Page 43 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“Incredibly well.” Susanna snaps the laptop shut and slips it into her bag beneath the table.

“But this is what we are talking about. This is why we say we need to tighten up our responses to make sure, in the extreme event people start paying attention, they don’t start questioning you as the writer.”

“And I’d say we got a lot done tonight,” Susanna adds, still nodding. “I just emailed you the interview, Mona.”

“No more deaths,” Amelia blurts out. She’s directing her attention to me now. Looking me straight in the eye. “No more . . . negativity.”

I purse my lips together.

“So what? You want to go back to the great saga of chipping your tooth at a party in LA?” I can’t help spitting out.

Unlike her, I’ve read her book.

“Bryony’s novels always end well.” Susanna breaks in to defend me. “She brings witty and insightfully written, relatable trials to the table that people love. They laugh over each trial. And they live for every struggle. People feel it.”

“I don’t care,” Amelia snaps, pushing her elbows out to force some room for herself and jabbing Penny and me in the ribs. “I don’t want people feeling it. I want my books to be an escape. Move. I have to go.”

I glance to Susanna and Mona.

The eyes of both women have changed. Susanna’s eyes are large and round with an oh no, we woke the beast! expression. Mona’s squinting, making to grab her purse and edge herself out the other side of the booth before it all breaks loose.

We did wake the beast. And now we have to be exceedingly careful to step around her while trying to spring out.

I hear an intake of breath beside me while simultaneously feeling Jack squeeze my knee beneath the table as if to say, “I’ve got this.”

“Amelia, the content that Bryony is writing is working. Sales are up—”

“I don’t care—”

“Way up—”

She shakes her head.

“So far up you can’t see the peak for the clouds blocking the view. Bryony has taken what worked and turned it into something irresistible. You don’t want to lose that. And with you two working together—you doing the hard work of all the publicity, you being the face behind her brains—you two are a mighty force to be reckoned with in the publishing industry. Bryony has an eye for writing things that work for her. Let her keep on writing with full creative authority and don’t squelch her spirit. It’s what the people want.”

It was a nice speech.

It’s not often I get a direct compliment. Oh sure, there’s the “Nice work!” and “She’s done it again!” emails when I send in this or that. Whereas 90 percent of the time Amelia is getting praised and 10 percent of the time she’s doing any work, I’m the opposite. It’s fine. At least, I tell myself it’s fine. I tell myself I write what I write because I actually like it. It actually means something to me. It is an opportunity to help people learn and feel something too. Lessons that I’m learning are organically woven in there, and I feel honored to share them around the world. Most importantly, it’s a way to earn the money that allows The Bridge to carry on, but still. You never know how much you need an honest compliment until it has suddenly presented itself.

My cheeks flame.

And I’m almost entirely comforted, but for the fact that when I look from Jack to Amelia, I see in her expression that she has most certainly not taken his words to heart, cherished them in the palms of her hands, and taken to nodding with humility and grace. She is not looking at me now like one who has had an epiphany and realized, “We can do it, so long as we do it together!”

Amelia’s looking at me as though I’m the villain.

The waiter walks up to the table, and wordlessly she raises a finger to dismiss him.

She presses her lips together. Takes her phone and slides it into Airplane Mode. Drops it face down on the table.

“Let me make this absolutely clear. Penny, put the pen down.”

Penny drops it like it’s made of fire.

Amelia resumes. “I have heard my fill tonight of what I should be doing differently. I’ve heard my fill tonight of all the ways that I am doing things wrong. And here I am, taking time out of my busy schedule to end up here”—she casts her eyes around disdainfully—“eating limp lettuce and tomato pie, two hours before I’m supposed to be onstage for over three thousand fans. Hand selling, if you will, my stories. That have my name on them. And began with me.

“These books would be nothing without me. And as such, I think you would all do well to remember that I could hire anyone in the field to be the backer behind my books while I’m too busy running around selling them. I could swap Bryony out this second for some high school kid on Fiverr tonight if I wanted to, and that book would sell. I could generate AI,” she snaps, “at this point to create my stories. So when I say I want perky, I mean, I WANT PERKY.

“I am the author of my books and I am the one with final say over my stories! And to be completely honest with you all, I hope you realize that each and every one of you is equally disposable, and I am the only one sitting here tonight who is not. Is that abundantly clear?”