Page 117 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“So,” Melinda says brightly as I numbly hold a coffee mug into which a man is currently pouring coffee, “tell us . . . everything. How long have you been writing Amelia’s books?”

“I . . .” I feel a hiccup of pressure on my throat.

“No comment from Bryony Page,” Jack interrupts with a smile and a gentle hand over my forearm. “But I’ll let you personally know from my own witness, two years.”

“That’s an incredible amount of writing in a short amount of time. How did you do it?”

“I . . .” It’s confusing. She’s looking directly at me, prompting me with her eyes.

“Bryony Page is incredibly hardworking,” Jack jumps in. “Not only has she committed to teaching ESL to adult immigrants and refugees at The Bridge for the past fifteen years, following in the steps of her grandmother, but she continues to work faithfully teaching these students during the day and writing all of the books by night. And weekends.” He laughs. “And lunch breaks. And every spare moment she can.”

“Wow,” Melinda says, and I see a flicker of real-live approval in her eyes. Admiration. And it feels like a balm to my soul after years of being misunderstood. “And can you tell us more about this fascinating place, Bryony? The Bridge? I’ve been told that this is the real-life setting of Meet Me Under the Bridge.”

I hesitate.

I’m not sure if I can speak to the story. It was accepted as part of my contract this past week. The book belongs to Amelia now.

And as though Jack knows what I’m thinking, he leans over and whispers quietly to me, “I told you I wasn’t going to accept your manuscript. This book is yours.”

“Brooks isn’t taking it?” I whisper back, all while Melinda smiles as the happy third wheel, looking entirely accustomed to fervent whispers on the couch on live TV between couples. Or former couples. Or just people.

“I didn’t say that,” he says. “I said I didn’t accept the manuscript on Amelia’s behalf. Every publisher under the sun will want this book when it gets publicity like this. Even those, perhaps, with a list,” he says suggestively.

He smiles and nods at Melinda as though to say, “There’s a lot more to this behind the scenes, but this isn’t the time for that conversation. This is the time to tell the world about your book. Just trust me.”

Trust him.

I take a breath.

Feeling the barriers break down.

My chest open up.

“And as for that second book under your contract with Amelia,” Jack says louder, “I advise you, as your agent, if you’ll have me, to terminate the contract, given that there simply will not be time with your new life. As an author under your own name. With your very busy life teaching students at The Bridge. And who knows?” Jack shrugs. “Maybe you’ll find time for hearing out and forgiving a very stupid man who made a stupid mistake in the past too.”

A rush of “oooohs” goes round the audience, and Melinda’s eyes spark with joy. “And as if today couldn’t get any brighter, folks, here it looks like”—she throws out a hand at us—“we have love in the mix too. Oh, my heart.” She claps her palm on her chest, then points brazenly at the two of us. “So what is this between you two?”

My cheeks are hot and must be flaring pink. I open my mouth, but Jack jumps in. “That might be a great question for another day, Melinda. In the meantime, you were asking Bryony Page about Meet Me Under the Bridge.”

He looks to me with expectation.

I notice Jack is adding my full name in every sentence he can. It’s a plan. A tactic. He’s searing my name into people’s memories. Reminding them over and over and over again with that cover on-screen: BRYONY PAGE. BRYONY PAGE. BRYONY PAGE.

And now—with the romantic intrigue and the hint of a second visit—there’s a plan there too. Securing getting me on The Bright Show a second time.

The man is an absolute genius.

“Right,” I say, after an intake of breath. “The Bridge. Well. The Bridge is a place very special to my heart . . .”

And so I go on, sharing all about The Bridge. The people. The troubles financially and how the threat of having to shut down inspired me to write this story. I delicately step around any implications of writing for Amelia, keep everything aboveboard. And whenever I get close, Jack is there to jump in. Squeeze my hand. Interject a strategic word here and there that keeps me from saying anything that could get me in trouble.

The audience absolutely eats it all up.

Every time he touches my hand.

Every time he compliments me.

They seem to love not just my works but also the way Jack so openly and proudly props me up. Supports me. Cheers me on. Keeps me—legally, that is—from harm.