I take a deep breath.
I don't know what’s more annoying. Mom being overly supportive of my writing and being upset that I wasn’t at my crappy entry-level job anymore or Mitch seeing this as an opportunity to shove law school down my throat once again.
“No, I don't want to go law school,” I say as clearly as possible. “I definitely want to be a writer. And I’m working on something now.”
“You are?” Mom’s eyes light up.
“Well, yes. Something longer.”
“That’s wonderful. I’d love to read it when it’s done.”
And there lies the problem, I say to myself.
“Actually, it’s a book. A novel. But I’m not sure if it’s…for everyone,” I say.
I want to say it’s definitely not for you, but that would sound too rude.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve been doing some reading and there are lots of people who are self-publishing nowadays. And their books are doing quite well. Selling really well, I mean.”
“So, you’re planning on self-publishing your book?” Mom asks. “Don’t you want to at least submit it to some agents? Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
Shit.
This isn’t exactly the direction that I wanted the story to go in.
I didn’t mean to go into this whole self-publishing direction. That’s just something that I have been thinking about on my own, but not something that I needed to share with them at this point.
How the hell did it just slip out?
“It’s not really mainstream kind of stuff,” I say after a moment. “What I mean is that it’s a romance. There is a huge indie romance community online. Lots of readers and they love these self-published authors. So, I want to try my hand at writing something like that.”
“Romance?” Mom asks with a sour expression on her face.
I look over at Mitch.
He’s not much of a reader for pleasure and I doubt that he even knows who Danielle Steel is. But, Mom, who is a lover of the crime fiction genre, definitely doesn’t approve.
“I didn’t plan it that way, but then I started writing and it really became a full-fledged romance. Just thought I would try something new,” I say. “Besides who knows? Maybe it will actually sell unlike my other stories.”
“Oh, Ellie.” Mom shakes her head. “I love your short stories.”
“I like them, too,” I say. “And I can still write more in the future. But for now, I really want to focus on something that someone else will enjoy. I’ve been reading a lot in the genre and it’s really dynamic. There’s so much experimentation. The authors are really trying new things. The style of narration, for example, is miles ahead of what’s going on in literary fiction. Plus, the amount of sexual content…is liberating.”
I choose my words carefully.
I don't know exactly how to approach the topic, but being straightforward is probably best.
My parents aren’t exactly prudes, but I’m also not entirely sure if they are well-versed in just how explicit some of it gets.
“You know me,” Mom says. “I’ve never read Fifty Shades of Grey, but-“
“Yes, I know,” I interrupt before she gets the chance to continue her thought. “But those kind of books are really popular. And you wouldn’t believe how many regular people, mostly women, are making a really good living writing that kind of fiction. I mean, they don't have publishers and they’re doing it all on their own. I still have a lot to learn, but I’m reading lots of books and blogs and even thinking of signing up for a course on book marketing. There’s a lot of work involved.”
“So, is this why you quit your job at BuzzPost?” Mitch asks, finishing his glass of scotch and pouring himself another.
“Not exactly,” I say. “But yes, it’s a big part of it. I was sick of writing those quizzes. And they weren’t paying me much anyway. The thing is that I think I can really do this. I mean, why not? I can write fast and I can write compelling characters. And maybe someone will want to read them?”
A part of me regrets going into the whole business plan so early in the process.
In reality, there are tons of books on Amazon that no one reads and that’s not because they’re not any good, but because the authors don’t have the right marketing plan. And I have no idea whether my approach to marketing will actually result in sales.
But I also wanted to share with my parents what I’m actually doing instead of harping on the fact that I no longer work at BuzzPost.
Besides, I can’t very well go into what happened at the yacht and how much money I now have in my bank account. We will have to go into that a bit slowly.
“Well, I don't think there’s any harm in trying,” Mitch announces, much to my Mom’s dismay. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? You crash and burn and then actually give law school some thought?”
He says the last bit in a joking manner, but I know that he’s not joking. He’s dead serious about what I should be doing with my life.
He used to push me to look for a job in banking, saying that he could place me in one of the biggest investment banks around and put me on the track to make a comfortable six figures within a year or so, with bonuses.
But when I rejected that idea, then he came up with law school.
I appreciate his input, of course.
But not his approach.
I mean, I know that he just cares about me. And we have more in common with one another than he does with his real daughter, Annabelle, but that doesn’t mean that he knows what’s good for me in life. I have to make my own decisions and live by those decisions.
I have no idea how romance writing as a business will work out. All I know is that I love writing, and I love the idea of someone actually reading my work.
I used to write a lot of short stories and submit them to literary magazines, which no one reads in the first place, except for other starving writers. And that’s if they even got accepted, which most of the time they didn’t.
And the thought of having readers writing me and telling me how much they enjoy my work just seems too good to be true.
“Well, enough about work,” Mom says, changing the subject. “What else is going on with you? Caroline?”
I shrug. “Nothing much. Caroline is Caroline. Having a lot of fun as usual.”
“You know you could learn a thing or two from her,” she says. “I know that she can be a little flaky at times, but her carefree nature makes it easier to live life, you know?”
I nod and hang my head a bit. Mom is a worrier and it’s in her nature to worry about her only daughter.
“I’m carefree,” I say as convincingly as I can.
“You? Are you serious?” Mom asks with a scoff.
I can’t stand the criticism anymore, even if it’s veiled in a compliment. “So, on one hand you’re worried that I’m not pursuing my calling as a serious writer. But on the other, you think I should be less serious and more carefree? So, which is it?”
I rarely come out and say exactly what I mean to Mom or Mitch for that matter. Mainly because I don't like confrontation and I would much rather just listen to their advice and then do what I think is right.
“Well, I just mean…” Mom starts to say. I wait for her to continue, but I clearly caught her in a trap. “You know what I mean.”
I know that you just need to criticize me in some misguided effort to make me more of a person that you think I should be, I want to say.
But I keep this bit to myself.
Chapter 10 - Aiden
When everything falls apart…
My phone rings again and again. I look down at the screen and see that it’s Ellie. She has been calling a lot in the last few days, but I can’t bring myself to answer.
I can’t bring myself to face her. She did nothing wrong. She was a victim. I should’ve been there for her before Blake did any of that.
As it turned out, Blake is an even bigger asshole than I e
ver suspected to him be.
I will never forgive him for what he did to Ellie. But it’s not like he’s out there begging my forgiveness either.
Blake Garrison is Owl’s biggest investor.
He invested in my company back when it was nothing but a computer in my dorm room. It’s not like he put a lot of money up back then, but he still got a big stake, mainly because he’s the only one who put up any money at all. And now, well, everything is pretty much fucked.
He’s mad at me for how I treated him at the yacht and there’s no way that I’m ever apologizing.
He was the one who was at fault. So, we’re pretty much at a standstill.
He’s angry and pissed, probably because he’s embarrassed at how he acted. But I know him. He’s a very petty person who doesn’t let grudges go.
If someone crosses him, or if he thinks that someone crosses him, he’ll do anything to take them down, even if that means that he will lose money doing it.
I turn on the TV.
It’s more of an act of masochism than anything else. I rarely watch the news, let alone a channel like CNBC which reports on news from the stock market.
But my company is going down in flames and I’m morbidly curious.
An animated bald man with a sour expression on his face reports that Owl has been devalued a billion dollars on the exchange.
The stock price is plummeting and everyone who bought high are selling their shares quickly. By pulling out of Owl, Blake has started an avalanche.
The amount he had invested was a lot, but what he mainly did by pulling out is scare off all the rest of the investors.
We were pretty short on cash anyway, trying to open up new advertising revenues, but this has pushed us over the edge.
My phone rings again. It’s Ellie again. Again, I hang up. I just can’t deal with her right now. It’s not even her. I can’t really deal with anyone right now.
I’m losing everything that I’ve worked so hard for and I have no idea how to stop the bleeding. I go to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a big glass of scotch. No rocks.
I take a few big gulps and let the dark liquid coat the back of my throat. The drink doesn’t change anything, of course, but my outlook.
And that’s enough for now.
It’s more than I can even ask for.
Chapter 11 - Ellie
Where is he?
He’s not picking up. I hang up the phone for what feels like the millionth time since I started calling him a few days ago.
The first time I called him was the night I got back from my Mom’s. I was upset over her approach to my writing and I needed to tell someone.
I knew that if anyone understood, it would be Aiden. But he didn’t answer. At first, I didn't think it would be a big deal. I mean, maybe he was busy.
But then I called him the following afternoon. I left messages both times and both times I didn’t get as much as a text. That night I also texted.
The more time that passed, the more anxious I grew. I knew that I was annoying him. I knew that he was getting my calls. But I didn’t know why he wasn’t answering.
And I couldn’t stand it.
Why wasn’t he answering?
It has been a few days now and he still won’t answer. My worry and anxiety has slowly morphed into disappointment and anger.
And a lot of questions started to creep in. Maybe he isn’t as okay with what happened back at the yacht. Yes, we made love - or rather, we had sex. But maybe that was all it was.
Who the hell knows?
Aiden is one person when he’s with me and another person when we’re apart.
I mean, what do I really know about him?
Maybe the person I spent my time with on the yacht isn’t really him at all.
Or maybe it’s just a version of him.
I mean, aren’t we all just versions of ourselves and it’s up to us who we choose to become in a particular circumstance?
With all of these thoughts swirling in my head, I find it incredibly difficult to write.
As opposed to before, when words just spilled out of me, probably powered by the muse which Aiden has inspired, now I can’t write a single word.
All of my thoughts concentrate on Aiden and his whereabouts, and I can’t distract myself even for a second to think about my characters and their petty problems.
And it’s with all of this on my mind that I find myself wandering the streets of New York this afternoon going nowhere in particular. The weather turns cold with the wind slicing in between the tall buildings, funneling through the narrow streets.
I regret not grabbing a hat before I left, but I honestly thought that the days were still going to stay warm for a bit longer.
After walking mindlessly around a bookstore, leafing through a few books, but picking up none of them, I find myself in front of Aiden’s building.
I can’t believe that I walked all this way lost in my own thoughts, but it’s as if my feet carried me here all on their own. Without even my consent.
The doorman remembers me and calls up to Aiden’s apartment. I hear Aiden answer and barely make out his muffled words. The only thing I do know for sure is that he isn’t entirely excited to see me.
His voice sounds detached and somewhat confused.
The doorman calls the elevator for me and I ride up by myself. I look at my own reflection in the mirrored elevator and ask myself what the hell am I doing here? I mean, this guy isn't taking my calls.
Why the hell am I here confronting him?
He has the right to never call me again.
This is New York.
People don't owe each other much, even if they have had a few nights of glorious sex together.
I knock on his door.
A few moments pass without an answer. Suddenly, it occurs to me that my humiliation might not have any bounds.
What if, after all this, he doesn’t answer the door?
I mean, he didn’t answer my calls, so this wouldn’t be that out of bounds.
Shit.
I stand in the hallway and wait.
How long should I wait?
I probably shouldn’t wait long, but I want to see him. My arm lifts up without my explicit consent and knocks on his door again. This time, more forcefully.
Stop it, Ellie, I say to myself.
What the hell are you doing?
Why are you harassing him?
I don't have an answer to that except that I need an explanation. We had such a good time. He really opened up to me.
And I opened up to him.
So, why is this happening after all this time?
He can’t tell me that I had just imagined all of that. No. I won't believe it.
When I’m about to turn away, the door swings open. The man who faces me is Aiden. But he’s also not the Aiden I saw only a few days ago. His hair is all out of place. He is dressed in an old t-shirt and a pair of ragged shorts. His barefoot feet look out of place on the fabulous, newly polished floor.
Holding a bottle of scotch in one hand, he offers it to me. I turn him down immediately, he shrugs and takes a swig. His eyes look sunken in, and his skin has lost all of its luster. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. All of my anger with him dissipates at the sight of him and is quickly replaced by worry.
“Aiden?” I whisper.
He waves me inside. I follow him down the hallway, very well aware of the fact that he isn’t stable on his feet. Aiden can’t walk in a straight line and even trips over thin air near the kitchen counter.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, louder this time and more forcefully.
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “What could be wrong?”
He downs another gulp of the scotch before I pull the bottle away from him.
“Hey, if you’re not going to drink that, I don't see why you have to take it,” he says slowly. His words are forced. They require too much thought. He’s clearly very, very drunk.
“What happened
?” I ask. I know that he’s very inebriated, but I also want to find out why before he passes out completely. One thing is for sure, he’s not drinking anymore tonight.
Aiden makes his way slowly to the living room, wavering from side to side. There are a few moments when I’m sure that he is about to fall and crack his head open, but somehow he catches himself in time and steadies himself.
After plopping down on the couch, he flips on the television.
“Aiden, what’s wrong?” I sit down next to him, taking his hand in mine. “I don't want to watch TV right now. We need to talk about this.”
Raising his arm slowly and with great effort, he points his index finger at the screen. I turn to look. Suddenly, it all makes sense.
There’s a panel of four talking heads and they’re all forcefully and with great glee discussing the downfall of Owl. One suggests that there may be a way to recover. But the other ones just keep bringing up the fact that the company lost over a billion dollars within a span of one day and no one has ever recovered from that kind of fall before.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. I don't really know what else to say. I rarely put on cable news and I never watch CNBC. I had no idea any of this was going on.
“Aiden?” I turn to him. He slouches down on the couch and closes his eyes. His arm is over his eyes.
“But how is this happening?” I ask. He shrugs, but says nothing.
I can tell that he has already had way too much to drink. Asking him any more questions tonight will be a rather futile exercise. Instead, I pull him up to his feet and walk him to his bedroom. His feet drag on the floor and I feel like I’m going to drop him at any moment. But somehow, with great struggle, we eventually make it there. I pull open the covers, sit him down on the bed, and then lift his legs up to the mattress. At first, he struggles a bit, but quickly gives up. I pull the covers over him and adjust his pillow a bit. His eyes are closed by the time I turn off the light on the nightstand.
I head back to the living room and sit down on the couch. The television is still on and the talking heads continue to argue. I listen for a while, completely at a loss as to what to do. How the hell did this happen? I keep asking myself. The talking heads also wonder about all the things that could’ve gone wrong, but they keep coming back to one thing. Blake Garrison, Owl’s biggest investor, had pulled out. There are rumors that he called other investors who he got in on the deal to pull out with him.
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