Bringing me back to the present, Rob said, “And this is the agent you want?”
“Definitely.” Not only did Felicia love A Blogger’s Life, she wanted to invest in my writing career moving forward. And her great editorial contacts would hopefully help her sell it to a great publishing house. Once I stopped being a gushing fangirl, we established a smooth author/agent rapport. She was “the one.” Getting to this point made all of the rejections, even Ginny Webber’s, worth it.
“Just sign it, Long. And then revise the bills I left on your chair. If nothing else, it will be a welcome distraction from worrying about whether Felicia approved of your rewrites.”
I stood up. “You got it, Boss Man. Thank you again.”
For the entirety of the afternoon, I was a model secretary. After I finished inputting the changes into Rob’s bills, I entered his time for the month and opened up billing numbers for all of his new clients. Then I went online and bought him a World’s Best Boss trophy. Shopping for yourself might not fall under the “model secretary behavior” umbrella, but shopping for your boss certainly would. I only broke concentration from my tasks when my phone rang. It was Bridget.
“What’s up, chica?”
As I refreshed my Gmail account for the hundredth time that day, torn between anticipating and dreading the arrival of Felicia’s email, I said, “Same ole. What’s going on?”
“Log onto your website.”
As instructed, I went to my favorites and instinctively clicked on Pastel Is the New Black.
Reading my mind, Bridget said, “Not Pastel Is the New Black. Kimberlylong.com.”
“Oh.” I bopped up and down in my office chair like a hyperactive toddler while entering the login and password she gave me, keen to witness Bridget’s magic at last. She had insisted on creating a dummy author website for me, refusing any predesign guidance, but promising to accept and act upon my feedback after the fact—even if it meant redoing the entire project. She wouldn’t even hint at her ideas.
As my computer screen refreshed, I squeezed my eyes shut, wary of what awaited me on the other side of my closed eyelids. I peeked at the monitor with one eye open, taking in as much as I could with only half of my vision. As my jaw dropped in wonder, my other eye flew open. “The color, Bridget. It’s…It’s…”
“Electric blue,” Bridget interrupted. In a soft voice, she asked, “Do you like it?”
I had been tempted to ask Bridget to design my author site to match Pastel Is the New Black. She had masterfully designed the blog site to suit my vision to a T. The pastel swirl background was pretty enough to eat, yet not so busy as to cause headaches from staring at it too long. (I would know, since that’s exactly what I had done when it first went live almost three years earlier.) Although I kept my fear to myself, I doubted whether another website she built for me could be anything more than second best. Despite my concern, I was determined to create a separate writer identity, so I told her to take the author website in a different direction.
Encouraging a response, Bridget said, “If you hate it, I’ll change it.”
“Don’t you dare.” Lowering my voice, I said, “It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure? Because I won’t be insulted if you don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it, Bridge. I love it.” I didn’t think it was possible to be as enchanted by another website with the same fervor as Pastel Is the New Black, but like parents could cherish their first-born child with everything they had and somehow possess equal love for their second, third, fourth (and so on) offspring, my heart had expanded to fall eyebrows over toenails for Kimberlylong.com. Bridget had used the perfect shade of blue for the background—neither too pale nor too bright, yet undeniably feminine. And the minuscule flecks of glittery silver served to create a mood that was romantic without being mushy—just like my novels. Make that novel, at least for the time being. In case she missed it the first time, I repeated, “I love it.”
“Hooray!”
I grinned. “You know me so well.”
“I told you so,” Bridget said matter-of-factly.
“And you didn’t have to tell me twice. I gave you free rein without any argument. Remember?”
“True. Although you did threaten to chop off my hair in my sleep if you hated it and I refused to make it right.”
I giggled. “Guilty as charged. But only because I had the utmost faith in you. I love your hair too much to bet against it.”
“Shall we celebrate tonight?”
I gulped. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Big plans?”
I tugged on a piece of my hair and twirled it around my fingers. “Not really. Dinner with Nicholas.” I lifted my chin skyward, silently asking God to forgive me for lying to my best friend. Since I considered my evening out with Hannah nothing more than an obligatory get-together, I saw no reason to ignite a flame by telling Bridget the truth at this point. She’d be upset and undoubtedly dwell on how evil Hannah was in high school. Between waiting for Felicia’s feedback and my absentee boyfriend, I had enough stress already. But I would fess up after the fact, and we would share some laughs over Hannah’s famous one-liners.
“Are things better with you guys?” she asked hopefully.
I had told Bridget about the unfortunate climax of my celebration with Nicholas. Although anticlimactic was a more accurate description. “Things are as good as they can be for a couple who barely sees each other. When we first started dating, I was in awe of Nicholas’s drive, but it’s gone from wild ambition to all-consuming, and I don’t know where I fit in anymore.” I choked down the urge to sob.
“You should talk to him, Kim. He probably has no idea you’re this bothered.”
I sighed. “I’ve tried. He always promises to make it up to me as soon as things calm down.”
“Better to be busy at work than getting busy with another chick, right?”
“I suppose so. Unless ‘Work’ is the first name of his hot, nubile new colleague.” With an exaggerated laugh, I said, “Wouldn’t that be a riot?”
Bridget chuckled. “Not likely. Nicholas is not the cheating type. And what parents would name their child ‘Work,’ anyway?”
“If Jason Lee can name his kid Pilot Inspektor, anything is possible.”
“Ha ha. Use the opportunity to confide in him tonight. And have fun.”
“Thank you.” I swallowed hard, nearly certain my guilty conscience over lying to Bridget would make enjoying myself a challenge—even more arduous than a night out with Hannah would be on its own.
“Maybe slip an energy booster into Nicholas’s drink so he doesn’t doze off on you.”
“Great idea.” And maybe I’d try it if I were really having dinner with Nicholas.
Since I wasn’t meeting Hannah until seven thirty, I slipped into a vacant lawyer’s office at the end of the workday and invited Pia Chin, my top pick for the associate reviewer gig, to a video chat so I could gauge our compatibility. Her passion for chick lit and decent writing skills were evident from the sample reviews she supplied, but I needed to confirm she wasn’t a lunatic. Since conducting psychological testing required professionals, I settled for relying on my instincts and scheduled a chat.
The moment her face popped up on the screen, she flashed me a smile and bowed her head. “I’m so honored to meet the famous Kim Long: Blogger Extraordinaire.”
Waving her off with a laugh, I said, “Eh, I’m not extraordinary.”
“Oh, but you are. And I’m not sucking up. I wanna be you when I grow up.” Her porcelain-like cheeks turned crimson, and her brown eyes opened wide. “Not that you’re old.”
I chuckled again. “No offense taken. And I’m twenty-nine, which makes me on the cusp of ancient. How old are you?” I pegged her for under twenty-five.
“Twenty-three. I’m studying for my MFA at U of M,
but I swear I have enough time to contribute to Pastel Is the New Black if you’ll have me. My thesis is on the development of literature with the advent of the internet and social media. I can chalk up the time spent to research.”
She spoke really quickly, jumbling her words together and dropping off the letter “t” as if afraid she’d be interrupted before completing her sentence.
“You have the cutest accent,” I said.
Pia whipped her head back. “Michiganders don’t have accents. Now, New Yorkers…you guys have accents.”
“Meshuganah? Wha?” She spoke so fast and slurred her words together, I had no idea what she said.
Slowing her voice down, Pia said, “Michiganders. People from Michigan. Also known as Michiganians.”
“Oh.” Pia was an itty-bitty thing, even compared to me—another itty-bitty thing, but where I was thin yet curvy, she was waif-like. Her long stick-straight hair was black with random strands of orange, and her bangs fell in a clean line directly above her sparse brows and almond-shaped brown eyes. Between her flawless complexion, tiny stature, and her adorable accent, she gave off an almost doll-like appearance, and it was impossible not to like her. “I’ll have you.” This time, it was me who blushed. “On Pastel Is the New Black, I mean. For a trial run. How about I assign you three books, and we’ll see how it goes?”
“Awesome.” Pia raised her hand in a fist pump. “I can’t wait to see what books you assign me.” Shaking her head, she said, “I keep hearing about Hannah Marshak’s upcoming novel, Tearing at the Seams. I’m not sure what all the hype is about. I thought the first one was overrated, to be honest.”
My lips curled into an instant grin. “I love you. You’re hired.” I glanced at my watch. “Speaking of Hannah, I’m meeting her for dinner later and should get going.”
Pia’s mouth opened, and her face turned pink again. “Oh, shit. I didn’t realize you two were friends. Please don’t hold my lack of enthusiasm for her writing against me.”
I gave her a closed-mouth smile. “Trust me, that won’t be a problem.”
After a quick summary of the novels I’d be sending her, we agreed on deadlines and concluded our chat just as a reminder popped up on my screen that my dinner with Hannah was in thirty minutes. As I touched up my makeup and switched out my flats for four-inch platform shoes—to minimize the significant height differential between five-foot-seven Hannah and me—I tried not to think about the oddity of voluntarily meeting Queen Bee Mean Girl Hannah Marshak for a one-on-one girls’ night out. I shuddered at what my fifteen-year-old self (or even my twenty-eight-year-old self) would have to say about that.
Chapter 26
As it happened, I could have left my high heeled shoes at home, since patrons of HanGawi were required to leave their footwear with the hostess before being escorted to the dining area. Rather than sit in chairs, diners kneeled at the table, and the room was filled with natural artifacts intended to bring harmony to the body and mind. Hannah’s essence was far from Zen-like, and I would never have guessed she’d be into this scene. Not for the first time over the course of a year, the girl surprised me.
Hannah raised her mojito to her mouth and then pulled it back at the last second. “We should toast your success, no?”
Apparently, her cleanse did not include abstaining from alcohol. I raised my own mojito in the air. “I’m afraid to jinx myself. Felicia hasn’t approved my rewrites yet.” I cursed my alcohol-induced loose lips. I’d always made it a point to keep my insecurities out of Hannah’s earshot lest she use them against me, yet here I was—a willing accomplice to her stomping on my ego. She might not be my enemy anymore, but it was still a stretch to call her a friend, and I wouldn’t underestimate her ability or desire to cut me down.
“It’s no biggie. I had to make edits to Cut on the Bias after she offered me representation too.” Hannah took a delicate sip of her drink and flipped her hair across her shoulder. “Of course, mine weren’t rewrites, per se. Felicia adored my book at first sight. But I knew it could still be better, and so she agreed to give me time to make adjustments. So…it’s not exactly the same thing, but still, I wouldn’t fret.”
I nodded at Hannah, suppressing a giggle. God forbid she admitted to being anything less than perfect.
“Anyhoo,” she continued, “I’m happy for you.” Raising her glass again, she said, “To little Kim Long.”
We clinked glasses as I beamed at the new-and-improved Hannah in surprise. Her personality tweak wasn’t exactly lobotomy material, but she was a far cry from the girl who publicly ridiculed my stick-straight hair as unwashed and greasy and then showed up the next day bragging about the new hair-straightening iron her folks bought her in Italy. “Thank you.”
Hannah put down her glass and looked at me with an earnest expression. “Although I should be annoyed you’re copying me, I’m not. It’s okay.” She smiled and gave a faint shake of her head. “Who would have thought we’d both be authors of chick lit? Crazy, right?”
And she’s back. “It’s a bizarre coincidence, yes. But I didn’t copy you, Hannah.”
She lightly tapped her hand over mine. “It’s totally fine. Even though you never let on in high school—with that cool act you and Bridget had going on—I always knew you secretly looked up to me.”
Stupefied, I blinked at her, saying nothing as a blast of red heat blanketed my face. I had two choices.
I could deny her bogus accusation that I was a copycat, and laugh in her face in response to her claim I secretly admired her. As if. While Hannah was busy terrorizing preteens in middle school, I was already writing books, and I had numerous unfinished manuscripts on the top shelf of my closet to prove it. I could also remind her of the day she coincidentally showed up at Starbucks months after our high school reunion wearing the shoes I had worn that night—the shoes she had complimented. Who was copying who?
Or I could let her believe her own bullshit, thank her for referring me to Felicia, and politely change the subject.
My decision made, I gave her a warm smile. “I really appreciate you hooking me up with Felicia. Do you know what you’re going to order?”
Even though I’d only “looked up to her” in a literal sense, Hannah was partially responsible for pushing me outside of my comfort zone whether I liked it or not. And besides, if I told her I’d actually been writing since junior high, I’d also be admitting I was too cowardly to do anything about it for over a decade. The truth was, I’d become somewhat accustomed to Hannah’s need to feel superior, and it no longer bothered me. Much. Nevertheless, my previous conclusion about the positive changes to her personality might have been premature.
Twenty minutes, one mojito each, and a shared platter of assorted gluten-free appetizers later, conversation had blessedly moved on to less tumultuous topics, like shopping. We even shared our favorite sites for buying discount designer clothes online. I was impressed Hannah actually admitted to searching out deals and would have guessed she paid full price on principle.
Leaning slightly across the table, her eyes darted the length of my body. “Great dress. You do have style, Kim.”
“Thanks.” I gazed down at my outfit—a black, white, and blue swirl-print chemise above-the-knee dress with three-quarter sleeves.
“Do you need to shop in little-people stores?”
As my head jerked back, I repeated, “Little-people stores?”
“Not dwarfs or anything. Just specialized stores for…” She cleared her throat. “Height-deprived people.”
I pursed my lips. Never once when we had discussed our favorite stores mere minutes earlier had I mentioned shopping at “Little People ’R Us.” How silly of me to forget Hannah’s tendency to deliver left-handed compliments. Though I regrettably lacked the ability to censor her, I could at least control how I reacted to her jabs and focus on her positive attributes, however few of them there were.
Hannah nodded. “I get it. Almost every clothing item I buy needs to be taken in because I have such a small waist.” She shrugged as if being slim was her cross to bear.
Wishing I had recorded this conversation to enjoy later, I excused myself to the bathroom, giggling silently all the way. Hannah was always good for a laugh, even if she didn’t know it.
After relieving my bladder and running a brush through my hair, I exited the restroom ready to conclude the evening. Even though there was no evidence to suggest Hannah was bent on destroying my writing career—quite the contrary actually—she was still the same ole Hannah in so many ways. Too much “Hannah time,” chock full of insults disguised as compliments, was a recipe for a wicked tension headache, and I already felt the stirrings of one in my temples. Yes, small doses of Hannah was the way to go.
As I approached our table, I heard a very familiar voice call out my name.
Shit.
Chapter 27
I turned around very slowly to face Bridget, who was grinning broadly at me. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
You and me both. After a subtle glance over my shoulder, I faced her with a timid smile, wondering how I was going to get out of this. “Hi.”
Following my line of vision, Bridget looked past me. “Is Nicholas here? Jonathan’s at our table in the back. We should sit together.” Studying my face with concern, she said, “Unless you’re having your heart-to-heart now.”
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