Novelista Girl

by Meredith Schorr

  “First of all, it won’t be my apartment anymore. It’s our place. And second of all, you should consider yourself lucky I didn’t follow in my dad’s footsteps and study medicine. I could be performing surgery at all hours of the day, even holidays. Although he would have preferred it that way,” Nicholas said, mumbling the last part.

  “I consider myself very lucky,” I said, rubbing circles along his back. “And yes, it will be our place. And I can’t wait.”

  Nicholas put his arm around me and kissed my cheek. “Me neither. It will be nice to have a little woman around to make me snacks and tidy up the place.” In response to my mock glare, he loaded a tortilla chip with salad and brought it to my mouth.

  “If your little woman is anything like my little woman, I wouldn’t count on it,” Jonathan said with a teasing glance at Bridget. When she pouted up at him, he bent down and embraced her from behind. She threw her head back, and he kissed her on the lips.

  I observed Bridget and Jonathan from my spot on the couch. He was crazy about her—of that much I was certain. But I feared their relationship was headed for trouble if he was serious about never wanting to get married.

  A few hours, several trash bags, thousands of calories, and one ball drop later, we said goodnight to Bridget and Jonathan. While Nicholas showed Jonathan a new music-streaming app on his phone, Bridget followed me to my hall closet where I removed their winter jackets. “Thanks so much for spending your New Year’s Eve helping me pack.”

  “That’s what best friends are for. BFFAEUDDUP, right?”

  Best friends forever and ever until death do us part. The “secret” acronym we had devised in the seventh grade. “Speaking of ‘until death do us part,’ what’s up with Jonathan not wanting to have kids?”

  “What about it?” Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, “The house in the suburbs with the white picket fence and rugrats is not everyone’s American dream.”

  Taken aback by her defensive stance, I backpedaled. “Of course not. I have no desire to live in the suburbs either. I, um, was just surprised to hear Jonathan didn’t want to get married or have kids.”

  “Next time we talk about it, I’ll conference you in.” Bridget chuckled.

  She joked, but I feared she was pushing aside her own desires for Jonathan’s sake, and I didn’t like it. As an only child, when we were younger, Bridget talked about having two daughters three years apart, like Erin and me. Leaning toward her, I said, “Any man who loves you will hold your dreams as tightly as his own.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “Like I told you before, marriage is not the end all be all. Love is what matters. I love Jonathan, and he loves me. End of story.”

  I knew better than to push, at least not yet, so when Nicholas and Jonathan joined us a few seconds later, I dropped the subject.

  After hugging them goodbye, Nicholas and I traipsed to my bed where we collapsed on top of my peach duvet cover without uttering a word. I was tempted to take a shower to wipe the dust balls off of my body but was currently incapable of moving from my position flat on my back.

  When I heard Nicholas say, “Happy New Year, Kimmie Long,” I opened my eyes to find him lying sideways and smiling at me.

  I turned on my side so we were facing each other. “Happy New Year, Nicholas Strong.” Even after months of dating, I still got a kick out of the rhyming of our last names. I was positive it was kismet.

  “Did you have fun?”

  The obvious answer was “No.” I did not have fun. Sorting through junk I hardly recalled purchasing was hard work. But when I opened my mouth, the answer I gave was, “Yes.” And it was true. It was probably one of the best New Year’s Eves I’d ever had, and I knew it was because I’d spent it with Nicholas. It was time. As my heart surged, I gazed into his eyes and reached out my hand to cup his chin. “I love you.” Even though he’d said it first, I swallowed hard after hearing the phrase leave my lips.

  His chocolate-brown eyes opened wide. “You don’t have to say it just because I did.”

  A bit stung, I responded, “Do you really think that’s the reason I told you I loved you? Because you said it to me?”

  Nicholas moved toward me on the bed and placed his warm hand on my skin right where my shirt ended and my jeans started. “No. I know you really love me. But I also know it’s not easy for you to let your guard down, and I don’t want to pressure you. I know how you feel in here.” He pointed at my heart.

  Maybe it was from sheer exhaustion, or perhaps it was because no other guy I’d dated ever saw through me quite like Nicholas, but my eyes welled up. His intuition where I was concerned made my heart swell and palpitate in equal measure. “God, I love you.” It was much easier to say the second time.

  There was nothing like a mutual expression of love to bring on a second wind, and all need to play dead and recover from the hard work of the night was replaced by a desire to burn even more calories having my way with Nicholas. Packing was rewarding, but not nearly as satisfying as my sexy time with Nicholas. As he lay spent next to me afterward, I listened to the sound of his breathing gradually slow down until he fell asleep. I stayed up for a little while, unmoving and content to feel his body pressed against mine until my eyes closed too. When I opened them next, the sun was rising, and Nicholas was still asleep with a slight curl in his closed lips.

  Chapter 6

  After finishing my tuna sandwich, I pushed my tray to the side and pulled up the amended copy of my query letter on my phone. The version I used for my first twenty queries for A Blogger’s Life began with a one-sentence teaser about the book, followed by a brief synopsis, and concluded with a bio listing my relevant publishing background. I knew an agent wouldn’t care that I went to Syracuse University unless it was her alma mater (and probably not even then), but she might care about the ever-growing popularity of Pastel Is the New Black and the almost ten thousand likes on my Facebook page because it demonstrated my existing platform. One of my author friends suggested I send out a few queries with a distinct format to see if it made a difference in the type of response I received. Since fifteen agents rejected me outright, my track record could only improve. The new version began with a witty sentence about how my real-life role as a popular and sought-out book blogger lent itself to my ability to write a heartfelt, true-to-life, and humorous depiction of a blogger’s life. I decided to send out five queries with this version to see if I got any bites.

  Satisfied the letter was good to go, I glanced at my watch, confirmed I still had fifteen minutes left of my lunch hour, and checked Facebook. When I saw I had a new email—from Hannah Marshak—my pulse quickened. Biting my knuckles, I read it.

  Hi Kimmie,

  Or is your man the only one allowed to call you that? He is still your man, right? I hope The Shitter hasn’t gotten her claws into him. Must keep that one at arm’s length. Although she’s quite tall and you…(haha)

  I hope all is well with you. Things are sensationnelle for me. As I’m sure you’re aware, my second novel, the sequel to Cut on the Bias, is being released on August 11th. No doubt hordes of romance-starved women will be devouring Tearing at the Seams poolside, along with their frozen cocktails, and I could not be more pleased.

  I wanted to give you and Pastel Is the New Black the opportunity to participate in what will undoubtedly be the pre-publication tour of the year. You can do a cover reveal or perhaps an interview.

  I’m sure you’re thrilled to be asked, so please let me know as soon as possible while space is still available.

  Xoxo

  Hannah Marshak

  Bestselling author of Cut on the Bias

  Here we go again. I let out a sigh and placed my head on the table. The cover reveal was only the first of many requests I expected to receive from Hannah regarding the release of Tearing at the Seams in the coming months. A request to read and review the book would undoubtedly
follow, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I were asked to host a giveaway for the upcoming one-year book birthday of Cut on the Bias. Yes, it was my job as a book blogger and, yes, I’d be insulted if she and Candace, her PR person, didn’t consider exposure on Pastel Is the New Black an important part of the book’s promotional campaign, but I didn’t have to like it.

  I sat up and contemplated the bright side—there had to be a bright side. At least this time, I received the request directly from Hannah instead of Candace, her publicist. And the way Hannah ragged on Daneen in her note as if we were allies made me question whether she still considered me “beneath” her. (The two of them went to the same college during freshman year, and it was Hannah who gave me the scoop on Daneen’s drug-induced fecal incontinence while having sex.)

  Another bright side: I’d read some lousy books lately between shoddy editing and storylines that just didn’t pull me in. On the contrary, even with minor constructive criticism, I thoroughly enjoyed Cut on the Bias, thought it was a standout debut effort, and gave it four pink champagne flutes. If Hannah’s storytelling skills were consistent in her sophomore novel, I was bound to enjoy Tearing at the Seams at least as much. And if her writing benefited even slightly from experience, it was possible I’d like it even more.

  If I was being honest with myself—something I was attempting primarily as a means of self-improvement, and also because of Nicholas’s frustrating ability to see right through me—I didn’t consider a five-pink-champagne-flutes review of Tearing at the Seams to be much of a bright side. If Tearing at the Seams was as successful as Cut on the Bias, it would solidify Hannah as a true up-and-coming darling of chick lit. I no longer fantasized about Hannah’s untimely weight gain, onset of acne, hair loss, gas emission (the list goes on), but the thought of her star shining as brightly as Sophie Kinsella’s in the chick lit universe—one I worked tirelessly to keep alive—left me cold.

  I figured Hannah was too busy chatting with her dream team of agent, editor, and publicist to expect an immediate response to her email, and because my lunch hour was now officially over, I returned my phone to my purse, tossed the remains of my lunch in the garbage can, and made my way back to my desk.

  I stood in the center of Nicholas’s apartment—now officially our apartment—and did a one-eighty. It had taken an entire weekend, but I was now completely moved in, and my clothes amassed half (more like three-quarters) of his closet space. My loveseat—or “lady couch” as Nicholas liked to call it—fit perfectly by the foot of his (our) queen-size bed. While looking on Etsy for the perfect housewarming gift for us to share, I hit the jackpot when I found a canvas painting with the words Let It Be drawn across a hot pink background. I knew Nicholas would be too enthused about adding to his already substantial collection of Beatles paraphernalia—a decorative light-switch plate cover, several watercolor paintings, and vintage painted plates and beer glasses—to refuse to hang it based on the color. At least it wasn’t pastel.

  “Kimmie,” Nicholas called from behind me.

  He was sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out in front of him and his feet crossed, grinning at me like he was holding in a secret.

  I dipped my head down toward my toes and up the length of my body checking to see if I had packing tape hanging from my clothes before meeting his gaze again. “What?”

  He chuckled. “Nothing. You’re studying the place like you’ve never been here before.”

  I sat down next to him and planted my hand on his thigh. “It’s different now. I live here.” As the words came out of my mouth, I felt the pitter-patter of my heart.

  Placing his hand on top of mine and squeezing it, Nicholas said, “Yup. With all of your stuff moved in and your old keys dropped off in your landlord’s mailbox, there’s no turning back. You okay with that?”

  “I’m more than okay with it. Just a bit nerve-wracking.” Bridget assured me it was completely normal to be anxious when making such a major life change. Nicholas had affirmed her comments by confessing to sharing my jitters before promising he’d make the best roommate ever. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I began to close my eyes, but right before they shut, I caught sight of something. Rising from the couch, I reached for Nicholas’s hand. “Time to consummate.”

  Standing up and pulling me with him toward the bedroom, Nicholas said, “I like the way you think, Kimmie Long.”

  “I was referring to something else entirely.” I giggled.

  Nicholas scratched his jaw and furrowed his brow. “Okay…”

  “Come with me,” I said, dragging him to the far corner of his living room where a guitar and banjo were hung over a small brown upright piano, which leaned against the wall.

  I’d had no idea Nicholas had taken piano and bass guitar lessons through most of his childhood and early teen years until he’d tried to impress me the morning following the first time we slept together by playing his harmonica and altering the chorus of “Penny Lane” to an R-rated ditty about our dalliance. Although he was a far better lawyer than musician, when I watched his long fingers play with the keys, I always wished he were playing me. I tapped one side of the wooden piano bench before placing my bum on the black velvet cushion on the other side. “Sit.”

  Looking sideways at me, Nicholas did as he was told. “I thought you wanted to consummate.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing,” I said, hitting the second F key three times in a row. Tapping the F key again before hitting the E and D keys and back to F three times, I added, “We can’t officially join our hearts and souls in cohabitation until we join our fingers in a duet of ‘Heart and Soul’ on your piano.”

  “Ah. You’re the melody, and I’m the bass. Gotcha,” Nicholas said as he caught the rhythm and joined in on his part.

  When he one-upped me by playing with both hands while I remained a one-finger wonder, I muttered, “Show-off.” Still, as we played together in harmony, laughing the entire time, the warmth in my belly assured me taking our relationship up a notch was the best decision ever.

  We were on our sixth or seventh repeat of the song when Nicholas’s phone rang. Still laughing, he placed the phone on speaker while I continued to play my part as softly as possible by barely pressing the keys. “Hi, Mom.”

  “It’s not Mom,” a deep masculine voice responded.

  Nicholas picked up the phone. “Dad. Is Mom all right?”

  I stopped playing and observed him walk to the couch while chewing on a knuckle. He must have felt me watching him because he looked up and shook his head. “Everything’s fine,” he mouthed.

  I whispered, “Good,” and flipped through some of his classical sheet music.

  “No, I’m home. I took off to move Kim in.”

  I looked up and smiled at the sound of my name as Nicholas stood up and paced the living room.

  “No, they didn’t mind. I’ve only taken a couple of days since I started.” He flopped himself onto the reclining chair. “I can’t go in this weekend. We have plans, but I’ll make up the time.” He stood up again and leaned against the piano. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  Resting my chin in my hand, I watched Nicholas with curiosity, wishing the phone was still on speaker so I could hear his father’s end of the conversation. Whatever he was saying appeared to fluster Nicholas, and now his eyes were closed. “Good for Natalie. I’m proud of her too. Okay. Bye.” He hung up the phone and gestured toward the sheet music on my lap. “Up for some Beethoven?”

  Tilting my head to the side, I asked, “What did your dad want?”

  “Nothing important.” He shrugged.

  “You sure? You seemed upset.” Nicholas didn’t talk about his parents much. All I knew was they lived in Vermont, and his dad was a doctor. I hadn’t met them yet, but assumed I would be included in the next visit now that we lived together. Nicholas had already met my folks the August before when they escaped the h
eat and humidity of tropical Boca Raton—where they moved for an early retirement—to lavish in the heat and humidity of smelly New York City.

  Nicholas smiled and closed the distance between us. “Nothing a little consummation can’t fix.” Pulling me toward the bedroom, he added, “And I mean that in the biblical sense this time.”

  Chapter 7

  Tossing a stack of paper-clipped documents on my desk, Rob announced, “Squad drinks at five at Banc,” before scurrying back to his office as if the hallway were on fire.

  “Yes, sir,” I said as enthusiastically as I could muster, even though the thought of spending the evening with my colleagues when I could be catching up on my reviews, sending out more query letters, or working on my next novel didn’t thrill me. Rob’s occasional department happy hours were so much more fun when Nicholas had been a member of the “squad” until the previous summer when he left to work for one of the firm’s clients. In fact, it was at squad drinks, specifically at Banc Café, where Nicholas and I had our first real conversation. I suspected any discussion I engaged in tonight would not be nearly as arousing, but considering my paltry legal secretary salary, combined with my share of our pricey New York City rent, and my expensive taste in clothes, I couldn’t justify turning down the opportunity for a free drink. Maybe I would text Nicholas to meet me somewhere else instead of going directly home. After even a single drink, I wouldn’t trust myself to post a review or, God forbid, send out a query letter. If productivity was out of the question, I might as well make the most of it.

  “Kim?”

  I responded to Daneen’s cold stare with a fake smile before offering a genuine one to David, who was standing next to her. “What’s up?”

  David grinned at me. “Cool umbrella,” he said, referring to my new bubble umbrella, which I had laid open by my desk to dry after the morning rain shower. It was adorned with musical notes and the words “Singing in the Rain.”