Page 45 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Mona, Susanna, Jack—even Penny has paused with her pen pressed to the paper, waiting for Amelia to respond.

The waiter seems to sense the tension, because he stands a few feet off, hesitating with the check in hand.

It was dangerous, using a bomb to defuse a bomb. Amelia is unreliable and easily provoked. She’s happy one second, but if you say the wrong thing in the wrong moment, bam.

Throwing out the fact that Anne is twice as successful as Amelia and reminding her that she is second to the one who is sitting on some virtual throne called the “number one slot” will either make Amelia blow up entirely and flip some tables or, if Jack knew what he was doing—

“Fine.”

Amelia has smoothed her hair.

Amelia is snapping open the little pink purse at her side and pulling out a metallic gold tube of lipstick.

“Keep the depressing book,” Amelia says. “Keep Beaufort. Keep whatever guarantees this book will be a hit—except the kids.”

I feel that hit. It feels like a punch in the gut, and yet no one around me notices the pain those three little words cause. They don’t write, I suppose. They don’t understand that she’s choking me right here, right in public.

Well, fine.

The kids are too good anyway. She doesn’t deserve to have them beneath her name.

I silently make a vow to write them into my next story—one that will see the light of day under my name.

“But if this one doesn’t do it”—she waggles her tube of lipstick, its pointy red tip directed at me like a target—“if this one isn’t going to get us to the top, then I’m going in and we’re doing it my way. I’m done playing games here,” she says, as if all of us have been absolutely incompetent while she, the sheer genius, has been waiting for us to step up. “I want the perfect rom-com this time around. I want it to be perfect.”

I cannot help but hope, for the zillionth time in one thousand days, that I get my own contract soon. Get out.

“Is there anything else you want from me?” Amelia says, the sound of quiet disdain tinting her voice.

“Nope,” Mona says, a tight smile on her face. “Susanna will tighten up the Q&A answers from tonight, and we’ll shoot it off to you sometime this week. But there is one more thing.” To my surprise, she turns to me. “One more thing we need from you, Bryony.”

“Me?” Surprise quickly flares into frustration.

I’m already plotting the books. I’m already spending my nights and weekends painfully pulling the words out of my head, forcing myself to add layer upon layer of depth to these novels. I’m already shredding old scenes I spend weeks on for rewrites. I’m already giving it 110 percent and then watching it come out into the world to bring acclaim to somebody else. Not to mention most of the money. All for the hope of seeing my own little manuscript get its day.

I have already gone above and beyond in every way imaginable. I’m even writing out PowerPoints for the woman too lazy to read the book she’s getting praised for!

“I am stretched to my limit, Mona.” There’s a firmness in my voice. A tight pinch because they know this. They know how hard all of this has been for me. “I can’t work on any more PowerPoints.”

“And we don’t want you to. We just . . . need you to consider going on . . . a vacation.”

“Of sorts,” Susanna adds.

“What?”

Amelia and I speak simultaneously.

It may be the first thing we’ve ever agreed on.

“I have been talking to the rest of the team, and we just think,” Mona says, her eyes shifting from Amelia to me, “it may be best if Bryony joins you on tour.”

“What?!” we both say more urgently now.

“You want her on tour with me?” Amelia screeches. “What kind of game is this?” Her eyes shoot accusingly to Jack as if to scream, “Fix this. Fix this NOW.”

“Not to talk,” Susanna jumps in with a shrill laugh. Her voice drops to a whisper. “Not as the author.”

“What is going on tonight?” Amelia cries, rolling her head backward.