by Sophie Stern
I sigh and grab my own drink. Deep down, I know she's right. I don't want to admit it, but my story sucks. It needs a lot of work, which is why I brought it to Amber. She's been a professional writing coach and editor for years. She also happens to be one of my best friends, except for today. Today, I hate her.
"So what suggestions did you have?" I ask, looking over it her scribbles on the first page. I want to resubmit my story for a writing competition. The winner gets $5,000 and publication in a national magazine. That's huge. My first entry was rejected, but I still have a week to submit something else.
"My suggestions?" Amber scoffs. I know she's not being mean. She's just incredibly disappointed in the work I turned in to her today. "First off, sweetie, you need to understand what makes your readers tick. Do you really think they want to hear a huge history on what type of grass your heroine is walking on?"
I flush.
I should have known my descriptions were too heavy.
Fuck.
Amber continues talking, but all I hear is what a shitty writer I am. All I hear is that I've failed, yet again. All I hear is that my stories will never be published in science fiction magazines. All I hear is that I'm awful.
But then Amber seems to take pity on me, and she pats my hand.
"I'm sorry," she says with a sigh. "That was a lot to take in. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I shrug. "I know you're right. I need a lot of work. I just don't know where to go.
Amber glances around for a second, then, satisfied that we aren't being secretly watched, she starts digging through her purse. She pulls out an old, crumpled business card from the bottom of her bag and hands it to me.
Wesley: Sex Editor
"Sex editor?" I ask, staring at the card. I flip it over in my hand. There's a phone number on the other side.
"Don't ask," Amber says. "It's weird, but everyone I know who has gone to him has gotten exactly what they want."
"I don't know if I can afford him."
"You can afford him."
"But-"
"No buts," Amber stands up and grabs her purse. "Text him, Sweetie. I'm not trying to be mean, but it's probably your only chance."
Then she's gone and I'm left at the cafe with a business card and a shitty story.
Perfect.
I pick up my phone and start to compose a text. I try three times before finally settling on something.
Chloe: Hi. Got your # from a friend. I'm in the market for an editor.
I think it sounds dumb, but not nearly as dumb as some of my longer drafts. I click "send" before I can freak out. I try not to over-think this. He's an editor, right? But a sex editor? What does that even mean? Does he work on erotica books? Does he work on writers?
I don't have to wait long to find out.
My phone beeps and I pick it up.
Wesley: I have an open slot tomorrow at 3pm.
Tomorrow?
That's fast, but I guess fast is good. Maybe he'll be able to help me. Maybe I'll still have a shot at the competition.
Chloe: Perfect. Where should I meet you?
Hopefully it won’t be anyplace too far. I wonder how this guy works. Out of an office? Out of a creepy old house in a bad part of town? I don’t have to wonder for long because my phone beeps again. It’s him, texting me the address.
Wesley: 22 E. Willow Creek. Dress sexy.
Dress sexy?
Really?
I can’t help but text him once more. I can’t let our interaction end on that note.
Chloe: Okay...?
He doesn't text me back, but I got the message clear enough. Dress sexy? Why do I need to dress sexy? Suddenly, butterflies fill my stomach and I wonder what the hell I'm getting myself into. Amber said this guy is the best, so he's gotta be, but why do I feel like I'm walking into a spider's web?
I grab my manuscript and shove it in my bag before tossing some bills on the table. Then I leave the restaurant with the slim shred of dignity I have left, and head home.
Tomorrow is going to be a big day.
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