Page 78 of The Perfect Rom-Com

But the janitor lady reminded me that while one soul moved on from this earth, separated from me for a time, there were millions, billions, more just as beautiful, just as intricately made and perfectly rare, who remained with me and who would step in to carry me through.

So. It comes as no surprise that I write at night.

Sacrifice a little sleep, drink caffeine to supplement, work my days surrounded by beautiful souls.

“Coming along?”

I’m not going to say I scream, but there is a real temptation to as Amelia’s voice rises from the darkness and interrupts my thoughts.

And then I look up and that’s when I really do give a little scream before clapping my hand over my mouth.

There’s nothing but blackness at the back end of the bus. Blackness, and the glowing red outline of a face hovering in the air.

Then the glowing face moves toward me.

Her robe is cinched tight around her, huge round curlers surround her head, and a wire runs down her side to a pocket connected to what appears to be a lasery, fancy-gadget face mask covering her entire face. All I can see are the slits of her blue eyes as she approaches the coffee and tea station at the little kitchen. She reaches for a mug, misses, putters around, and finally grabs it.

Good grief. I can’t even see nose holes.

How is she breathing?

She looks like Darth Vader’s lover.

I keep on writing as she mumbles complaints under her breath about the fact the teakettle was turned off (heaven forbid we don’t start a fire at 3:00 a.m.) and fiddles with the sink until she gets it turned on and the water begins to pour into the kettle.

I try my best to ignore her and keep on writing. But it’s a little challenging to do when somebody in full glowing mummy garb is standing in the shadows, watching you. Out of boredom, no doubt.

She’s like a toddler. Has no problem just staring at people.

I only zero in on typing faster. It becomes my new goal to get to the end of this page before I slip off into bed. I’m at thirty-eight thousand words now, made a wonderful dent in the manuscript this evening. Two thousand words. Good words. I have fallen in love with the way my character stumbles into the resident hermit of the town when he’s in the backwoods of his house, following the sound of the lost dog. The shortcut back as the two men talk.

I can’t help it, this falling in love with my own story.

There is no bigger fan, I think, than an author over her own narrative. Sometimes I pity readers, to be honest. I remain in this world for months, day and night, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnights, always thinking, always living partly in this made-up world.

Readers, if the book is good, get to see the marsh water. If the book is great, they get to touch it. Smell it. Hear the sound of the ripples. But the writers? We have dived in. Submerged ourselves. Touched the clay bottom. Felt the wet earth squeeze between our toes. We drink it. Swallow it. We live and, for a thousand reasons, love our fantasy worlds.

“I don’t like that.”

I startle and look up.

“Cut it,” she says.

I lift my eyes to see where Amelia stands over me. Her finger is pointing at the page on my screen.

A small ball of fire swirls in my stomach. Every muscle in my body tenses up.

“Amelia,” I say, my tone measured. “If you keep asking me to cut my story to ribbons, I will eventually take the pieces and make them into a flag of my own.”

And then she laughs.

But the laugh is choked and stifled sounding behind her mask.

She pats me on the back. “Oh, Bryony. It’s my story. Never forget that for a second. These are my stories. And I’d like—I really would like—to see you try. If that day ever comes, make sure to tell me. I’d love to be one of the five people to buy it.” She gives my shoulder a friendly—and creepy all the way to my toes—squeeze. “I’ll be your biggest supporter. Guaranteed.”

Chapter 15

The following week is one dizzying event after another. Days of traveling from one palm-tree town to another, slightly different palm-tree town. Feeding lines to Amelia through the earpiece while she tosses back champagne. Jumping back on the bus to peel off dresses for sweatpants and ride along the interstate again.