by Brea Brown
He’s quiet for a long time. Then he says with typical temper, “You think I don’t know that, Arthur? What is this, my first author...? No…! Not at all…. Trust me; she’s a lot further along than she would be if left to her own devices. This place is good for her…. No, she’s not sunning herself on the beach and making me rub suntan oil on her! She’s working….
Again, he doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, until, “I’m well aware of that deadline, yes…. No, she doesn’t know about it; I didn’t want her to freeze up under the pressure. With all due respect, sir, when have I ever let the company down? Never. Would you let me do what I do and stop worrying about it…? I know what we’re sitting on, yes. I’d assumed that’s why I was assigned this…. I had heard those rumors, too, but she hasn’t said anything to lead me to believe they’re true, and anyway, that’s R&D’s bread and butter, not mine. I fine-tune the copy….” He sighs. “I have Ms. Greer under control. Can we move on to the next writer, please? Ridgeworthy’s latest round of edits is nearly finished…”
I move away from the door, taking care not to even breathe too heavily for fear that he’ll know I was listening in on his conversation. About me. To the head of the company. What are they “sitting on?” What “deadline” is looming? What rumors are they hearing?
Oh, gosh. I feel like I’m going to throw up. Why do I feel like I’m going to throw up? There’s nothing to worry about. Right? Luke was (sort of) standing up for me. And I trust him. Don’t I? I think I do. I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t very well ask him anything without letting him know that I’m an eavesdropper. Maybe I don’t care if he knows, though. Maybe I have a right to hear what he’s saying about me to his colleagues and his boss.
Maybe I’m going to go hyperventilate out in the gazebo for a while.
Chapter Twenty
A brisk breeze is preventing the afternoon heat from becoming too oppressive, so I sprawl on my back on the padded bench to take advantage of the cross ventilation. I stare up at the wooden beams and let the endless string of confused thoughts run in a loop in my brain. I don’t worry much about trying to answer the questions I have or making any decisions. I merely… exist.
Plus, what’s the point in wasting my energy? Seems to me like any sense of control I have over anything is an illusion, anyway. I’m not saying this is in a spiritual sense, either (God and I have a bit of a tense relationship since He killed off my whole family and everything). I mean that Luke is driving this… this spaceship. And I’m the alien he’s captured to bring to his leaders for tests and observation.
This thought naturally leads me to dream about aliens and space travel when I inevitably fall asleep to the soft whispers from the ocean and the gentle caresses of the wind in my hair. When I wake up, the light around me is a deep goldenrod color, and the warmth around my ankle radiates from a hand that’s attached to an arm that belongs to a very serious-looking man sitting on the bench and gazing down at me.
“Creepy staring is always a sure way to wake someone up,” I murmur at him. I bring down my arms, which have been flung over my head for the majority of my stay out here, and rest my hands on my midriff. My shoulder screams. “Owwww,” I intone.
“We need to talk,” he utters the worst words ever to be arranged together into a sentence.
“Do we have to?” I half-joke. “We can sit out here and not say a word. As a matter of fact, I’d prefer—”
“Jayne.”
I scowl at him. “Luke.”
“I’m serious. I…” Now he looks away from me, out toward the water. “We need to get your manuscript in shape for final editing.”
Nervously, I ramble, “We are. You even said it’s almost done. All we need is the ‘money sentence.’ Oh, we have to blend and cut and… oh! I experimented with turning the fire into a tornado, but… I think it’s better as a fire…” I trail off when he squeezes my ankle more firmly.
“The fire’s fine,” he says with uncharacteristic indifference.
“Oh. Okay. But you—”
“Yeah. I know.” He blinks and focuses on my face. “The thing is… some of the other team members are getting anxious to see a final draft. I’m afraid maybe my suggestions were a bit too… ambitious.”
“They’re doable, though. I didn’t think so at first, but—”
Again he interrupts me. “Well, we don’t have time to do them all. I’ll need you to email me what you have—in whatever form—by the end of the day tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!” I sit up and wrap my arms around my knees. “What’s the big rush?”
Flatly, he replies, “We’d like to start getting a return on our investment, I guess. We’ve paid you for this book—and two others—and haven’t made a dime.”
Having been put in my place and reminded where I fit into this equation, I gulp. “Right. I get it. I guess.”
He stands. “Don’t take it personally.”
“I’m not.”
“And I don’t want you to feel like it’s your fault, either. I’ve permitted your slow pace with this rewrite because… Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter why. It was selfish of me. I should have been more like I would have been with any other author.” Now he looks incredibly sad when he says, “There’s something about you that makes me feel…”
Yes…? Yes…? What do I make you feel? Do you want me to go first? I can tell you about all kinds of things you make me feel.
“…protective. And indulgent.”
Oh. Hmmm. Not really what I was going for. Those are very fatherly words.
When I say nothing, he continues, “But that has to end. We have to be more disciplined. And not only with your writing.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. You think I’m saying this because I’ve suddenly come to my senses. But I’m just as insensible as—if not more than—I was this morning. This is not something I want to have to say.”
I should be relieved. I should be glad that he’s taken the decision away from me. I don’t have to tell him how much it bothers my Midwestern sensibilities to be in love with a married man. I don’t have to confess to anything as strong as love, even. As far as he knows, I kissed him a couple of times so I could say I did. Fodder for future fiction.
But I’m crushed.
I skulk to the gazebo steps. On the top one, I pause and say with my back to him, “I’ll work tonight to get a draft to you first thing in the morning.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes. I do. You’re right; it’s taken me too long. I’ve abused your patience.”
“I don’t have any to abuse. You know that. Jayne, please don’t be upset.”
I laugh bitterly. “You can’t scrawl your directives in the margins of my life. ‘Don’t take it personally.’ ‘Be more disciplined.’ ‘Don’t be upset.’ I’m not a fucking manuscript.”
“I didn’t say you were!”
“And for the record,” I toss over my shoulder with the last lucid sentence I can muster before I dissolve, “I was going to tell you that we can’t repeat what happened this morning.” I stomp across the lawn and don’t even pause when I stub my toe on the edge of the flagstone patio on my way into the kitchen, where Paulette, having returned from her weekend, is standing in front of her electric kettle.
“Jayne! Hell—Oh… What’s the matter, dear?” she addresses to the moving target that is me.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” I sob as I stalk through the kitchen. “I’m going to work all night upstairs in my room. I’m not hungry. And could you please arrange for Tom to come pick me up first thing in the morning?”
I don’t even wait for her to respond or verify that she’ll honor my request. I know she will. Tom will be here to take me back to Boston right after breakfast. And from there, it’s a three-hour flight back to my old, plain Jayne life.
*****
Both Paulette and Luke honored my wishes to be left alone, so I worked nearly non-stop until three in the morning
, when I ceased to be able to think straight. Then I emailed the file to Luke and packed before setting the alarm on my phone for seven, when I dragged myself out of bed, got dressed, and sat at the bedroom window, watching for Tom in the black Towncar.
I trudged down the stairs and set my bags by the front door so Tom could load them while I said goodbye to Paulette, who was friendly but not overly emotional about my departure, thank goodness. I was also relieved Luke was nowhere around.
I should have known it was all going too smoothly.
Before I even have a chance to take my first complete lungful of air since waking up this morning, I realize with a start I’m not alone in the backseat.
“Leaving without saying goodbye?” Luke asks as Tom starts the car. “Put your seatbelt on.”
I automatically comply with his order while asking incredulously, “What are you doing here? I thought you’d already gone to work.”
Drolly, he replies, “When Paulette informed me that a car would be here so early to get you, I figured it would be more beneficial to my carbon footprint if we carpooled into the city.”
“I’d rather we didn’t.”
The car lurches forward. “Too late. We’re on our way.” He pats my knee condescendingly. “It’s only forty minutes. But I thought it would behoove both of us to have a chat about the state of… things… before we get back to civilization.”
I coldly inform him, “Don’t worry; I won’t be raising a stink about my damaged eye.”
He suddenly leans forward and looks into my eyes. He seems relieved when he sees nothing. “For a minute there, you had me worried your eye was still hurt.”
“No. It’s back to normal. Like nothing ever happened. Because nothing ever did. I won’t tell a soul anything about this weekend.”
After a sigh, he sits back. “This is exactly what I was worried about.”
“What?” I prod, pretending to be bored with the entire conversation.
“I was worried you’d hate me.”
I wish I did. Then I wouldn’t be in this total agony. Instead of telling him that, I say after a pause, “I don’t hate you.”
I hate myself. With a passion I used to reserve for difficult, irritable editors.
“As convincing as that is,” he says, “it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not responsible for your feelings.”
He laughs bitterly. “My God! You’re ruthless.”
I turn my head away from him and blink rapidly as I gaze unseeingly out the window. When I’m sure my voice won’t be choked when I speak, I say, “I’d rather not talk. I was up all night—a copy of my manuscript is waiting in your email inbox—so I’m very tired.”
“Jayne—”
“Please, Luke!” I hate that I can’t keep the begging tone from edging in.
“No, you please. I’ve already received your icicle-laden email. And I’d like to remind you that I’m your friend in all this. I’m here for you. Maybe not in all the capacities that we—at least, I—would like, but I’m here nonetheless.” He lays a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug, and when he doesn’t remove it, I purposefully do it myself with my own hand.
“Please, don’t touch me.” I glance nervously toward the front seat.
When he notices, he says, “Oh, don’t worry about Tom; he’s used to hearing women tell me that.”
I will not laugh. I will not smile. I will focus on getting through this torturous car ride without any histrionics.
Tom drily replies, “What women, sir?”
“Touché, Tom. Touché.” Addressing me again, Luke says lightly, “Alright then. I respect your wishes, as much as they pain me. But if you need me… for anything… I hope you won’t hesitate to call me.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The nightmarish vision of me in my Indianapolis apartment, sniffling into my blankie, never comes to fruition. Almost immediately upon returning to the Hoosier State, I received an offer to serve as guest lecturer for a semester at Fairfax College in Annapolis, with the possibility of it becoming a more permanent arrangement. I gave up my apartment, put my things in storage, and moved to a furnished bed-sit near campus, right outside our nation’s capital.
Yes, this is the type of relationship I can handle. An intellectual relationship. A high-maintenance intellectual relationship, at that. I haven’t had time to think or brood or mope about Luke. Not that I would. Obviously, that was a silly crush my inexperience blew out of proportion and had me convinced was a full-fledged love affair-in-the-making. When I think about it now, I blush and cringe.
Luke and I have exchanged emails regarding drafts of my book, but now that I’ve made all the changes he wanted, it’s in the hands of the other publishing folks. Occasionally, I get things from people whose names I haven’t bothered remembering. I’ve chosen a cover design, but it brought me no pleasure. None of them were that great, to be honest. They were better than the ones Luke showed me the day we met, but that’s not saying much. This process’s novelty has definitely worn off. If I weren’t contractually obligated to write two more books for them (and don’t even ask me how I’m going to do that), I’d get through this, check it off my list, and move on. That’s what’s left of my dream. The joy’s been sucked from it.
Oh, there’s one other thing: Luke’s been trying to get in touch with me—nearly relentlessly—for the past couple of days, but I’m dodging his calls. I have some legitimate reasons for not calling him back (my syllabus is due to the head of the English department tomorrow; I need to wash my hair; I’m sure there are other things), but mostly I simply don’t feel like talking to him. I don’t want to hear his voice. I don’t want to imagine how he looks or what he’s wearing or how he smells.
I informed him of my change of address in a mass email to the entire publishing “team,” so I can’t think of anything else to discuss. He’s not even part of the equation anymore. He needs to know when to let it go. Maybe I should have Tullah call him and ask if there’s anything she can help him with. Then I can have her request a new editor for me for my next book.
My next book. The mere thought gives me chills up and down the backs of my thighs. I don’t know if I have another one in me. I know I don’t. Not right now, anyway. I’m desperately looking for inspiration, though. It won’t be long after The Devil I Know hits shelves (maybe even before) that they’ll be asking me about my next project. Luke hinted at it weeks ago, on one of our “break” walks. When he asked me if I had any new ideas marinating, I’d coyly said, “A few,” but it was a bold-faced lie. I have zip. Which is a potential problem. I’m not panicking yet, though.
For one thing, I have a class to teach to bright, young minds who still believe in the fairytale that is the publishing world. I still haven’t decided if I’m going to crush their dreams (which would be the most humane thing to do) or do them the disservice of allowing them to continue to think that a publishing contract will make all their problems disappear. I think I’m going to go with the latter, but only because I don’t want to be that bitter bitch who makes them roll their eyes. They won’t believe me, anyway. They’ll say, “It won’t be like that for me.”
And maybe it won’t be. Maybe they won’t fall in lust with their editors. It’s statistically likely that they won’t. And maybe they won’t screw themselves over by promising to deliver something that they’re incapable of delivering (two books more than the only one residing in their heads). So, who am I to tell them that the experience is a major let-down? I’ll let them find out for themselves or do what I couldn’t manage to do: enjoy the process.
Speaking of processes, I may not have a very firm grasp on the creative process, but I do know all about language and the mechanics of writing. I know the rules and when to bend them—or when to break them. And I think I’ll be good at passing along that information to the next generation of writers. As long as they don’t ask me abo
ut my experience or my process or any of those other questions that aspiring writers love to ask published writers, everything will be fine.
My experience: I wrote a book based on the most horrific tragedy of my life, concealed that fact from everyone, made out with my editor, and crawled back to my boring life after being rejected by him afterwards.
My process: Write eight to thirteen hours a day (depending on whether you have to hold down another job to pay the bills). Period. Oh, a blankie helps. And a nice-smelling man. I mean, candle! Candle. A man has nothing to do with it. Which will be a relief to the heterosexual men in my class.
I can’t tell anyone either of those things, obviously. I’ll have to stick to the vague answers: “everyone needs to find their own system” and “expect to be rejected… a lot.” And “don’t take it personally.” Don’t ever take anything personally. Nothing. No matter how personal it feels.
Yeah, not sounding bitter is going to be the biggest challenge in this new position, after I get this syllabus written, that is.
*****
“Jayne Greer! Exactly who I was coming to see!” Dr. Miles Brooks, the Head of the English Department, says when he sees me approaching him in the hallway. “Wanted to see if you’re settling in okay. Sorry about the small office… we’re a little tight on space around here lately. I guess that’s a good problem to have, though. Means we’re thriving!”
I hold out my syllabus to him. “The office is fine, thanks.” It’s not like I plan to spend much time there, but I don’t tell him that. “Here’s my syllabus. Just before deadline.”
He smiles encouragingly as he takes the paper from me and tucks it under his arm. “Only a formality. And you’re far from the last person to turn in her syllabus,” he says cheerfully. “We’re absolutely thrilled to have you here this semester!”
Blushing at his effusiveness, I scuff at the floor with the toe of my shoe. “Thanks. I mean… this is going to be good for me, too, I think. Something to keep me busy.”
