“Haley Frydman?” Melinda says.

“Smuggler’s Paradise.” I know full well it won’t come through, but I have to try anyway.

“The butcher in The Seven-Year Holiday who collects cotton candy,” Amelia says promptly, then pauses, catching herself.

“Interesting,” Melinda says. “Cotton candy, you say?”

“Well . . . ,” Amelia says, then coughs, looking a little puzzled at her own response. She recrosses her legs. “Anyway.” She gives a little laugh and picks up her coffee mug. “Hot seat, am I right?” She chuckles, blows into her coffee, then takes a sip.

Melinda laughs heartily. A little too heartily. A “ha-ha-ha,” and then she crosses her legs again with a more serious expression. “It is a funny little game, isn’t it?” She gives a pointed look to the audience, and they laugh all the more.

Melinda sits back and shifts gears. You can see it on her face as she uncrosses her legs. “And now, if you haven’t been holding on to your seats already, folks, buckle up now, because we have an exclusive announcement here at The Bright Show this morning.” Melinda’s teeth seem to glow even whiter as her smile just bursts with anticipation.

She points toward the screen behind her. “Folks, the author of all of these books we discussed this morning, right here, right now, the true author we have come to love and admire for her stories chock-full of wit and substance, this author has written what I can only believe to be the most sizzling story of the year next year, actually jumping off from firsthand experience herself—”

Amelia’s smile flickers in surprise.

And then it flashes up on-screen.

The cover of Meet Me Under the Bridge in all its glory.

“Meet Me Under the Bridge,” Melinda cries triumphantly. “And isn’t it absolutely stunning?”

I feel a slight quake, like a group of people have just stopped outside the door.

I reach for the wall beside me, steadying myself.

She’s right. The cover is absolutely stunning.

Even though I’ve looked at it a dozen times, I can’t help taking in an admiring breath as I see it announced for the first time to others. I find myself stepping toward the screen, but a foot away, watching people’s reactions. Feeling little drops of pleasure as I see their nods of acceptance of this new work. Of admiration. They love it too.

“Can you tell us, Amelia, what this book is going to be about?” Melinda says.

And I’m ready for this.

Of all books, of all the stories I’ve ever written, this one is dearest to my heart.

But this time as Amelia begins to speak, something horrible happens.

I hear my own voice coming over the speakers, over the . . . over the television . . . as well?

“It’s about a bridge in Newport,” Amelia begins, just as I, holding the wall, say, “It’s about a teacher who builds up an ESL program in the small town of Florence—”

“And the . . .”—Amelia’s voice slows down as her eyes pop wide—“the bridge . . . breaks and . . .” Her eyes swivel off camera to a giant box that has just arrived onstage on her left—a large nondescript box with a nondescript door that looks quite a bit like the one I walked inside just a few minutes ago. “What the—”