Page 85 of The Perfect Rom-Com
And so I must not give him that chance.
My eyes are glued to the unloading dock in the distance as I grip the rails at the front of the boat, begging it to hurry up as it moves to shore. The last thing I want is for Jack to see me like this. I can’t fake my fury. And sense of betrayal. And really . . . just humiliation.
What else is he lying about?
Our relationship, a lie?
His friendship, a lie?
I knew he was money hungry, and maybe not even that, just obsessed with his work. I thought it was dedication. Before I had found it admirable that he’d found something he loved so much, that he was passionate about. In a world where so many people loathe the thing they dedicate such a great portion of their lives to, he was always excited. His passion for his work was something about him I liked.
I’d seen enough half-hearted agents snatching up far more clients than they could handle just to give them no attention unless their books “went somewhere.” I always liked that Jack didn’t do that. That while he seemed tough and unfriendly at the front end, it turned out his rejection of so many aspiring authors was really a kindness in disguise. And he was willing to be misjudged as that villain; he wasn’t off trying to please everybody because, as he said, “There are only so many people one person can please.”
These were the things I had liked.
But what I didn’t see, the dirty little secret that has been hanging over my head this whole time, is the truth. I’ve been, from the very start, the naive little girl who can be manipulated to work her heart out and give her words away in exchange for a little attention. A little hope.
I am exactly who Amelia thinks I am. I’m nothing more than their prized little ghostwriter, sitting up in a castle turret tucked away from people. Slipping words through the cracks in the door by day while typing away all night.
And all this time, the only difference between the two has been that Amelia is the one who said it, and Jack is the one who thought it. The craftier one.
And he is on their side.
Her side.
He really is Amelia’s puppet.
That’s what his job is, isn’t it?
Amelia reached her success, and then he was tasked with keeping me from succeeding on my own. All this time he has said he’s making progress. All this time he has said he’s reaching out, but Water Under the Bridge needs work . . .
Well.
I’ve been a fool.
I’ve given him all this grace. I’ve shrugged off the times he missed dinner meetings in the past. I’ve always said yes, been agreeable, as he’s talked me into pushing forward another deadline. Working faster. Writing harder. Dropping scenes to suit Amelia’s wishes. Adding scenes when she wanted. Tasked with creating for somebody else an impossible goal of writing “the perfect rom-com.” Even going on this stupid, stupid book tour.
I don’t even realize my cheeks are wet with humiliated tears as the riverboat employee unhooks the lock from the railing and I am the first to step off.
“You need help walking down, miss?” he says, concern etched across his face. He points down to my heels as an excuse to help me. A good person. A decent person.
“No. Thank you.” I wipe at my cheeks and pass him a little smile.
“Okay then. You have yourself a good evening, okay?”
I can’t muster a reply and just nod.
The first time I hear Jack’s voice calling me is when my feet are on dry ground. “Bryony!” he calls from the boat.
I hold the hem of my dress tightly in my hands as I walk across the parking lot, not slowing. Not turning back. The heels are unable to keep up with my pace and I’m wobbly on my feet, my stride awkward as I push myself forward to the bus in the distance.
For the hundredth time tonight I wish I had taken my phone. My wallet. Anything to make this transition quicker. I could’ve had an Uber ready to go by now.
My head is whirring, trying to rapidly think up a plan.
“Bryony!” I hear Jack’s voice a bit more urgently now. I speed up.
Thankfully I don’t have many belongings. Another one of the benefits of being an indentured servant in Amelia’s rodeo.
