Page 42 of The Perfect Rom-Com

And why is it so congested in this tiny booth? I can’t breathe!

My breathing is shallow and small.

The feeling of Jack to one side and Amelia’s silky, smelly blouse on the other is making me painfully claustrophobic. My knees knock against the bottom of the table. I have no space to work.

To live.

“Amelia.” Jack’s voice is calm but firm. Steady. “Let’s not consider asking her to rewrite the book thirty thousand words in. It’s July. This book will be not just completed but flying off the shelves in nine months. There’s a firm publishing schedule, and it would be highly unadvisable to break it. And for what? Let’s keep the kids. Bryony has her pulse on what her readers—your readers—want. Let’s give it to them with all we’ve got. High sales. A win for everyone.”

A pause follows and he raises his hand for the waiter. “Look, we finished the Q&A. I think we should take a beat, take a breath, get some coffee. Amelia, it’ll be good for your speaking.”

Amelia, who often downs a double shot of espresso to keep herself sprightly and to warm up her vocals, backs down a little at the suggestion, and for the moment the topic is dropped.

The conversation proceeds to shift, at Jack’s subtle direction, to any topic besides that of writing (and, poor Susanna, kids), which with Amelia here naturally means it lands on what makes her happiest. Her. And for the next twenty minutes, everyone pretends to care an extreme amount about her latest flight to Sarasota and nods sympathetically at her latest crisis of losing her luggage for a sum total of four hours after her first-class flight.

Everyone, of course, has their personal reasons for drumming up puppy eyes while she drones on, and normally I’d make it my personal goal in life to ask targeted questions about her luggage situation, where her responses would be so egocentric she’d have to realize how self-centered she is and backtrack just a bit. But after the near loss of Theo and James, I don’t have any fire in me.

These are the moments I’m grateful to have Jack at my side. He has never quite understood why I care so much for the content of my work, or how message always trumps money for me, at least any money not supporting The Bridge, but he respects my priorities. He respects me. And for that reason I’m ever grateful he is in my corner.

I’m just settling back down nerve-wise when Amelia turns to me. “So where specifically is the comedic aspect to this”—she waves her hand airily, then adds with some disdain—“Beaufort story?”

“Oh,” I say, pushing my teacup around. “It’s around. It’s in there. In the nuances.”

It hasn’t been overt for some time, not that she’s noticed.

Her forehead creases, and she narrows her eyes as if suspecting I’m lying about this fact. She could discover it if she read her books. “But my books are rom-coms.”

“Yes. And they still can have their happy endings and laughable moments while centering around meaningful topics.”

“My first book was Party Girls in the USA.”

“Yes,” I say. “And we’re progressing.”

“Which readers are loving,” Susanna chimes in, but Amelia puts up a finger to silence her.

She frowns deeply.

“But the book covers are so colorful. They’re stocked on the shelves under ‘Rom-Com.’”

I nod. “Right. Well, I’d chalk that up to misdirection in the design department, except for the fact I did bring it up with them, once, and they said it was necessary for the sales trend.”

“There are literally cartoon people on the covers,” Amelia says, no less suspicious. As if I must have it wrong.

“I’m aware,” I reply. “Apparently illustrated covers are ‘on trend,’ whether or not the initial main love interest dies brutally in a fishing accident during a family reunion.”

“Kenneth died in Smuggler’s Paradise?” Amelia stammers. And one point to her credit for recognizing the title by the fishing reference, although that point immediately must be retracted given his name was Gene.

“Brutally,” I reply.

“I told everyone I wished my father could’ve had the same experiences Kenneth did at our reunions! Are you telling me I told everyone I wished my father was killed?”

“Brutally killed,” I correct.

“Amelia, listen,” Mona says. “Nobody caught that reference that time. You’re so bewitching onstage, most people just assume you’re giving an enlightened joke. Everybody throws their hands up when it comes to knowing writers all live in their heads. It’s the universal excuse for all of you.”

Cute. Lumping Amelia and me together.

“The point is you’re doing great,” Mona says.