Typically, Laurie mixed them both a drink and prepared a happy hour snack, but today Aaron took the initiative and had a Pink Lady waiting for her. (Sadly the color was more grayish than pink; he must have made a misstep in the mixing.)
He also attempted a snack, saltines topped with Nutella and a green olive garnish. He sampled one, and it wasn’t as tasty as the snacks Laurie prepared.
“Would you look at this spread?” Laurie said when he put the tray on the coffee table. “You did this? All by yourself? Martha Stewart couldn’t have done a better job.”
Aaron was embarrassed about the fuss she was making over such a small gesture, particularly since their conversation was about to get dicey. Laurie sat beside him on the couch, shifting her backside to get comfortable. She sampled a snack and made yum-yum noises. He noticed she ignored her drink. He didn’t blame her. It looked like a glass of whale spit.
“What’s the occasion?” she said.
“No occasion at all. Did you have a pleasant day?”
“I did, thank you. I’ll miss the library the most of all my temping jobs, but at least Ramona has agreed to be my assistant. She can help with proofreading, fan mail, and social media.”
Aaron had met Ramona twice and each time she glowered at him as if she were plotting his murder. It was odd that a person as lighthearted as Laurie would choose such a sinister-looking friend.
“My editor said it would be a good idea to hire some help, and with my advance I can afford it.” Her voice lilted when she said “my editor,” just as it did when she said “my agent.” It was still a novelty for her to say those words. Aaron knew how excited Laurie was about the new developments in her life, and that made his task all the more onerous.
“Speaking of which…”
“Yes?”
Aaron cracked his knuckles on both hands as a stalling technique. “I read your book Don’t Mess With Tex. I finished it a couple of hours ago.”
“Really?” Laurie jostled her cracker and olives scattered across her lap. “How did you get it?”
“A bootleg site.”
“Oh no! I’ve been emailing those people trying to make them to take my books down…But I can’t believe you read it! That’s so very sweet. What did you think?” Laurie’s cheeks flushed an appealing shade of pink. “I know you aren’t wild about romance but—”
Aaron was tempted to say, “It wasn’t worth the papyrus it was penned on,” but that phrase got him in trouble too often, and he loved Laurie and didn’t want to be unduly harsh with her. He remembered once reading an article about using the sandwich method for critiques: First you said something nice and then you pointed out the flaws, and lastly, you ended with another positive comment.
“I laughed several times,” he began.
“Really? Which scenes? I want to know.” She grabbed his wrist in a dramatic gesture. “Was it the time she locked herself in the pantry and—”
Aaron held up a finger. “In writing workshops it’s customary to remain silent while one’s work is being evaluated.”
“Sorry. I’ll hush.” She mimed zipping her lips and tossing a key over her shoulder.
Aaron mentioned the things he liked, and he could see Laurie was struggling to remain silent; she fidgeted in her seat.
Then he discussed the problem areas, of which there were many. The longer he went on, the more she drooped. It was like witnessing a stop-gap film of a daisy wilting. Was it possible she’d never been critiqued before?
It was time to end with something positive, and he realized he couldn’t think of anything else good to say so he finished up with the following remarks: “You double spaced your document, and the formatting looks very professional.”
Laurie took in a big noisy gulp of air as if she’d been holding her breath during the entire critique. “Okay…I guess there are a few problems, and luckily I have an editor who can help me with my new book. But overall, you thought it was funny and sexy…right?”
Obviously she’d only taken in the bread of the sandwich and had completely ignored the meat.
“Overall I thought it was…”
Laurie cocked her head. Her eyes were large and pleading, like Dusty when he’d gone wee-wee in the house. For a brief moment he considered telling her what she wanted to hear instead of the truth, but no…sugarcoating her flaws would not help her to become a better writer.
“It was…” He lowered his voice a decibel. “Dreadful. In almost every respect.”
Laurie flinched as if he’d slapped her.
“I hoped it was going to be an accomplished genre novel, but it wasn’t. It’s clearly the work of an unschooled writer, albeit a writer with potential for growth. I suspect W&W is not paying you for your abilities as a wordsmith. They’re paying you because film rights were sold to your manuscript. I also think the publisher’s counting on your obvious physical appeal to move books. I know this is difficult to hear but—”
Laurie violently waved her hands in front of her face as if she were caught in a cloud of gnats. “Stop it. Just stop right now.”
“I apologize. I know it’s sometimes upsetting to be critiqued and I—”
“This isn’t a critique! This is a baby seal clubbing! It’s a kitten drowning. It’s a—”
“Now, Laurie,” he said gently. “If you’re ever going to be taken seriously as a writer, you need to develop a thicker skin.”
“My skin is as thick as a Hermes bag.” She tossed the cracker on the plate and it cracked into several pieces. “And by the way, your snack tastes like mud.”
“Laurie, please—”
“I know what this is all about. Oh yes, sir, I do.”
“What?”
Her lacquered fingernail was inches from his face; it was like a tiny hot pink bayonet. “Delilah warned me about this. You, Aaron Mite, are jealous of my success. You can’t handle it.”
“Excuse me?”
“My star’s rising just as yours is falling and it’s eating away at you. Instead of feeling happy for me, you’ve decided to undermine me.”
Aaron sighed. How could she misread him so completely? Did she have no idea of how agonizing this was for him?
“You’re wrong. I’m not envious of you. I’m telling you these things because I think you’re being exploited and because I care about you.”
“Nice try, buddy. But be honest. You’ve always considered yourself the real writer in this relationship, haven’t you?” She wagged her fingers to indicate air quotes around the word “real.”
“Well, I—”
“And you’re embarrassed I write romance novels. You think they’re beneath you.”
“Not beneath me exactly. They’re certainly not my favorite—”
“And I’d bet my last dollar that if you didn’t initially mistake me for your precious Laura T. Leer, you wouldn’t have had anything to do with a lowly genre writer like me.”
“Laurie, please.”
“But now that I’m outshining you, it’s killing you.”
Her last statement was more than he could take.
“You are not outshining me.”
“Oh really?”
He couldn’t stop himself. “I have an MFA. I’ve studied the Craft. I spent five years working on my novel, and it’s my second effort. You’ve only recently entered into the profession. There’s no comparison between us. If this novel is anything like the one you’re writing, it will be awful. It’s simply not very good.”
“So now I’m not good enough for you!”
“Not you. Your writing.”
“My writing is an extension of me. If you think it’s no good, you must also think I’m no good.”
“It’s very common for amateur writers to mix up their work with their identities. In fact—”
Laurie gasped. “I am not an amateur. I’m being paid a whole lot of money by a huge publisher to write a novel, and you’re eaten up with envy...You need to leave before I say something I’ll regret.”
“That might be a good idea. I’ll give you some space to process—”
“No. I mean for good.”
“What? Move out?”
“Yes. Big changes are happening in my life, and I want a man who will lift me up, not tear me down.”
“I’m not—”
“A mistake brought us together. Clearly we were never meant to be together forever. Think about it. You’ve never even introduced me to your father. And now I understand why. You’re ashamed of me.”
“I rarely see my father myself. And yes, he’s a bit of an elitist and wouldn’t understand our relationship, but I’m not like him.”
“I think you are,” she said softly.
“Laurie. This has gotten out of hand.”
She stood and gave him a resigned look. “I’m going on a drive. When I come back, I’d like you to be gone, please.”
“Can’t we talk about this?”
She ignored him to give Dusty a kiss on the top of his head. “Bye, sweetie.” Then she fled the room in tears. A few moments later he heard her VW bug pull out of the drive.
Aaron sat silently on the couch, staring at his sad little snack tray and the untouched Pink or rather Gray Lady. The smell of peaches still lingered in the air. Aaron took one last deep inhale of her fragrance, and then he headed to the bedroom to gather his belongings.
Aaron checked into the Motel 6, smuggling Dusty in with him. He spent the entire night on top of the cheap polyester bedspread, staring listlessly at a dagger-shaped water stain on the ceiling. The next day he rented a room that allowed dogs in an old house near the Metro Atlanta University campus.
It was more of an alcove than a room, and it was infested with fleas. Luckily Dusty was protected with his flea medicine, but Aaron was bitten several times while moving his things in. He stopped by the grocery store and called in sick for his teaching duties and didn’t leave for the next five days, except to take Dusty out. The only reason he finally did leave was because Dusty exhausted his jumbo bag of Wavy Treats.
Two days later
From: Bernie
To: Aaron Mite
Subject: Good news
Andrea’s promoted me to the foreign rights department. She also said I could take on a client or two. Interested?
Bernie
From: Aaron Mite
To: Bernie
Subject: Okay
Thanks for thinking of me.
Respectfully,
Aaron
P.S. Laurie and I are no longer a couple.
From: Bernie
To: Aaron Mite
Sorry to hear it. Hopefully we can find a home for your book and you can forget about what’s-her-name.
Bernie
Bernie called Aaron and said he planned on submitting Aaron’s novel to Featherstone. Aaron said, “I can’t imagine you’ll get a response. As you know, they never got back to Andrea, and you don’t have her clout.”
“Maybe not,” Bernie said. “But I am one of the most persistent guys you’ll ever meet. Rachel Fogelstein, the prettiest girl at Hoboken High School, got twenty-two invitations for the senior prom. Guess who took her?”
“You?”
“No. But I was the first runner-up. Anyway, I’m going to work on a pitch letter to Featherstone tonight. I think I got a line on a connection there. Apparently their UPS delivery guy is the same guy who eats every Saturday night at my Uncle Buzz’s pizza shop. It’s not much, but you never know.”
Sixteen
Delilah left the kids with Bart back in Swainsboro and came to Laurie’s house bearing five boxes of Girl Scout cookies and five bottles of wine. “Specially paired,” she said. “There’s an app that does it. Your favorite, Do-si-dos, goes best with a California Zin.”
“Let’s pop open a bottle now,” Laurie said, ushering her inside the house. “I’ve cried so much I’m dehydrated.”
Over the next couple of hours, Delilah, being the awesome bosom buddy that she was, let her friend tell the story of the breakup at least ten times and readily agreed that Laurie was blameless and Aaron behaved like an uncivilized ape.
“You don’t suppose he could be right, do you?” Laurie said. They were on their third bottle of wine. “That I’m a terrible writer?”
Delilah’s lips were a lurid purple and Thin Mint crumbs dotted her white sundress. “Of course he’s not right. Since when do publishers throw money at untalented authors just for kicks?”
“Exactly. And you tried to warn me about this, but I didn’t want to listen. Did I tell you what Aaron said about my writing?”
“A dozen times, but I’m happy to hear it again.”
“He said it was dreadful! If that isn’t the most hateful word.”
“A shame. I was hoping I was wrong about Aaron because you seemed so happy with him.”
“I was,” Laurie said plaintively.
“In a different way than you were with Jake.”
“What do you mean?” Laurie said quickly. “I was very happy with Jake.”
Delilah opened her mouth and closed it again.
“I adored Jake. For months after his death I could barely function.” Her eyes started welling up. “You sound like Kate. Why would anyone think that I didn’t love my husband? What kind of person would that make me?”
“I’m not suggesting you didn’t love him...I just thought...That you and Aaron... Never mind.”
“It’s true. I cared about Aaron. But Jake was the love of my life. I assumed you knew that.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking. Must be the wine.” Delilah stood, swaying a bit. “And on that note, I think we need some more.”
Delilah left in the morning, and a hungover Laurie went into her office to work on the novel. She was having a hard time of it. She kept thinking about her distressing conversation with Delilah. Also, she couldn’t stop hearing Aaron’s voice in her head. Every choice she made she second guessed. But write she must. She’d receive a huge portion of her advance once she delivered the full manuscript. That meant she wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long while.
She bought an extra desk and computer for Ramona, and now they both worked in the study. Ramona was designing a new website for Laurie and a social media strategy. It was pleasant to have someone around, even if it was a morose someone who was wearing too much of a perfume called Death’s Bride. According to Ramona it was made from myrrh, wormwood, and crypt dust with a dribble of blood red musk.
One afternoon, two weeks after the breakup, Laurie and Ramona were working in the study when the phone rang.
“Laurie Lee’s cell phone,” Ramona said. It was her job to answer the phone. “One moment.” She handed Laurie the phone. “It’s your editor.”
“Hi, Bridget,” Laurie said breathlessly. She loved when her editor called. She was the connection to the glamorous world of book publishing, and every call from Bridget validated Laurie’s identity as a real-life writer.
“I have great news.”
“Another foreign sale?” Laurie couldn’t get over the idea that people in other countries would be reading her work. Like the Japanese, who didn’t even have the same alphabet, for goodness sakes.
“This isn’t related to your novel. I’m sure you’re familiar with R.K. Harris. He’s one of my authors.”
“Of course. I thought Love’s Prophet was one of the most touching romances I’ve ever read.” Laurie wasn’t as wild about R.K. Harris’s follow-up books. Still, she usually bought his new releases.
“Ross saw your photo in Us Magaz
ine, and guess what? He emailed me saying he’d like to meet you. They’re making a movie based on his third book and it’s being filmed in Atlanta. He’ll be on set for a few weeks as a script consultant.”
“He wants to go out with me?” Laurie still remembered certain lines from Love’s Prophet. She’d read it three or four times, and during each instance she wondered what kind of man could write such a tender love story.
“Yes. Can he call you?”
“Normally I would say yes, but I’m actually so busy these days.” She didn’t want to share her messy personal life with her editor.
“Are you saying you don’t have time for one little phone call?”
Laurie pulled a R.K. Harris novel from the shelf in her study and turned it over to examine the author photo. R.K.’s hair was artfully messy, and his teeth were white and uniform. He resembled a lifeguard, broad-shouldered and sun-kissed.
“He’s extremely charming,” Bridget said.
“Yes, but—”
“And even better-looking in person. If he ever asked me out—and he never has—I’d be the happiest editor in New York City. And you never know, he might just blurb your book. I can’t tell you how helpful that would be.”
That clinched it. After what happened with Aaron, she half expected her editor to tell her she’d made a mistake and W&W wouldn’t be publishing her book after all. So in effort to keep herself in Bridget’s good graces, she agreed, but didn’t anticipate anything more than a chat with R.K.
A few minutes later, the phone rang and it was R.K. Harris. For privacy’s sake, Laurie left the study and took the call in her bedroom, sitting on her ruffled bedspread. They made small talk for a few moments, and he was easygoing and casual. He even managed to make her laugh, but when he mentioned coming into town, she found herself wanting to get off the phone.
“As I told Bridget, I’m so busy…”
“You’re sure I can’t coax you?” R.K. said.
He was very nice, but she was far too tender-hearted right now.
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