Page 24 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“I’ll take that too,” Jack says.

Serghei drops the plates on the table beside us and walks again through the swinging doors.

Jack turns to me. “I think he’s starting to warm up to me.”

“I think it’s wise you’ve finally given up and just started ordering whatever I get. It’s what he always gets you anyway.”

“Does it make me look less pathetic here?”

“A millimeter less so, yes.”

“Terrific.”

Cheers go round the room over a goal, and for a moment we watch the screens.

“I wanna talk about the email.”

“What was her name?” Jack says suddenly.

“Who?”

“The editor.”

“Let’s not sidetrack. The email.”

Jack sighs. Sits back in his chair. Crosses his arms over his chest in a way that says, “I knew we’d end up here, but I still don’t like it.” “Can we at least get some cabbage rolls first? They’ll go well with my tap water.”

“It’s been six months.” I hate the frustration in my voice, the way I’ve taken to stirring the straw around my lemon tea at a rate that’s created a little whirlpool. But it’s been six months since Jack had a conversation with Florence Peters and she got back with a request for the manuscript. Six months in the hands of a real editor at a real publishing house who has all the power in just her tiny index finger to type the word yes. All the power in her one finger to change my life, Gran’s life, and hopefully The Bridge’s life, forever.

I’m allowed to be anxious here. I’m allowed to be frustrated, especially considering that once Florence Peters was someone from Pennington Publishing. Hathaway & Root. Laury & Co.

It’s been one painfully long revolving door spinning possibilities in over and over. Two years ago I thought the conference weekend was an unbearable emotional roller coaster that fried the nerves. Little did I realize that no, this is just publishing. In general.

Jack sighs. He hates when we have these conversations. But I can’t help it. It used to be that I directed our conversation toward Water Under the Bridge at the tail end of every phone conversation. Then slowly, over time, the conversation tapered off as Amelia’s books became more in demand and everyone around me invested in this ghostwriting secret became more successful.

The conversation shifted to making more books. To praises for the rom-coms I wrote. To praises for how well they were selling. How I resonate with people in the rom-com market in a way that’s special, that’s powerful. And would I be a dear and squeak in another book, real quick, to make the most of a charged moment? And how would I like another 2 percent royalty? And a nice big fruit basket to boot?

“Bryony.” Jack rubs a hand down his face. “Do you think I enjoy making money?”

“Yes.” I purse my lips. “But—”

“Do you think I send out manuscripts to people who have the power to send me back six- and seven-figure offers just so I can deny them?”

I inhale a tense breath. “No. Of course not.”

“Do you think I have a filing cabinet somewhere just for very special books that would be international bestsellers that I keep hidden, just so I can feel the thrill of knowing no one will see them except for me?” Jack waves his hand in the air. “That perhaps I go down to my secret filing cabinet, on lonely nights under a milky moon, to read and laugh sadistically?”

My nostrils flare. I hate when he does this. “No.”

“Then don’t you think the second I got word from Florence, I’d be telling you? Just like I have every other time I’ve gotten any news about anything?”

I exhale through my nose much like a bull steaming down after a fight. “Yes. I know. It’s just, it’s been six months—”

“A drop in the water of time in publishing, particularly for someone trying to get her foot in the door. Give it another seventy years. Maybe eighty—”

“We should have heard by now,” I press, ignoring him. “If it’s this ‘potential international bestseller,’ then it should’ve been picked up by now. Shouldn’t it? Seriously, Jack. Really?” The chip in my voice gives away the depth of my insecurity, and for a moment Jack regards me.

He reaches over. Puts his hand over mine. Pointedly ignores Serghei in the distance crossing his beefy arms over one another, tapping the butcher knife against one bicep. “The market is oversaturated, Bryony.”