Page 47 of The Perfect Rom-Com

My brows shoot up.

“I’ll have to double-check on it, but . . .”

To my absolute shock, he trails off.

I practically dive into the booth seat for my phone.

I’m just pulling up the old email with my contract when Mona jumps in. “It has just become abundantly clear that you are essential to our promotional services and the continued success of our partnership, Bryony. But rest assured, we want to make sure you see this as an opportunity for yourself as well. The higher the book sales, the more royalties you make as well.” Mona flashes a bright, professional, and obviously rehearsed smile. “And needless to say, we will make this tour as fun and relaxing for everyone as possible. There will be great meals. Great hotels. We’ll only need you to step in for a couple hours at a time. And even then, we’re hopeful you won’t even need to talk unless Amelia runs into a problem.”

“All right,” Amelia cuts in. Her phone drops into her purse, and it clatters loudly against other tubes of lipstick and metal objects as she snaps it shut. “I’m done hearing everyone cater to this woman. Stop trying to woo her with the promise of two weeks at beaches and hotels. Stop trying to help her get over her woes of getting the best job of her life selling books to the masses that she couldn’t sell a hundred copies of by herself. It’s two weeks, Bryony. If it’s helpful to the cause, you’re coming. And yes, there’s food. And there are hotels.” She directly spears me with a glare. “Just do your job, okay? It’s Not. That. Hard.”

Silence cuts around the table.

I look down at my phone, my thumb scrolled down to section 3b.

Writer will perform Promotional Services, if any, at the times provided in Part 1 or, subject to Writer’s prior professional commitments and reasonable availability, at such other times as Publisher may reasonably request and, if requested, as part of the Promotional Services, will sit for video- and audio-recorded interviews, which Publisher may reproduce, distribute, display, perform, and adapt for promotional purposes. All reasonable expenses incurred by Writer in performing Promotional Services will be paid by Publisher.

It seems I’m going on a book tour. With the most delusional woman alive. As her unwilling and unwanted ghostwriter. Who, apparently, is not supposed to call herself a ghostwriter but something more tasteful like, oh, I don’t know, indentured servant.

My phone dings and I slide it open to see an email header from Gran.

I just found out. We need to talk.

Margaret Page

President, The Bridge Refugee Services

3395 White Spring Road

Florence, NY 13316

And isn’t that just the icing on the cake?

After two solid years of anonymity, Gran knows.

Chapter 7

There is a good thing about all this, and that is, no more lies.

No more secrecy.

No more mysteriously rushing off in the middle of family dinner to talk (read: argue) on the phone with Jack about some insane Amelia-driven demand. No more looking like the most introverted person alive by shoving off invitations left and right so I can mysteriously “be alone in my apartment to water my plants.”

Letting this little secret finally air out with Gran will release some pent-up tension. It will be a good thing to tell her what is going on. And, to be very clear, the absolute best thing in all this is that I have not broken contract. Somebody else told her (read: Gloria, no doubt); ergo, I am not responsible.

(Of course, the fact that I told Gloria roughly the second I got off the plane with Jack two years ago after specifically being told not to is, indeed, my fault. But she’s my sister. The sister bond no doubt trumps a contract in a court of law. Everybody in the whole world knows all bets are off when it comes to your sister.)

I step up to Gran’s office door.

Gran has always been a polite one, dignified despite the fact that the door is a textured hollow core made of primed composite with scratches all down its side. The brass on the knob has rubbed off in places. The commercial blue carpet has been trodden on for no less than forty years. The windows are single pane, and yes, in the winter the heat just can’t keep up, and in the summers, like this one, we find it’s better just to shove up the windows and our sleeves instead of asking anything more out of the old HVAC.

But Margaret Page has always held her head high, and from the way she dresses for work—the same single strand of pearls, her gray hair rolled up in curls—you’d think she was the president at New York University instead of some place like this.

Margaret Page is the one who puts the extra touches on the place. Making sure the halls always smell of citrus essential oils instead of cheap lemon spray. Making sure the bathrooms always carry a little basket of spare toiletries and fresh soaps at the sink. Bouquets of some sort always sit on the teachers’ desks—a tradition that I discovered began in 1979 from bouquets selected from Gran’s garden and has continued ever since.

These little touches lift the students’, and teachers’, spirits when they step inside. These, and the smiles, the conversations, and the reaches into each other’s lives, are what make people lift their chins when they walk through the doors.

These touches are what set The Bridge apart.