Page 44 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Amelia did it.

Amelia is the one person I’ve ever met who is so exceptionally arrogant, she will actually say her arrogant thoughts out loud without care. It’s like she needs to make it absolutely clear that she cares so very, very little for the thoughts and opinions and general well-being of those around her that she has no problem informing them they are disposable. She is “nice” as a general rule merely because presenting herself that way in the public eye is most advantageous to her. But when the tiniest opportunity presents itself to be otherwise, the gloves come off. Amelia is the textbook definition of a civilized sociopath, lipstick and all.

Susanna, the most sensitive of the group, looks like she might cry.

Penny, at Amelia’s rant, resumes her nonsensical note-taking like her literal life depends upon it.

I, however, am pushed to my limit.

People flee, freeze, or fight in the face of certain dangers.

And there are just some moments, particularly when targeted by angry people, when I find myself wanting to fight.

I’ve learned to do a lot of things in the past two years, ever since that fateful day I pushed open the conference doors and walked back inside that pitch room.

One being: taking my own opinions a little more seriously and those of others a lot less.

And with the look on poor Susanna’s face, I’m just about to open my mouth and go to town in her defense.

Jack practically jumps out of his seat to be the first to speak. “Amelia, clearly we have gotten off on the wrong foot here and jumped ahead without listening to you. I thought we were all in agreement that the goal was sales, and we would be willing to pivot however necessary to ensure that goal was met. Given our previous conversations, I thought your ultimate goal was to skyrocket to the top of the bestseller list and beat your previous sales numbers. How long has Anne Sanderworth been at the number-one slot on the Times list, Susanna?” Jack glances over.

“Thirty-two weeks, I believe,” she says quietly.

“Right,” he says. “And Amelia’s longest running at the number-one slot has been . . . ?”

Susanna’s eyes swing wildly to Jack.

She purses her lips.

Jack waits.

“Never,” Susanna puts in at last. “But she’s been on the list at the number two slot for plenty of weeks—”

Jack shrugs. “Yes. So that’s all that’s going on here, Amelia.” He swivels his attention back to her. “We just want what’s best for you, for the publishers, for everyone. But if you want perky, even at the expense of that top slot, believe me, Bryony can do perky.” He pushes down on my shoe to keep my temper abated. “In fact, Bryony would be happy to do perky. There’s a lot less research for her, a lot less to do. In many ways, you would be doing her a favor.”

I grit my teeth. Absolutely claw his hand with my nails.

“I can sit with Bryony tomorrow over her book, and we can come up with a plan to make it . . .” He pauses, then says, “Pure fun.”

I’m pretty sure I’m drawing blood on his hand now.

Steam coming out my ears.

If this goes at all the other way from Jack’s plan, I am going to throw a riot.

Never, not once in my two years of doing this, have I hated this job so much. I’m sitting here fighting for the life of a work I don’t even get credit for but still can’t keep myself from emotionally clinging to. I’m sitting here being told casually to scrap an entire novel, an entire method of my writing, and just become a different person.

I can’t help what I write. I can’t help threading in the art of forgiveness or the sappiness of a mother sweeping her gaze over the ocean while holding on to her son’s pudgy hand or walking with my characters through the pain of witnessing loss and having to rebuild their hearts and homes again.

The world is huge and multifaceted and fascinating and terrifying all at once, and the world collectively sits in my classroom every day telling me about it. And I, like a teakettle, have this need to let out the steam, to share the worldview-changing tidbits I learn every day. And yes, I can envelop stories with love and humor, big enough that the Brooks graphic designers get away with packaging them with cartoon covers and marketing them as rom-coms.

But the fact is, these books are meaningful to me. They’re meaningful to readers. And I sit by my computer, day in and day out, living on crumbs of news about my own story. When on earth will it be my turn to write under my name? When on earth will I get the chance to reach readers with words only influenced by my mind and not dampened by Amelia’s input?

Jack takes my clenched fist beneath the table and squeezes it, wrapping his hand around my balled-up fist tightly enough to break me out of my angry stupor. I look up from my boxed tomato pie. Look at Amelia. See what Jack has done.

It worked.

The name he dropped worked: Anne Sanderworth.