Finding Mr. Write, page 15
Then came the fifth. She’d only read it once, but could recite it by heart.
Loved Atticus and Finn. Kept hoping Theo would get bitten by a zombie and die. She never stopped whining.
Daphne knew this kind of response was not uncommon. Some readers who fell in love with the guys decided the girl wasn’t worthy of them, as if the protagonist was their romantic rival. That lucky girl had two guys competing for her, and she was such a stuck-up bitch that she didn’t give either of them a chance because she was too busy doing silly things like trying to stay alive. Zombies want to eat me. My family is all dead. I don’t know if I have enough food to get through the winter. Waa-waa. So much whining.
Rationally, Daphne could ignore the review. Instead, she found herself hunched over her manuscript searching for introspection that could be interpreted as whining. She started fretting that she’d made Theo unlikable—too independent, too chilly, too closed off… too much like herself.
She’d stopped reading reviews because as much as she loved the pure joy of seeing a reader connect to her story, the negative ones cut too deeply into her confidence and impeded her ability to write. But now she’d go on tour and meet readers face-to-face, where—she hoped—they’d be less likely to say that they wanted her main character to die.
She fell asleep on that high. Soon she dreamed she was at a signing, happily watching Chris sign while she opened the books and took down name spellings. Then a young woman passed Chris and walked up to her.
“You lied to us,” she said.
Daphne hesitated, sticky note in one hand, marker in the other. “Lied?”
“You said he wrote it.” The girl jabbed a finger at Chris. “You lied. To us. To your readers.”
“It wasn’t like that. It’s just a name.”
“A man’s name. What kind of message does that send to girls like me? Girls who want to write books like this?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant.” The girl slammed the book down on the signing table. “What matters is that you did it.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
Daphne bolted from the dream and ran for the bathroom. When she came back, she sat on her bed.
The girl in her dream was right. Because the girl in her dream had been her. Thirteen-year-old Daphne watching a female author speak and thinking That could be me for the first time ever. Thirteen-year-old Daphne standing in front of endless shelves of young adult books, most written by women, giddy at the possibility.
That was what she wanted. Then she’d gotten frustrated and sent that email under a man’s name, and now Edge wasn’t even on the young adult shelf because they hadn’t marketed her book to teenage girls. Her book was “better” than that. It sat on the mainstream shelf. Was that because it had a man’s name on it?
She’d lied to readers. Misled them. She hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t considered them—this was about seeing a dream come true and then being terrified of doing anything that could destroy it.
The other day, she’d thought Zane would refuse the tour because he wouldn’t care about a career in writing. She did.
How much did she care? How tightly would she hold on to this lie?
How much of her book’s success was the book itself? And how much was Chris? Chris as Zane, handsome and polished and confident. And just Chris as Chris, clever and quick-witted and charming.
It was a good book. Pushing past imposter syndrome, she knew it was good. She also knew that Zane helped get eyes on it and that made a difference. You can tell the best story in the world, but no one’s reading a book they haven’t heard of.
Did she trust that she could write? Yes. Did she trust that she could find a readership? Yes. It might not be as big as Zane’s, but she didn’t need all this. She just needed enough to keep writing.
She checked the clock. Five a.m. Of course it was. Because OMG, I need to do something moments always came when nothing could be done.
She popped off an email to Nia. Just a simple “Call me” with an added big fat lie of “Nothing urgent! No rush!”
Less than twenty minutes later, her phone rang.
“You’re up early,” Daphne said.
“Not as early as you,” Nia said. “Did something happen? Feedback from the shoot?”
“No, no. It’s just…”
Daphne told Nia what she’d dreamed.
“I need out,” Daphne said. “What I’m doing is wrong. I’m deceiving people, and I need to stop.”
“Hit pause on the doom-spiraling,” Nia said. “Time for a two-minute reality break. Ready?”
Daphne inhaled. “Ready.”
“Your publisher knows Zane is a pen name, and thousands of authors use them. Most keep their real name hidden. Some women use male pen names. Some men use female ones. Some authors refuse to have photos taken. Some adopt a disguise for photos, and some even adopt an entire fake persona for signings and events. Then there are the ones who use twenty-year-old photos. And don’t even get me started on the fake bios—they’re as fictional as anything in the actual books. Then there are the celebrity novels. You know most of those are ghostwritten. Do the people reading them know it? Does the celeb admit it? Oh, I’m sure there are exceptions, but it’s a standard practice.”
“For marketing. I didn’t do it for that, yet Chris has helped sales.”
“Which makes you feel guilty. Do you think those celebrities feel guilty? Fine. Skip the celebs. Regular authors who use pen names are not trying to deceive readers. It’s about privacy. Which is exactly what you wanted. To get your book published and stay out of the limelight. Are there readers who feel deceived when they discover an author uses a fake name or a fake persona or a fake photo? Sure, but that wasn’t the author’s intention, and that persona is not what they’re selling. The book is what they’re selling. I don’t owe my clients one whit of personal information. I owe them what they’re paying me for—damn fine legal expertise. Readers are paying for your book. Not for Zane Remington. Sure, some would pay for Zane Remington, but that isn’t a service he’s offering.”
Daphne smiled and shifted. “But I still want to come out.”
“I agree. It’s the rationale that I’m arguing with. You did not set out to deceive readers. However, this has gone way beyond a fake name, bio, and cover photo.”
“I know, and I feel terrible. This isn’t what you had in mind when we came up with the plan, and if it could get you in any trouble—”
“Stop. It can’t, and I’m the one who pushed this solution on you, so if anyone should feel bad, it’s me.”
“You didn’t—”
“Did. But the point is that neither of us foresaw TV segments and tours. No matter how careful you are, the risk is growing exponentially. It’s not a question of if you’ll be outed. It’s a question of when. Someone will recognize you. Someone will recognize Chris. We need to get ahead of that.”
Daphne swallowed. “Okay. I’ll notify my agent before the tour—”
“Not before the tour. It’s too soon, and it’d throw everyone into a tizzy. For now, don’t say anything to anyone except Chris. I need to deep-dive into this and find you an exit strategy.”
“One that doesn’t torpedo my career.”
“That’s baseline,” Nia said. “As a lawyer, I want a solution that doesn’t hurt my client’s career. As a friend, I want one that makes you look good. We want to focus on why you did this without throwing your publisher under the bus by implying they wouldn’t have bought your book under your name.”
“They might have.”
“Yeah, not for that much and not with this positioning. But what do I know? I’m just the best friend of a writer who tried damned hard to get anyone to look at her amazing book, and then as soon as she put a guy’s name on it, she got a half-million-dollar deal. Sheer coincidence, I’m sure.”
“But since we don’t know what would have happened, no one else is to blame. I got frustrated. I sent it out using a male name. Then I panicked when it sold.”
“Which we’ll make clear,” Nia said. “We will fix this. Just give me time to come up with a strategy. And whatever we decide, Chris has to be part of the conversation.”
“Of course. I’ll talk to him. And thank you for finding him. He’s been amazing.”
“He’s a pretty amazing guy, huh?”
Daphne blushed. “He is.”
“And you like him?”
Her instinct was to deflect and dodge. To be clear she liked him as a person. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “I like him.”
“Good.” Nia switched to her Pinky and the Brain voice. “Everything is going according to plan.”
Daphne sighed. But for once, she didn’t argue.
“Thank you,” she said.
“That’s what best friends are for. Now get up, do some writing, pack for tour, and call me from LA. I am dying to hear how those Hollywood meetings go.”
CHRIS
It was the last night before the tour, and Chris was soundly asleep after one final phone call with Daphne. They’d discussed ideas for Zane’s exit, which he was fine with—he couldn’t wait for everyone to know she was the real author. They’d also excitedly made plans for tomorrow. Well, he’d certainly been excited, and she’d seemed happy, so yep, they were both excited. He was going with that.
When the phone rang, he bolted up, certain he’d overslept and Daphne was calling from the airport wondering where he was.
Then he saw his sister’s name on his phone. He glanced at the clock—1:10.
With a groan, he answered. “Tell me it’s urgent,” he said. “Tell me something is on fire and that you are not calling at one in the morning to be a brat.”
“Me?” Gemma said. “I’m the older sibling. You’re the brat. And I’m calling because, if I’m right, you’ve done the brattiest of all bratty possible things.”
“Uh…”
“Worse than when you changed my alarm clock so you could find all the Easter eggs first. Worse than when you used my training bra as a slingshot. Even worse than when you threatened to tell Mom about my party if I wouldn’t give you a joint.”
“Beer. I said beer.”
“Whatever. Tell me this isn’t you.”
His phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was a still shot from the grizzly stare-down video.
His first thought: Oh shit.
Second thought: How’d she recognize me from a sliver of my profile?
Third thought: She’s your sister, dumbass.
“You sold a book?” she said. “Seriously, Chris? It’s not enough that I’ve spent the last few years having friends—friends, ew—asking for my little brother’s contact deets. Not enough that you’re running your own company. Not enough that all that hasn’t gone to your head. Now you’re an author? I’m the writer in the family. Me.”
“When’s the last time you wrote something, Gem?”
“Shut up.”
“Just saying,” he murmured. “I’ve been pestering you to get back into writing for years.”
“So this is like when you stole my bike, thinking I was done with it because I hadn’t ridden in a year?”
“I didn’t write a book.”
“But you’re the guy in this video.”
He considered lying. Considered it for less than one second, because this was Gemma and he’d never do that to her. So he told her the truth.
When he finished the story, Gemma said, “This woman couldn’t get her book published, so she stuck a male name on it and it sold? Figures. Okay, I forgive you. You got stuck in a bad place with your business partner—I told you he was a creep—and you fixed it by helping this woman get out of her bad place. Which is such a Chris thing to do. On second thought, no, I still hate you. You’re too good. Tell me she’s hot, and that’s the real reason you did it.”
When he hesitated, she sputtered, “Oh my God, it is? She’s hot, and that’s why—”
“I needed her friend’s help, and she seemed like a nice person stuck in a bad situation.”
“Who is also hot.” Gemma burst out laughing. “Okay, I hate you a little less now. You’re still human. She does know you’re not this cool Zane dude, right?”
“Yes, she knows my Clark Kent side, the accountant who is secretly a dork.”
“Oh, it’s no secret, bro. Not to anyone who knows you. Okay, so you’re playing author for this woman, and yes, I will keep quiet about that. But if I figured it out, someone else will.”
“We’re working on an exit strategy.”
“Good. In the meantime, I’m downloading the book. It’ll give me something to read tonight.”
“It’s one in the morning, Gem.” He paused. “You okay?”
“Fine, fine. Just not sleeping great.”
He sat up. “Oh shit. The divorce. The negotiations started, didn’t they?”
“Yep, the fun has begun, including Alan showing up and parking his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend and eleven-month-old baby in the waiting room. You know, I might not be the math whiz in the family, but if that kid is eleven months old, and Alan walked out sixteen months ago…”
“I’m so sorry, Gem.”
“Eh, don’t worry. I’m totally using it for the divorce. What an idiot, huh? Couldn’t even hide the kid for a little longer.”
Chris’s heart ached for his sister. He knew her marriage had been worse than she’d ever let on, and he felt incredibly guilty about that—his whole family did—but Gemma was Gemma. If she’d made a mistake marrying Alan, she’d soldier through and handle it herself. Even now Chris couldn’t get her to talk about it.
“Do you need anything?” he said. “I could—”
“According to my insomniac digging on Zane Remington, you are headed for Los Angeles tomorrow. Even if you weren’t, I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry I forgot about the divorce proceedings, and I’ll call you every day to see how you’re doing.”
“Ugh, you’re such an annoyingly perfect little brother. Fine. Call. But only if you share author-tour dish.”
“Only if you consider writing again.”
“Fine. Maybe. Whatever. So about this woman you like. Have you baked for her yet?”
“Baked for her?”
“That’s your secret weapon, Chris. Bake her something.”
“I made her a batch of brownies for the book release.”
“Good man.”
“And then I pretended I bought them at a bakery.”
“Oof,” she said. “You are such a guy sometimes. Bake her more brownies. Admit you made them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bake me a batch, too.”
“I’ll make brownies and send them before I leave.”
“Such an annoyingly perfect little brother.” Her voice softened. “Good night, Chris.”
“Good night, Gem.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAPHNE
Daphne was sitting in business class. With the “rich people,” as her mother always said when they’d boarded a flight. On the last vacation they’d planned together, when they knew the end was coming fast, Daphne had bought business-class seats for a trip to France, nearly emptying her savings to pay for them. Then the doctors decided her mother shouldn’t be flying, and they’d settled for a train to Banff, still business class, which had delighted her mother.
“Someday,” her mother used to say, “you’ll sell your books and fly business class around the world.”
Daphne had laughed. “You have no idea how much books actually make, do you, Mom?”
“You’ll be different.”
And now, here she was, flying business class on her very first book tour, and her fingers kept itching to take a photo for her mom. Maybe that should hurt, but instead it made her smile.
She could say her mom would be proud, but her mom had already been proud of her, and that was what mattered.
She’d dropped Tika off with the neighbor, Pam. Then she’d caught an Air North flight—that was the Yukon airline, which she preferred to use, even if it didn’t have a business class.
Chris had met her at the Vancouver airport. Now they were on the flight to LA.
“I have leg room,” Daphne crowed. “And elbow room.”
“Pretty sweet, huh?”
“No, these are pretty sweet.”
She lifted the box of brownies Chris had brought. They were the same kind he’d sent her at release. Last week, she’d considered contacting the bakery and trying to get a box shipped to the Yukon. Good thing she hadn’t, because the brownies hadn’t actually been from there. Chris had baked them.
He’d baked the most delicious brownies she’d ever had.
“Still looking for the photo, though,” she said as she waggled the box.
He grinned and shrugged. “I figured you already had one. The view doesn’t change.”
She wanted to follow up on that. Joke about ways the view could change… maybe if there wasn’t a strategically placed brownie box. She’d punted a ball that he hadn’t ignored but hadn’t exactly knocked back, either.
She hadn’t forgotten their kiss the other day. On a scale of fake-dating kisses, from polite to “totally designed to convince someone you were in a relationship,” that kiss was a twelve. Maybe thirteen.
It hadn’t felt fake. It’d felt as if they were five minutes from ripping off clothing, and with him pressed against her, there was no way she’d mistaken how much he’d been into it. But he hadn’t mentioned it since Lawrence’s call had interrupted them.
At least he’d brought brownies.
“You know what you could have tucked inside instead?” she said as she set the box down. “The recipe.”
“Ah, but if I give you that, then you won’t need me to bake them for you. I know what I’m doing. As long as I hold the recipe hostage, you have to keep me around for the brownies.”
“Fair point,” she said. “I can’t see any other reason why I’d keep you around.”
“Then I guess I should have included the photo.”
