Page 26 of The Perfect Rom-Com

No biggie.

Just casually make the story come from the perspective of an entirely different person in time.

Better yet, turn it back in in ten days. Why not?

“The thirtieth?”

“The twenty-fourth.” He throws his hands out. “So. On the other end of the two-week spectrum—”

“As in three weeks. Three. Weeks.”

“Which, if you think about it, is great. You won’t be wanting to work over your family beach trip again. In a way, I’m saving you. From yourself.”

“You were the one blasting my phone with messages last time,” I retort.

“And you were the one keeping your phone on replying to them. We’re both addicted to work. I’m the only one who can admit it. So, obviously, that means I’m a step ahead of you in the program.”

I roll my eyes at him but do recall the horror of spending my last vacation holed up in the little rental house’s bathroom, sitting on a pink frilled toilet seat with my laptop, trying to ignore the clammer of thirty extended family members crammed into a two-thousand-square-foot seaside cottage having dinner, all while I finished up the last of a revision that was, according to Jack’s endless messages, “absolutely urgent.”

I consider through a few bites, then shake my head.

This has become the cycle since The Foundry Literary dropped the other ghostwriters. After the other ghostwriter’s book came out, five months after my own Sunset over Santorini’s explosive entrance, there was disappointment on the publisher’s end. On the critics’ end. On the world’s end. Sales weren’t thriving, even though this was the “same” author. Critical reviews started to come in, slamming Amelia for being too rushed and tempted by quick money and throwing together a sloppy book. Reviews came in calling the much-anticipated novel a flop. Saying the plot was one-dimensional and riddled with holes. The characters lacked depth. The language lacked depth. The takeaway message was nothing beyond “Life’s short, so by golly, buy an extra pair of shoes!”

(A message that critics noted was in direct contradiction to my own message just one book prior.)

And when the third ghostwriter’s book released shortly after that, the whole publishing team exploded when it was met with the same results.

One flop and fine. That’s life.

Two books and that’s a pattern that needs to be nipped in the bud immediately.

So it wasn’t much of a surprise to me when they gave the ghostwriters the boot. It was, however, a surprise that after a few further failed ghostwriters’ attempts, they came to me with the offer: 22 percent royalties. Two books a year. And the “honor” (secret honor) of being the exclusive ghostwriter for Amelia Benedict.

I countered with one every ten months because the thing is, I didn’t even want the job. Not exactly. Not this job. But the reality, as I kept reminding Gloria, was Jack was my agent. He was the only one who could get my book, mine, through the door. Get my name through the door.

And call it people pleasing or using standard logic, but I couldn’t risk losing his, or the agency’s, favor.

After all, I literally had nothing to convince another agency to pick me up.

I had no other options here.

They countered with one every seven.

I countered with one every nine.

They countered with every eight and a really nice espresso machine. I’m talking nice. The kind that could keep me awake for weeks.

(They really are my dealer, aren’t they?)

And eventually we landed exactly where they wanted, with one book every six months. Two books a year. And an espresso machine.

I said yes, despite not wanting to go beyond the first book. Despite the fact I still worked at The Bridge full time with absolutely no desire to retire from teaching—even if it did pay peanuts (and yes, I guess technically I was volunteering given the fact I was the Anonymous Donor). Despite the fact my life could barely sustain squeezing in the time to write one book in a year for somebody else, much less two.

So here I go, carrying a surrogate pregnancy and delivery of a book for somebody else every six months. Nursing the pains of creating life on the page through many sleepless nights only to deliver my work into the hands of somebody else.

Which is fine.

I’m a tiny bit bitter, but it’s fine.