by Meghan Quinn
He’d said to give him one week, but I didn’t think I could. He hadn’t touched me, apart from when he’d gone down on me before his shower. He wouldn’t even let me touch him. I tried not to let it bother me. I tried to convince myself that it was okay he needed a week . . . for God knows what. That I could make it through a week. But . . . I needed him. And not just sexually. I realized when I was getting dressed earlier that I also really missed my best friend. I was alone every day, and now every night as well. Why bother leaving the apartment we’d all shared when I was going to be alone anyway? That was the most persistent thought that banged away in my head daily. Henry wasn’t just not coming home each night. He wasn’t coming home to me. And that really hurt.
Typing out a text, I quickly sent it before I stepped into the extravagant hotel.
Rosie: Miss you. Can we have a date night? Maybe a little cuddle on the couch with some curry?
I put my phone in my purse, just as it buzzed back with a text message. I searched the entryway for Wolf Shirt Wendy, but didn’t see her, so I quickly read the text back from Henry.
Henry: Hopefully I can get out of here on time. Love you.
I refrained from throwing my phone at the man next to me, who found scratching his crotch something to perform for the elegant customers of the Park Hyatt.
What was I thinking? Of course Henry wouldn’t be home later. Because getting out of here on time on a Saturday meant you didn’t go to work at all! I didn’t text him back because if I did, I’d lose it on him. Instead of freaking out like my entire body itched to do, I took calming breaths and looked for Wendy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her approaching, wearing another wolf fleece. Her collection was impressive, and I think subliminally, she was turning me onto wolf wear. When I was pinning the other day, I came across wolf T-shirts and was tempted to check them out. I refrained. Wolves were Wendy’s thing. I didn’t think it would be polite to copy her, even though the wolves looked so powerful, so . . . sexual with their fangs and howling.
“Rosie, I’m so glad you’re here.” Wendy pulled me into a hug, and I didn’t balk at the new development in our relationship. I embraced it.
“Hi, Wendy. What are we doing here?” I looked around, taking in the exuberance of the hotel.
“Well, since you finished your book, I thought I’d take you to your first book signing, as a fan. You can meet some authors and get an idea of what it’s like to be in this world, because believe it or not, you were born to be a part of this community.”
Tears welled up. “You really think so?”
“I do.” Wendy nodded. “I loved your book. It was unique, relatable, and sweet. It was a little crass at times, but then again, that’s comedy.”
“You didn’t think it was too much?”
Wendy nodded her head. “At times, yes, but then again, it’s fiction comedy. The way I see it, you have to look at other forms of comedy. For instance, take Friends as an example. The antics, the experiences they face wouldn’t normally happen to people like you and me every day, but if we wrote about our everyday lives, would it really be that humorous?”
“No, it would be kind of boring at times, but there are some instances in the book that are real-life experiences.”
“Yes, exactly, and as an author of comedy, it’s your job to take that funny experience and embellish it. You did that in your book. You embellished and pushed the limits of ‘is this really possible.’ My favorite example to use is the episode of Friends when Ross makes himself a pair of paste pants out of lotion and baby powder. No one in their right mind would ever do that, but if the writers just said he wrapped a blanket around him and went home, it wouldn’t be nearly as funny. Instead, they turned an awful situation into one that is so funny, you can’t help but laugh and feel for the man. As writers, that’s what we need to do. In comedy, we need to make the readers laugh, we need to make them feel awkward and uncomfortable, and we need to make them relate in some way. If we are making readers experience emotion, good or bad, then we did our job at the end of the day. They might not agree with our humor, but if we make them feel, that’s all that matters.”
I felt like kissing Wolf Fleece Wendy. She was so empowering. She made me feel like I could tackle anything. I couldn’t have even dreamt of a mentor like her.
“Thank you so much, Wendy. You’ve been such an inspiration to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Wendy cupped my cheeks and spoke with sincerity. “You’re a beautiful young woman with a huge future in front of you. Now, tell me, what is the title of your book?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m still trying to figure it out. I want something unique. I was thinking of something like, The Chronicles of Meghan. What do you think?”
“Hate it.” Wendy laughed. “It doesn’t speak of the book. Let’s keep working on it. In the meantime, let’s go meet some authors.”
I couldn’t contain my smile. I linked my arm with Wendy’s and let her lead me to the elevators and the ballroom. The entire ride, we spoke of Wendy’s favorite parts in the book—the waxing scene being her top choice.
“Where did you even come up with the idea of the red brick road?”
“I didn’t have to come up with the idea.” I chuckled. “That was all from experience. I itched for days.”
Wendy tossed her head back and let out a giant guffaw. “That is fantastic. I’m glad I’m old enough not to have to worry about getting waxed.”
When the elevator doors opened, we were greeted by giant signs for the event: Authors in the Big Apple. There were hundreds of women walking around, carrying books, stacked up in carts, and tucked under their arms. Some women wore backpacks, others trailed wagons closely behind them. Lined up along the perimeter of the ballroom were what seemed like fifty tables, six feet in length, all decorated and full of books, swag, and banners. The excited voices of readers rang through the large space, talking to their favorite authors and speaking of their latest and greatest read.
I was in book euphoria.
I had no clue where to start as I took in the scene. Swag was everywhere and my little paws itched to scoop it all into my purse. ChapStick, condoms, pens, bookmarks, bracelets, and pins. I wanted it all. I wanted to wear every single pin, I wanted to apply every ChapStick, and I wanted to decorate my fingers with condoms.
“This. Is. AMAZING,” I cried, holding my heart while looking around, not really sure where to start. “Who’s here? Anyone I might have read?”
“Probably. This is a fantastic lineup of authors. Tickets have been sold out for a while, but thankfully I know the event coordinator and was able to secure two tickets for us. Are you ready for this?”
“Do they take cards?” I asked, holding up my debit card I’d magically extracted from my wallet without even knowing.
“Oh, they do. This is your lucky day.”
I fist-pumped the air, nearly crushing my card with my superhuman book-love power.
“Then let’s spend some money.”
Like a giddy little schoolgirl, I skipped from table to table, meeting authors, grabbing every piece of swag I could find, cherishing them as my very own treasures, and buying paperbacks I’d either read or wanted to read.
I made sure to go to every table, to introduce myself, and shake hands with some of the nicest people I had ever met. Even if I didn’t buy a paperback, they still wanted to talk to me, they wanted to know about my book, and they told me to write them if I had any questions about the process.
I had never felt so accepted in my life. On Facebook, the book groups gave me a small glimpse of what this community was like, but now, I fully understood.
Books didn’t just expand your imagination and take you into another world where reality was a far-off memory. Books connected souls. Books created a common ground for everyone to walk on. No matter your background, your fortunes or misgivings, books brought readers and authors together to form an unyielding and beautiful bond.
Women could be catty at times, they could be backstabbing, and they could be straight-up trolls if they were in the mood. Not here, not in this world. This community was about empowering women and seeing your friends succeed at a daunting task: writing a book.
I’d never really thought about the notion until I talked to some of the authors at the signing. Writing a book wasn’t just typing out words onto your computer that twisted into a plot. It was taking a little piece of your soul and letting it bleed out for everyone to read and judge. To write a book was like capturing a moment in your life and exposing it for prying and curious eyes.
I understood that very clearly.
What I accomplished only a few days ago was a feat on its own: writing a novel. I poured my heart and soul into it, exposing my flaws, my insecurities, and some of my most embarrassing moments.
And once I published my book, I wouldn’t sit there and look at the sales page, trying to figure out if this would be a future I could pursue. Instead, I’d sit back and be proud of my accomplishment.
I wrote a book.
Even if only one person bought it, I would still consider myself an author.
“Are you okay?” Wendy asked, coming up to me from behind.
I wiped my tears away and nodded. “Yeah, I’ve just been emotional lately. A lot’s been going on. I needed this day. I feel refreshed, I feel welcomed, and I feel like I’m a part of something.”
“You are.” Wendy smiled at me. “You are very much a part of this world.”
“You don’t think I’m wasting my time writing a book? You really think I could be one of these authors one day?”
Wendy wrapped her arm around my shoulder and smiled at me. “I do and I can’t wait to see where your career takes you. It’s going to be a beautiful thing to watch. You’re something special, Rosie.”
I pressed my lips tightly together as tears welled up in my eyes, a mixture of elation and nerves consuming me at the same time. Forgetting about my troubles with Henry, my weight problems, and the orange tabby waiting to claw my toe later tonight, I took in a deep breath and gave the ballroom one last glance.
I could taste it, my dream at the precipice of being accomplished.
I could see it, sitting at one of these tables, talking to a bubbly reader about the dreaded wax scene in my book.
I could feel it, the sense of belonging. This was my place, my tribe, my people.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Pillow Beating Beelzebub
HENRY
Rosie: Are you coming home soon? You were going to help me with these bachelorette party bags.
I was letting her down left and right. Every chance she gave me, I wasn’t there to help. I felt like the biggest ass ever, but I was so close to closing in on this account, I kept working late night after late night to guarantee a run at the position.
This campaign hadn’t been the easiest one to work on, especially since Derk predicted Rosie was pregnant. It was so obvious to me now, all her emotions, her erratic behavior; they all made sense. It was like the puzzle pieces of a crazy person finally came together. Now I just needed to secure this job so I could provide for the three of us.
Since I had to create a campaign for condoms—ones that failed me—I decided not to focus on their ability to be a solid form of birth control, but instead, focused on their “luxury.” I developed two separate campaigns, one to cater toward men and one toward women. They were vastly different, but had the same effect.
With the men, I focused on a slogan, “The Man, The Legacy.” I hated everything about it; it read like an ad for a massive tool bag. It actually was the slogan for Freddy, who inspired it all for me, but Eric and, so far, the board loved it. I just had to fine-tune my campaign geared toward women. I could have gone the route of talking about the different kinds of ribbing on each condom or special lubricants, but I didn’t. Instead, I focused on the “quality” (snorts) and how each woman only deserved the best. No vagina should settle for less.
Talking to the design team, I had them create the condom brand into a luxury item by developing mock-ups using black, gold, and silver. The font I chose screamed exuberance and the images we used all revolved around luxurious pillows and silk.
After reviewing the mock-ups, I knew this was going to be a winner, no doubt about it. I just had to hang on a few more days.
Luckily, Freddy was able to get a scoop on what Tasha had been working on. I gave the guy a high five about lifting over three hundred pounds, and he was so excited he offered to scope out the competition by using his “sex appeal.” I didn’t oppose, and for some odd reason, it worked. Freddy was able to woo Tasha enough to check out what she had been working on. She was doing a joint campaign based around lovemaking. It was cute and fresh, but it wasn’t Legacy.
“You ready for the party tomorrow? For the grand reveal of both campaigns?” Eric asked, as I started to gather my phone and wallet so I could take off.
“I am. Mock-ups are done and being held by the design team. I feel really confident.”
“Good,” Eric nodded. He leaned up against my cube with his arms crossed. “You’ve been putting in a lot of time at the office lately. Is everything okay at home?”
He was staring at the picture I had of Rosie on my desk. I glanced at it and inwardly smiled. She was my entire life, her and the little one growing inside of her. But fuck I’d hated being away from her so much. I missed her. I missed talking to her. And I hated seeing her so sad nearly every day because I’ve been here and not with her. But that’s not what Eric was asking.
“Everything is great. Just wanted to make sure I nailed this campaign. I want this job so damn bad.”
“You deserve it. You’ve really shown some impressive work, not just on rebranding, but on your marketing plan for social media. I’m impressed, Henry. I truly am.”
“Thanks, Eric.” I stood from my chair and grabbed my bag. “If you will excuse me for the night, I have a girlfriend to get home to.”
Sweeping his arm out for me leave, he said, “Enjoy. I’ll see you tomorrow for the party. You’re bringing Rosie?”
“Most definitely, but if you don’t mind, can we keep this whole possible promotion to ourselves? I don’t want her getting excited in case it doesn’t work out.”
“Not a problem.”
We shook hands, which was odd because we never really did that, and then I took off toward the elevator. It was seven already, and I knew Rosie was freaking out about the bachelorette party and being ready for it. I called the other day to cash in a favor on a local bar I knew would be perfect for the party and was able to book a private room for the girls. Rosie was grateful. From the list Delaney had, I knew Rosie was still behind, but I had confidence she would be able to take care of everything.
The elevator opened, greeting me to begin my descent down to the streets of New York. I pressed the ground level button and watched the doors close, just as Tasha stuck her hand in to stop the elevator. The doors opened back up and she walked in, brushing off her skirt and eyeing me.
“You could have held the elevator.”
“Didn’t know you were coming.”
Turning toward me, she gave me a suggestive look. “Oh, you always knew when I was coming.”
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, Tasha. Really?” Thank God she’d mostly left me alone the last few weeks, but I had no idea why she still felt the need to say shit like she just did. Whatever. I fucking hoped she’d be gone soon. That would mean that I’d no longer have to work crazy hours to prove I’m great at my job, but I’d also be home more to see Rosie.
“I was just joking, Henry. Are you bringing her tomorrow?” Her name is Rosie. Not her.
“Wishing the elevator would hurry the fuck up, I said, “Yes.”
“Wonderful, I can’t wait to catch up with her.”
There would be none of that. The last thing I needed was for Tasha to start talking to Rosie at the party. Not that I was hiding anything, because I was
n’t, I just didn’t trust Tasha. Knowing her, she would say some bullshit lie about us spending almost every night together working, when in fact, I didn’t even talk to the wench.
“I would prefer it if you didn’t talk to her . . . or me.”
“And why is that, Henry? Because you’re afraid she’ll see the way you look at me?”
“The way I look at you? All I see is a gold-digging slut-bag willing to flirt with anyone to get ahead. Don’t think I don’t see the way you talk to Eric and the male board members. Unfortunately for you, Tasha, this company was built on hard work ethic and innovative ideas, not how many times you can show your cleavage in one passing.”
That felt good. The bitch had been getting on my nerves ever since she stepped foot in the building.
She folded her arms over her chest, displaying her breasts once again. I rolled my eyes. “You really think you’ve won this account, don’t you?”
“Based on what I’ve heard about your campaign, uh . . . yeah.”
She laughed as we hit the ground floor and the elevator doors opened. “You’re so naïve, Henry. While you’ve been working in your little cubicle, staring at your annoyingly adorable picture of Rosie, and talking to douche-bag Freddy, I’ve been hosting lunches with the Legacy executives. It’s not always about the campaign, but about who will lead the campaign and who meshes well with the customer.” She pressed my chest with her nail and then took off. “See you tomorrow, Henry. Can’t wait for you to meet some of my friends at Legacy.” She walked backward while she continued to talk. “Oh, and if you change your mind on our relationship, let me know. Maybe I can convince the board to throw you a bone, and you can be my assistant.”