“Thanks, Elissa, but you really don’t need to apologize to me, it’s not your fault. If he hated it, he hated it, there’s nothing I can do to change his mind, I guess.”
“Actually, that might not be completely true.”
I make a puzzled face. “Huh?”
“I didn’t tell you this before because I didn’t think I’d need to, but I think now is a good time to go over some policies that our company has. All of us—myself, Cormac, and Cynthia are all equal partners when it comes to publishing deals. Meaning that we’re either unanimous in accepting a book, or unanimous in rejecting it.” Great. Fuck. My. Life. “So, as much as I love you, I can’t override that policy to push your book through.”
“No, of course not, and I’d never ask you to. So I guess I’ll shop the book around somewhere else. Maybe you could point me in the right direction and. . .”
“Hold on. I said that I couldn’t change the policy for you. I didn’t say that your chances of getting published under our banner are hopeless.”
Holy crap. Is she serious? Wait, I don’t want to get my hopes up only to get burned again. I have to be cautious. “Okay, I’m listening. I’ve got to be honest though, it sounded pretty hopeless a minute ago.”
“Cormac’s a brilliant copy editor and has a great eye for what’s marketable and what isn’t. While I think he’s completely off base about your work, I’m not going to write his opinion off completely. I sent a copy of the book to Cynthia while she’s in Europe. She feels the same was as I do—we both love it, and we think it’s very marketable to women these days.”
“But that third vote?”
“Is a problem. But not necessarily a problem that can’t be worked around. When we have a 2-1 split in favor of a book, we have a built-in waiting period of one month before we have our official vote. That way, it gives the dissenting partner—in this case, Cormac—a chance to reconsider their position in light of how the other two partners feel. Usually they reread the book, or speak to the author again, and we often have heated internal discussions among ourselves to see if we can sway the third vote. Sometimes it goes the author’s way and sometimes it doesn’t. It all depends.”
Great. So my future in publishing is at the whim of that arrogant—albeit really good looking—man. Why do I keep going to that in my head? I’m so mad at him I swear steam is going to come out of my ears like one of those Looney Tunes episodes, yet I can’t stop thinking about how good looking he was—or how tall—or how. . . stop it, Tori, the guy was a jerk, who cares what he looks like?
“Okay, so I’ll get my official ‘no’ in a month, then?”
“You never know,” Elissa tells me. She’s still giving me the sympathetic eyes, almost like she knows her partner is a hard-headed man who isn’t going to change his mind easily. “Cormac is what you saw of him, but he’s also a good man. I promise. I wouldn’t have gone into business with him otherwise. He can be convinced, it just might take a little creativity on your part.”
I know that she’s just trying to make me feel better, but it’s not working at all. The month waiting period is nice enough, but based on how severely Cormac reacted to my book, I know which way this is going to go. So instead of just getting rejected outright, licking my wounds, and moving on, now I have to wait to get the answer I know is coming anyway. One thing I do know—it isn’t Elissa’s fault.
“Thank you,” I tell her, putting my hand over hers. “For everything. Thanks for listening and for trying. Not everyone sees my vision.”
“As a woman in this industry, I’ve learned that sometimes you have to make someone see your vision. You have to shove it in their face, even if they don’t want it or don’t like it at first. Sometimes that’s the only way for people to take you seriously.”
Shove it in their face. Interesting thought. Now, if only I could figure out a way to actually do it.
Tori
The Next Day
When I need to lick my wounds—and they need some serious licking right now—I always go to the same place. Actually, place is the wrong word, because the location doesn’t matter. It’s more accurate to say that when I’m hurting badly, I always go the same person. She’s about to answer the door now.
“Mom!”
I give her a hug just like the one I gave her the first time a boy broke my heart—his name was Adam, I was twelve, and after he told me that I was ugly I gave my mom a hug like the one I’m giving her now. And just like that one, I held on for dear life, as though letting go might result in me getting sucked into some kind of vortex I might never escape from.
And just like that day, my mom told me to man the hell up. “Baby, you know I love your hugs more than anything else in the world, but you’re cutting off my circulation.”
“Sorry. I needed to squeeze.”
“Something must be bad, you haven’t squeezed me that hard in a very long time.”
“I haven’t had to. But today I need a good one. You could have squeezed me back, you know?”
“I needed to assess the situation first. Your squeeze was about a seven.”
“You rank my hugs?”
“Only the ones like that—the panic ones that come without any words. I rate those and decide if you need a squeeze back.”
“And seven doesn’t make the cut?”
“Eight and above. You were close, but not sad enough for me to break your ribs like you almost broke mine.”
Here’s the thing about Mom—she’s like two different people. Maybe that’s where I get it from. When she thinks I need it, she can be the warmest, kindest, most understanding person in the entire world. I’ll give you an example. That time when Adam called me ugly, my mom let me cry on her lap until I ran out of tears. She didn’t ask me a bunch of questions, or tell me it was all going to be okay, she just let me empty my tear ducts like I needed to. Then she got up, made me my favorite tea (and yes, I was that kid who had a favorite tea), and then let me fall asleep on her lap. When I woke up and told her the story is when she gave me her other side—the hard-ass feminist who didn’t let me cry any more, but told me that I didn’t need some dumb boy to make me feel pretty. My two moms. I guess they helped raise two Tori’s.
“Damn, I thought I was sad enough for a little love.”
“You always have my love, baby. But I’m sure whatever it is you can tell me about over some coffee, because I need some before my class this afternoon. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Oh no, they gave you the undergrads again?”
“Let’s just say that I might be at your place later looking for my own squeeze.”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry.”
Mom’s a professor of psychology. She has the distinction as being the oldest woman ever hired for a tenure track position at the university. She started this process late, but leave it to Mom to grind through, taking names and kicking ass all the way to her newly minted Ph.D. But she’s still the low woman in the hierarchy, so for the past three years she’s had to teach undergrad Introduction to Psychology courses, and she can barely handle it.
“They’re just so immature. It’s like I’m a high school teacher.”
“You basically are,” I tell her. “I mean, think about it. Those kids are three months removed from going to their prom, for God’s sake. It’s no wonder they giggle when you talk about anatomy and human sexuality.”
“Please, don’t remind me.”
I almost had a Ph.D., just like Mom. Only, to her disappointment, I didn’t follow through with it. I’m what you call ABD—all but dissertation. I did all the course work, but I never actually wrote my dissertation. See, once upon a time I thought I wanted to be an academic, to follow in my mom’s footsteps and be a professor. I lasted all but one semester before I realized that it wasn’t for me. Teaching a few undergrad classes while working on my degree taught me two things: one, teaching wasn’t for me. And two, I was good in front of people. It was the second thing that led me to a career path that my mom still
doesn’t totally understand.
“Are we getting coffee?” I ask.
“You should know by now that the answer to that question is always ‘yes.’ I’m driving.”
We get to a coffee shop a few minutes later. The place is packed but we manage to get our cups and sit for a few minutes to talk. I’m trying to hide my disappointment from yesterday, but it’s hard. That whole thing really stung. Maybe I was being arrogant—not as arrogant as that Cormac guy—but in my own way, thinking that I had that in the bag was probably not the smartest way to go into the meeting. I guess I figured my platform would carry me through, and that they’d accept me no matter what because of the huge audience I brought to the table, but I guess not.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asks. She can see right through me. It’s a mom power.
“What makes you think something is wrong?”
“Victoria, do you even need to ask? I’m your mother. Now just tell me. Is it something with your podcast or YouTube whatever?”
“No,” I tell her. “My social media empire is growing. Everything’s great with that stuff.”
“Every time you say that I think of the Romans or something,” she laughs.
“Say what? Oh, you mean the word empire? That’s what it’s called, Mom. And trust me, if you knew more about it you’d understand how successful I am in that world. It took me a long time to build up an audience like I have. It’s not easy.”
“I know,” she tells me. “I don’t mean to diminish your accomplishments, you know that. I just wish you. . .” She trails off. I know what she’s going to say, she doesn’t need to finish.
“What? Would have followed you to the classroom? I wanted to. I tried, but it wasn’t for me. I had to follow my own path.”
“I know. I guess I’m just being a mom. But we’ve had that talk a million times. What’s going on with you?”
I tell her the story, start to finish. She didn’t know that I was going for the meeting. I’m not secretive with my mom, but I don’t exactly tell her everything, either. She did know that I was writing a book, but not that a fan had contacted me to have it published at her company. I tell her, finally, and then I tell her what happened during the meeting.
“That guy sounds like a typical smug man.”
“I agree. But that smug man has a lot of power.” And blue eyes. Really, really blue eyes that I couldn’t stop staring at, even when he was saying terrible stuff about my book.
“I guess you’ll just have to find other companies. I know a few that do academic publishing if you’re interested.”
“Actually, there’s a part of the story that I left out.” That’s when I tell her about the whole second vote thing, and that seems to peak her interest.
“So let me get this straight. You get a chance to convince him that he was wrong, and if you can then the book will get published?”
“Exactly. That’s what Elissa said. Something about a company policy they have.”
“Well, then that’s what you have to do. What’s the plan?”
That’s a great question, Mom. “I’m still working that part out in my head.”
“I wish I could help you, baby.” I suck down my coffee faster than usual. I’m hoping that the caffeine will at least give me energy to think, ‘cause Lord knows I don’t have it right now. I didn’t sleep great, and I have to think of something I can say or do to get a deal, but it’s just not coming to me. I take another big gulp and Mom notices. “Go easy. You’re going to get jittery.”
“I’m already jittery. At least I’ll have some energy to go with it.”
I know Mom wants to help, but I forget sometimes how judgy she can be about my life choices. It’s not obvious, and it’s not mean, but it’s there. The daughter in me wants to just ask for help and hear some magical solution come out of my mom’s mouth, but I know deep down she doesn’t get the vlog, or the podcast, or even the book. She’d much rather I was publishing my dissertation on some boring topic no one would ever read, but that’s not me. I decide to just change the subject.
“So. . . what are you teaching the future leaders of America today? Freud and his penis envy?”
“God, no. That was the first week, and it was painful. They seemed to like when I talked about his cocaine addiction.”
“It’s comforting to know that the most well-known psychologist in history was a druggie. It reminds me that I’m not the only messed up one out there.”
“That’s a very Tori way to look at things,” she laughs. “No more Freud, though. We’re going over the Stanford Prison Experiment.”
“Wait, I remember. That was the one where they created a fake prison, right?”
“That’s right. They made half the participants fake guards and the other half fake prisoners, to see how they’d treat one another.”
“There was a movie on Netflix. It was really good. You couldn’t do that today, right?”
“An experiment like this? No way. The ethical board wouldn’t even let you suggest such a thing. Those kinds of experiments don’t happen anymore, and probably with good reason.”
“But you learned a lot from them, right? Even though you couldn’t do them today?”
“We learned a crazy amount about human behavior—things you can’t find out from other kinds of research. It’s a shame we can’t do things like this any more.”
A lightbulb goes off in my head. My mom’s words set off a chain reaction in my crazy head, and I jump up. “Drive me home!” I yell.
“Jesus, Victoria, you alright? I think that caffeine went straight to your head.”
“It totally did,” I say. “But that’s besides the point. I just had an idea and I need to go home and think it through. Can we go?”
Mom gets up and drives me back to her place. I barely speak on the drive back because my mind is trying to work out the details of the slightly crazy idea I just had. After she parks I jump out, run around the other side of the car, and give her a big hug. “I love you. Thanks for the help.”
“But I didn’t. . .”
“Yeah, you did. I gotta go, I’ll talk to you later. Enjoy your class.”
“Bye.”
I jump in my car and speed off. I need a pad and pencil. I have some brainstorming to do!
Tori
Later That Night
I set up my camera and get ready to record.
People have no idea how much time goes into a well produced YouTube video. It takes hours and hours to get it just right, but when it all comes together all of the sacrifice ends up being worth it. you do it’s totally worth it. Tonight I’m not so sure if I should even be doing it, but here goes nothing.
I hit record and do my thing.
“What’s up, TorMenTors, it’s your girl coming to you with some breaking news. So, as some of you remember from the last episode of Women on D*cks, I dropped the news that I had just finished writing my very first book! I know, I’m as excited for it as you are. I know that I promised an update on publishing dates, tour info, and everything else you’ve been asking me for in the comments. I promise you, your patience will be rewarded, but I’m still working out some of the final details. As soon as I have the info you know I’ll drop it here first. Stay tuned, ‘cause some big announcements are coming in the next few days.”
I click the camera off and feel like a total fraud.
Most of what I said is true, but a lot of it is just wishful thinking. The downside of making almost everything in your life open for public consumption is that you need to update people all the time, even when you want to keep things private. Oh, and you need to actually tell them the truth! I need to find a way to make into the truth, no matter what I have to do.
I had it all planned out, but you know what they say about the best laid plans. I upload the video to my channel. Little do they know that even though I won’t have book announcement details, I will have an exciting new project to tell them about.
Sort of.
Seeing m
y mom gave me a crazy idea. It’s so south of being sane that even I feel weird about it. There’s no way anything could come of it, but I don’t really have much to lose, do I? Elissa’s words play in my head again, but that’s not the only thing running through my mind. I hate to admit this, and it doesn’t even make sense, but I keep thinking about Cormac—and not just how rude he was.
I keep thinking about him.
I hate myself for feeling this, but he’s a hottie. Even when he was being douchey to me, I couldn’t stop looking into those eyes of his. He’s a beautiful man—tall, good looking, and I can tell that he’s built underneath those clothes he was wearing. I have no idea why that, of all things, is what I’m thinking of right now. I have to focus though. The crazy lightbulb is still going off in my head and I need to decide if I’m strong enough to actually go through with it.
I think I’ll be making a trip back to see Cormac tomorrow.
Cormac
The Next Day
I might be the only person in the world who actually likes paperwork, which is good because I have a shit ton to do.
We’ve had a lot of new author signings lately—not nearly enough for Elissa and Cynthia’s liking though, and not one who’s the caliber of some of the authors who left us for the competition. The biggest loss was my ex, Maryanne. She hit the New York Times best seller list before dropping us like a hot potato.
But that’s all past. What’s done is done, and now it’s time to focus on our company’s future.
It’s nine o’clock and I’ve already been at the office for a while. I started the day where I like to start my days—at the gym. I have a routine—I beat my body up, shower, then head to work to hammer out my paperwork.
My face is buried in a big old pile when I’m distracted by a knocking at my door. I’m not expecting anyone, so I’m not sure who this might. . . holy shit, it’s her! It’s Tori. What the hell is she doing here again?
If she’s expecting an apology from me, she’s crazy. She looks damn good, though. If only she could stand there and not speak, I’d give her a book deal in a second.
The Three Kiss CLause Page 4