For my husband and Tiny Human—squeeze hugs. You two are my world and my everything, and I love you. Also, Tiny Human, you can NEVER read this book.
It’s a gift to work with strong, funny, and kind publishing professionals. Thank you to my incredible agent, Sharon Pelletier, for believing in this book and in me. Thank you also to Lauren Abramo, Kemi Faderin, and Mike Hoogland at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret, and Kristina Moore at Anonymous Content.
Thank you to my phenomenal editor, Kerry Donovan. Your support, insight, and guidance have meant the world to me. Also thank you to Tara O’Connor, Dache Rogers, Bridget O’Toole, Natalie Sellars, Mary Geren, and the rest of the Berkley and Penguin Random House team for bringing this novel to life.
Robert Fulghum said, “We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.” Thank you to all my weird friends, especially two of you. Bethany, who was my first friend in college, has been my best friend for decades, and will be my sister always. Thank you for always cheering, always reading, and always joining me in ordering dessert, even though you never finish it. Finally, I’m the taller one. It’s in print now. I win.
Allison Ashley—you’re stuck with me for life. You are my go-to critique partner and I am forever in your debt for the advice, brainstorming, countless reads, unwavering support, and late-night humor. I trust you implicitly with my first ugly drafts and can’t imagine being on this journey to publishing with anyone else. You’re my person.
Robin Ridenour, you taught me to be a better writer. I have appreciated your humor, kindness, encouragement, attention to detail, and storytelling. Thank you also to Kat, Alex, Ron, and everyone at Scribophile who helped me improve. TeamCarly, the best writing group around, has been a constant source of support and encouragement. Thank you to Katie, Haley, Emily, Brian, Tera, Jenn, Ann, Pat, Tara, Sheri, Nicole, Michelle, Crystal, Maggie, Jessi, Susan, Kristine, Kathi, Mitzi, Racheal, Nadine, Salem, Joyce, Som, Alissa, and all the other friends who agreed to be early readers and shared their time and suggestions.
Penny and Greta slept at my feet during every step of this book’s creation, from those first stumbling paragraphs through final edits. Thank you to the best and the worst dog in the world for keeping me company. You’ve both earned treats.
Continue reading for a special preview of
THE FASTEST WAY TO FALL
by Denise Williams, coming in Fall 2021!
Britta
I hustled down the hall, late and waterlogged. It would rain today of all days.
With a graceless slip on the slick tile of the conference room, my umbrella sprayed water into the air and I hit the floor with a surprised cry. My skirt rode up my thighs as the box of donuts skidded across the polished wood floor, coming to rest by my boss’s Louboutins. Around me, conversation stopped, and I lingered in a cocoon of awkward silence.
Normally the box was empty and stuffed in the trash before our boss arrived, already full from her kale smoothie or whatever Paleo-adjacent, keto-friendly organic breakfast food was trending. Everyone would enjoy the treat and I’d maintain my status as popular coworker, but the rain had other plans for my reputation and dignity that morning. Maricela’s manicured fingers slipped under the table to pick up the pink box.
“Britta, you made it.” Claire’s sickly sweet voice broke the silence, and a chuckle went around the conference table. She sat back in smug satisfaction.
That’s what I told myself, anyway. From the spot on the floor next to my dripping umbrella, I couldn’t see anything except her impossibly high heels. For a fleeting moment, I wondered how good their traction was and if she might have her own run-in with the slippery floor.
“I like to make an entrance,” I mumbled, clambering to my hands and knees before trying to stand without flashing the entire staff of Best Life, the millennial-focused lifestyle website where I’d worked as an editorial assistant for four years.
“Britta, are you okay?” Maricela Dominguez-Van Eiken looked like a person who’d run a lifestyle empire. Back straight, dark hair curled and cascading, a perfectly organized planner settled perpendicular to the newest iPhone and a rose gold water bottle. She’d built Best Life from the ground and turned it into a lucrative, trendsetting company designed to help people live well. Kale smoothies aside, she had impeccable taste and just seemed to have her life together. What’s that like?
I rubbed my knee and rotated the wrist I’d landed on, catching Claire’s smirk from across the room. Just a little mortified. “I’m okay. Sorry I’m late.”
She nodded and passed the box of donuts to the person on her left. It began a slow rotation around the room, pair after pair of hungry eyes lingering on the treats as my colleagues waved their hands to pass. No one would take one after she demurred.
“It’s February first.” She tapped her index finger to her collar—her impress me gesture. At the beginning of each month, Maricela sought new ideas from the entire team. After four years, I needed to stand out. I was a good writer, but I’d never gotten the chance to flex those skills for Best Life. I wondered if I might be able to contribute more to the world than recommendations for face creams or the inside scoop on whether escape rooms were over.
“I have an idea,” I chimed in and raised a finger. All eyes, once again, landed on me. “There’s a new app called FitMe that’s been gaining popularity. Unlike other apps that focus just on tracking weight loss and counting calories, this one has real people serving as coaches and the experience is very individualized.” I kept an eye on my boss, who loved the intentional marriage of technology and human interaction. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had a secret “tech+people” tattoo somewhere on her body. “What if I join and document my journey? I’d talk about the app, but also everything I’m going through as I reach fitness goals.”
I didn’t have to look around the room to know I was the only one who’d be described as plus-size. If she liked the idea, I was the one person who could write it. I learned early in life I was supposed to be ashamed of what my mom called my extra fluff and my sister called my fat ass. It wasn’t until I got to college that I started to accept that I was fun, smart, and . . . fat, and that last one wasn’t the only thing that defined me. When I found FitMe, my wheels started turning with this idea. I was positive the unique perspective I could bring plus the human-and-technology integration was a sure winner.
Maricela was nodding again but had moved her finger from her collarbone to tap her chin.
Shit, she hates it.
“Thank you, Britta. I’d like to see something more original than a weight-loss piece, though. I’d want a stronger connection to wellness, with there being so much body-shaming in the world already. Bring us the next idea, though.” She called on someone else, and I squelched the urge to sink into my chair and hide. It wasn’t the first time I’d had an idea shot down—everyone had—but I’d been positive it would be the bump I needed to earn a place on the staff as a feature writer. I glanced across the table at Claire. She’d made no secret of her goals, and with one position available, we’d both been trying to stand out. Hopefully she didn’t have some great idea to pitch.
Claire caught my eye, her expression pensive, before she tapped at something on her phone, and I turned my attention back to the discussion about homemade face masks and aromatherapy yoga mats.
After graduating from college, I’d hunted for jobs, desperate to prove to my family that my English and journalism double major wasn’t a one-way ticket to unemployment. I was confident I’d find a job where I could write stirring pieces that would change minds and hearts. I was wrong, and I jumped at the editorial assistant position at Best Life. Four years later, I’d learned not to roll my eyes. Though we generated a lot of helpful and insightful content, we also spent a lot
of time discussing things like aromatherapy and yoga mats. Some days, it felt like I’d veered so far from my original plans of being a writer, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back.
“Great idea. Put together a plan for road testing the masks and let’s get it up for part of the Valentine’s Day Alone series. Britta can assist.” I’d zoned out, but a senior staff member flashed me a big smile. I’d have to figure out what I missed later.
“Anything else?” Maricela looked around the table and paused at Claire’s raised hand.
“I have one,” she said, her voice even and annoyingly casual. “It’s a different angle on Britta’s idea. There is another app which is just starting to add coaches. I could join that one while Britta joins FitMe, and we’d do the project together, broadening the scope to focus not only on changing bodies but on the entire fitness experience.”
I looked to Maricela. Please let her finger be traveling to her chin. No such luck, it was still tapping at her collarbone. She was interested in Claire’s spin. “What sets this second app apart? How would dual participation improve upon the idea?”
Claire’s shoulders squared. “The app is a lot like the others out there, but they take a different approach. It’s called HotBody. Their campaign is about being hot while being able to rock the body you’re in.”
Our boss’ finger drifted toward her chin as her lips pursed. “This is an interesting take, but I don’t love the visual of a thin woman writing about being hot and a plus-size woman writing about getting fit.”
A hundred responses flew through my head, all landing somewhere between tears and declaring I would write about being hot, too. Luckily, my rival spoke before I did, and with a more measured tone than I’d planned.
“On the surface, I agree. However, there’s a unique take here. Or rather, a very common take. I am thin, but I have my own body image issues. Don’t we all?” She glanced around the room where most of the women and a few men were nodding. “And I’m comfortable writing about it.”
I nodded and leaned forward, resting my arms on the conference table. “And I love seeing women who are big and happy with their bodies. I love reading stories about people deciding to make a change and losing a bunch of weight. Both can be inspirational, but neither are my story. Plus-size and fat people can be interested in exercise and fitness without necessarily wanting to change themselves. I think I could tell that story and I think it would land with our audience.”
Maricela glanced at her notes, finger hovering between her chin and collarbone.
Claire joined me again, our impromptu tag-team approach seeming to work. “The project would be about the relationship with one’s body. And if the apps are focused only on looks or only on weight loss, we’ll point it out, so readers know. I think it’s a win-win.”
Maricela glanced down at her tablet, and after a few taps and swipes, she smiled. “Okay, put together a plan. Let’s try it.”
As we moved on with the agenda, Claire eyed me coolly, clearly conflicted about the idea of sharing the spotlight but also knowing this could be the way one of us found ourselves on the writing staff. We’d been in competition since we started, both eager to do well and stand out, and both ready to move up at Best Life.
She was a good writer and when she spoke about her body, she sounded genuine. I swallowed, realizing the extent to which I’d have to step it up and make myself vulnerable. Despite my impassioned plea, I didn’t actually much care about exercising. I assumed I’d have to eat better and go to the gym for a few months to do this project, but I wasn’t wanting or expecting something paradigm-altering to happen. Still, if I got it right, it would be big for my career, and I could fake it long enough to make the project work. Nothing was going to get in the way of success with this project and earning that spot as a feature writer. In that spirit, I flashed a wide grin at Claire.
Game on.
Author photo by D&Orfs Photography
Denise Williams wrote her first book in the second grade. I Hate You and its sequel, I Still Hate You, featured a tough, funny heroine, a quirky hero, witty banter, and a dragon. Minus the dragons, these are still the books she likes to write. After penning those early works, she finished second grade and eventually earned a PhD in education, going on to work in higher education. After growing up as a military brat around the world and across the country, Denise now lives in Iowa with her husband, son, and two ornery shih tzus who think they own the house.
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How to Fail at Flirting Page 27