Must Love Books, page 18
Fiction, she knew, was a realm where platform mattered far less. She’d heard the stories of famous authors who’d amassed hundreds of rejections when they were first starting out, only to be plucked from anonymity by one publisher who believed in their book. But that didn’t mean fiction publishers wouldn’t also latch on to established authors in the same way Parsons did. Publishing was a business, after all.
Nora knew there was nothing wrong with this. The revenue from a book that was sure to sell gave publishers the freedom to take chances on the less-marketable books, the ones that may not appeal to a broad audience. And Lynn, who clearly saw room for improvement in this author’s first novel, might even enjoy the challenge of shaping his next into something better.
Still, Nora couldn’t help the disappointment settling under her skin at the realization that the novel she’d been so excited to work on was, in a way, the fiction equivalent of the dull moneymakers Parsons pounced on.
But she could be wrong. This manuscript was the only novel Nora had read at all in the last couple of months, distracted as she was by Parsons, Weber, and her mental state. Contrite astronomers with strong erections and a poor understanding of female anatomy might well be what the literary market was missing.
She remembered Andrew’s mock outrage the other day, how he’d told her You ruin books for me. She had Parsons to blame for tainting her view of publishing, but her foray into fiction at Weber showed just how far the disillusionment had spread. Even in novels, now, she could see the nuts and bolts. The strategy lurking beneath.
After breakfast, Nora ducked into a bookstore across the street to be among books and forget, for a minute, how they were made. As she stepped through the doorway and breathed in the paper-ink smell, she tried to channel her childhood, the joys of trips to the bookstore—squished into a shapeless beanbag with a stack of books next to her, settling in to do the important work of deciding which two books she would get to take home. Preparing her arguments for why her parents should bend their rules and buy her a third as well. She won about half the time; the key was finding a book that sparked her parents’ interest too. Her mother could usually be convinced by books with some sort of acclaim, best of all a Newbery Medal foil emblazoned on the cover, while her father was partial to silly plots or funny covers. There was a satisfaction in convincing her parents why a book was more important than their rules. It felt like she was letting them in on a secret: books were more important than anything.
Nora roamed the aisles, thinking about her childhood of negotiating and convincing. She read back covers of new releases and flipped through pages, bowing her head just enough to breathe in an inky whiff of new-book smell. She read the first page of every book she touched until she found one she didn’t want to put down, written with a charming quirk that spoke to her. Nora carried it with her as she continued through the store. The only person she needed to convince to buy it was herself. Her argument against making the purchase was sound: she shouldn’t buy a new book if she hadn’t been reading in months. But, she protested to herself, maybe this will be the one that gets you back into it. The thought filled her with longing, had her studying the book in her hands like it was her best hope. How good it would feel to be herself again. Just like that, she won another argument.
In the kids’ section, she found a roll of flower stickers. She thought of Andrew telling her last weekend that he wasn’t making much progress on his manuscript. Her joke about motivating him with stickers had earned her a glare. She didn’t know what reaction a gift of stickers might elicit, but she desperately needed to see it. Nora picked up the roll.
Next to this, she noticed a display of bookmarks. There, in the bottom corner, was a bookmark in the shape of an ice cream cone, a reminder of seven-year-old Andrew’s first career aspiration. She grabbed that too, telling herself as she took these items to the counter that none of this meant anything. She knew better than to let herself feel hopeful about anything she was doing with him. Nothing good could come from a beginning forged on a desire to use him for a promotion.
And yet. She couldn’t stop herself from it, taking her phone out of her pocket to ask if he was free tonight. It was cheating on her mission for the day, kind of. Seeing Andrew wasn’t revisiting what used to make her happy. But if the theme of the day was happiness, Andrew certainly counted.
Dinner tonight?
You’re really not good at planning, are you? he replied.
Or maybe you’re bad at spontaneity, she wrote. I’ll send a save the date next time.
You better. And I can do dinner tonight :)
Chapter Twenty-One
Andrew’s apartment was in the same state of intellectual slovenliness as before. An overturned box of crackers spilled onto the papers on his desk. Books and plates cluttered the coffee table. His jacket was thrown over the back of the couch.
She didn’t, however, see Andrew anywhere.
“Hello?” she called out.
He emerged from the kitchen. “I just cleaned up my desk!”
She decided not to tell him about the crackers.
He gave her a greeting kiss. It was a pleasant surprise for a second, and then it stirred guilt in her for letting them progress this far. “Do you want anything to drink?” he asked.
“No, I’m good,” she said, taking a seat on the couch. “And you don’t have to clean up for me.”
He sat next to her. “I guess not. Why don’t I show up at your place sometime, and you can clean up for me?”
“I have a roommate.”
“I know. It’d be nice to see where you live.”
She couldn’t imagine Andrew at her apartment. She didn’t want to imagine him there, the place where she spent more and more of her time staring at the ceiling fan, thinking of reasons to live. His powers of distraction would be lost on her there.
“Maybe,” she said, pretending to consider it. “But I like not having a roommate around here.”
“It is a plus,” he agreed. “I kind of miss it sometimes, though. Having someone around to talk to.”
She studied him. He was looking at her in a way she couldn’t place.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“I skipped work.” A smile took over before she even finished speaking. This was possibly the most excited she’d been about any day in recent memory. She relished the way Andrew looked her over, like he was making a new discovery.
“Really?”
“Really. I watched TV. I had waffles in a diner. I went to a bookstore. It was a good day.”
“What prompted this?”
“Um.” Nora pretended to think. “It was Beth’s idea to take the day off. And then, I guess—” She glanced at Andrew, knowing the thrill he would take in learning what his clickbait article inspired. “I guess in that article you sent me, there was something about revisiting what used to make you happy, and it wasn’t a completely terrible idea.”
Andrew saw through her lukewarm wording immediately, a satisfied grin crossing his face. “I knew you’d like that article. Do you want me to sign you up for their newsletter?”
She took in his exaggeratedly wide-eyed expression and tried to ignore the smile tugging at her mouth. “No.”
“Add you to their mailing list?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up, a threat to make good on his promise.
“New topic,” Nora insisted. Andrew begrudgingly set his phone down. “How’s the manuscript coming along?” she asked.
He made a face. “Well, after I followed your advice and deleted some of the research-heavy stuff, I have even less of it, so thanks for that.” He shot her a look of pretend annoyance.
“Always happy to help.”
Andrew couldn’t keep the act up for long. “Really, though, your notes were helpful. It needed some trimming. I did keep one interview snippet because it had a quote I really liked, but with the other stuff gone, I think it flows a lot better now. Thank you.”
His words were like a hug, sending warmth blooming through her. She still hadn’t sent Lynn her comments on the dystopian novel, so unsure of what she could say, other than she hated it. Between Henry Brook and his demands, and Rita asking about Santos at every turn, this small moment of feeling like she did a good job was something she didn’t even know she craved.
“How’d Rita take the news?”
Nora hesitated. “What?”
“Did you tell her I’m not signing with Parsons?”
“No—but I will.” Watching his gaze fall to his lap, she remembered his hopefulness in the café on Piedmont, his relief that the book between them wouldn’t be an issue once it was finally off the table. His words, still ringing in her head: We could actually be us. “I will,” she said again, more firmly. “I just haven’t been able to get to it yet. We have more important things to do at Parsons than talk about you all the time.”
“So you say.” His brow arched playfully, but she could still see traces of disappointment in his eyes. She pushed away her thoughts of Rita, Parsons, and how to lure him to Weber, searching for something—anything—to chase the disappointment off his face.
“Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering, “I got you something.” She reached down for her purse and sifted through it, bringing out the small bag from the bookshop. “It’s stupid. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Andrew’s gaze lingered on her as he took the bag. He reached into it and pulled out the box of stickers.
“Stickers,” he said.
“You said you hadn’t been writing for your manuscript,” she said in a rush, feeling the need to defend her silly purchase. “Stickers used to motivate me when I was a kid.”
Andrew looked at Nora like she’d just told him a terrible pun. “I did work on it for the last three nights in a row,” he said.
“All right, there we go. That’s three stickers.” Nora sat up and took the box from him. One by one, she peeled the flower stickers off the roll and placed them on Andrew’s shirt while he watched patiently: one on his shoulder, one near his clavicle, the last over his heart. She leaned back against the couch to survey her work. “Do you feel motivated?”
He looked down at his shirt, looked back up with a smile. “You have no idea how much.”
She felt her smile fading the longer he stared. A thought crossed her mind that this gift she thought too silly might somehow be more than she meant it to be. She still needed to bring him around to Weber, but she couldn’t tear herself away from this moment here. Now. The sticker on his shirt and the pleased look on his face.
“There’s one other thing in the bag,” she said. Andrew stuck a hand in and took out the ice cream cone bookmark. “I thought your seven-year-old self might appreciate it.”
He pulled the bookmark out of its plastic sleeve and set it inside a book on his coffee table. “Every version of me appreciates it. Thank you.” He was gazing at her again, maybe even meaningfully.
Nora looked away and scratched her elbow, thinking of a way to change the subject. “I started reading the parachute book. It has me doing this self-inventory exercise, making a list about what I want in a future job.”
“I think that earns you a sticker,” Andrew said, picking up the roll. Nora watched with interest as he peeled one off and stuck it over her heart. “How’s the self-inventory going?”
Nora pried her gaze from the sticker on her chest. “I have a whole two items on it.”
“What are they?”
“Um—” She paused, reluctant to voice them. Her two small words seemed so insignificant. “I want to work with books, and I want to have input on things.”
“Perfect.” Andrew peeled more stickers off the roll. “Books,” he said, planting a sticker on her right shoulder. “Input.” He placed another on her left shoulder. “Anything else?”
She watched the roll of stickers in his hands and sifted through her thoughts. Hearing Andrew say her feedback on his manuscript was helpful gave her a different kind of satisfaction, compared to how she felt making comments in manuscripts. It felt one-sided sometimes, sending comments into the void and never quite being sure how seriously they were taken. But talking it out in person stirred another feeling. There was a more personal element to it, a chance to understand their point of view and see how they felt about hers. Even her childhood bookstore persuasions with her parents were like that, picking a book she thought would be most likely to get her mother or father on board with bending their two-book-maximum rule, watching the interest flicker in their eyes as she stated her case. Gathering their feedback, listening and learning.
“I think there’s something I like about working with people in person,” she said. “I like that it’s having input but also getting their response.”
Andrew pursed his lips and eyed Nora like something didn’t add up. “Interesting.”
“What?” she asked, drawing back under his stare.
“You did not seem thrilled when I gave you an opportunity to work with people at the conference.”
Nora thought back, then gave him a skeptical look. “You mean the unplanned book signing you ambushed me with?”
“Some might call it that, yes,” he said, chin in the air in a show of haughty indignance.
“Then let me clarify that I don’t enjoy stampedes. But I think I like working with people one-on-one. I think that’s something else for my list.”
“Another victory.” A soft smile lit Andrew’s features as he peeled another sticker off the roll and pressed it on her chest. Nora looked down at her stickers with more pride than she’d felt in a while.
Was it stupid to be touched by something she bought as a joke? If that was the case, Nora thought, looking from the stickers on her shirt to Andrew and the three stickers he wore with pride, they were both foolish, grinning idiots. And when he asked what she wanted to do for dinner—dinner was, she remembered, the whole pretense for coming over in the first place—she scooted closer and kissed him without a second thought.
He brought a hand around her waist, drawing her in. But as the kiss became longer, slower, he pulled away. “Really, though, what about dinner?” he asked.
She kissed him again, crawling into his lap and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“You had eight hours to figure out dinner,” Andrew said. And, breath warm on her skin as he laid kisses along her collarbone, he murmured, “At least with the avocado sandwich you were trying to feed me.”
Nora laughed into his neck and pulled back to take in this image of him, pupils dark and dilated, smile triumphant at getting a laugh out of her. She realized too late that this might count as some kind of romantic gazing, except that wasn’t what she was doing, because that wasn’t something she allowed herself to do with him. But if she was gazing—which she wasn’t—it was only because of the goofy, idiotic mood the stickers had her in, and that wasn’t her fault.
But she couldn’t stay in the idiot bubble forever. Later, when the coffee table was littered with Chinese takeout cartons and the smell of scallions hung in the air, Nora looked over from the movie they were watching and saw Andrew yawn. His elbow rested on the arm of the couch, chin in his hand like he couldn’t keep his head up on his own. The image jolted her into realizing it was nearly midnight. Before he opened his eyes, she sat up and said, “I should get going.”
“You don’t have to,” he said, blinking a little sleepily, and that wasn’t something she would dwell on either, how cute he looked when he was tired.
She stood and knelt by the door to pick up her purse. “The trains will stop running soon.”
Andrew joined her, leaning against the wall. “There’s a sticker in it for you if you stay.”
She just shook her head, afraid that if she spoke, she’d stumble on her words and end up agreeing to something that would take them further down this precarious path she couldn’t trust herself on. She knew—and had known—that she wanted more than a signature from him. But wanting him for distractions and banter was very, very different from the line she was walking tonight, the gifts and gazes that hinted at infinitely more. Going down this path when there was so much he didn’t know about Parsons, Weber, and the fog in her head was reckless.
But still she stayed, lingering in the doorway, watching him. He brought her in for another kiss, cupping her face with his hands. When he pulled away, he stroked her cheek with his thumb, a gesture so intimate that it snapped her out of her trance.
She turned her head just enough to make his hand fall away. If he knew it was intentional, he didn’t show it.
“Thanks for dinner,” she said, mustering a quick smile. She left before she could change her mind.
Outside, the cold air put goosebumps on her skin. She looked down at her shirt, the stickers still on it. She was starting to feel, each time she thought about Andrew, that she was past forgiveness. But worse than this were the moments she thought about him as she was falling asleep, wishing he was next to her, wishing she met him outside of Parsons, in another time when she was more herself. This was worse than unforgivable. It was laughable.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next day brought a return to reality: cramming onto a BART car as sweat glued her shirt to her skin, settling into her desk chair, and watching her inbox load a flood of emails like a personal assault.
One name appeared more than most.
The only thing more dangerous than a man with a bad idea was a man with the power to make it happen. Henry Brook was inspired, he told Nora in one of their calls a couple of weeks ago. After catching up on the business team’s books—thanks to the decades’ worth of tip sheets, proposal documents, and even full manuscripts Nora had sent him—he now knew what the business team’s next move should be: conflict resolution seminars.
