Chapter 4

Chapter 4

By the time I reach the pristine welcome mat of my apartment door (did Olivia really just clean it again?), I’m exhausted. Head-to-the-squashed-toes-I-limped-home-on exhausted. The wicked heels I spent the day in poke out from the thin leather of my laptop bag where I thrust them the second I managed to snatch my tennis shoes from my lower desk drawer on my way out of Pennington.

Eleven p.m.

With the busyness of toting Oswald around all day and the whole issue of stashing, then retrieving, my manuscript, I’m left with only one measly hour to look over my final edits and send it in. And then, of course, there is the whole issue of what to do about the scribbling all along my beloved manuscript’s margins.

Despite how much my heart is racing me forward, I pause. Press my ear close to the door. Listen.

There is the whizzing of one Peloton bike inside. Just one. Not two. I exhale.

But then I check my step tracker and see the number there: 6670. I feel my rib cage compressing again.

Perfect.

I can only hope she’s so engrossed she doesn’t notice me.

My key slides into the lock, and as quietly as possible, I inch the door open. Directly across the room Olivia cycles on her bike beside the second, currently unoccupied one, sweat beading on her model-high cheekbones, a book propped on the handlebars that looks thick enough to hold open a bank vault. She’s so deep into it she doesn’t look up. Good.

I haven’t always lived with my sister. No, for over six years Lyla and I shared a tiny garage apartment. We’d scored it from my mother’s Belmont colleague, who was on the hunt for a pair of bright young students who prized the peaceful solitude of historic little homes over, say, belching contests in the hallways. And we did love it. Loved it with every fiber of our being. Until they sold the house. And with it, our garage-apartment bungalow. Which for Lyla worked out seamlessly, as she married her college sweetheart just three months after we got the boot. But as for me, it left me dangling.

And looking at house ads after splitting $550-a-month all-inclusive rent for six years was, let me say, the worst reality check.

So, after being told by several prospective landlords to “Just ignore the smell, we’re bombing for roaches again” and “Now, just know the biohazard cleanup specialists will be coming in on the fifteenth to clean up that blood left over from the . . . [clears throat] previous owner,” I resorted to calling my mom—who within twenty-four hours had Olivia calling me, offering up her spare room. Now, mind you, Olivia’s lips were pressed together pretty tightly when she said, “No, no, I don’t really need a room dedicated to a home gym,” when I questioned her. But, given it was move in with her or back with my parents, I didn’t press that much.

See? You do for family.

The Cade way.

I tiptoe toward my room and am just reaching the wall-to-wall bookcase, the only space in the apartment that is allowed to exist in disarray—with cookbooks and classics, books on French and dictionaries in Spanish, thick volumes on law and ancient hardcovers on the principles of economics, and even a few glossy ones on fitness poking out from the lowest corner, all stuffed in a puzzle-like manner both horizontally and vertically—when Olivia calls my name. “Oh, Savvy!”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Turn and see her pulling out an AirPod from one ear.

I loathe being called Savvy.

I hesitate. “Nearly,” I lie.

Olivia lifts an eyebrow. Her spindly legs slow. She checks her watch. “You’ve got an hour left.”

Olivia sighs. “I can make up for the shortage if you need me to, Savvy. I mean, as long as it’s not too far off—”

This is what you get when you live in an apartment with your hyperactive, perfectionist sister. Olivia is three years younger than me, graduated summa cum laude from Vanderbilt at twenty, and has been working on dual PhDs in law and economics since August. Because why get one doctorate when you can get two?

And this whole tracking-steps thing is Olivia’s baby. The Steps-4-Life Step-a-thon runs each February. One month of tracking and logging steps every day in order to reach a monthly goal. What’s even better? You can’t fib. It syncs from your watch to your app, and then you’re stuck. Being honest. With an obsessive-compulsive micromanager for team leader. Who lives with you. And monitors quite literally, your every move.

It started three years ago after Olivia got the flu for a week and was in bed for five days. So what did she do? Sit in bed for five days watching Frasier reruns? Make horrible online purchases at 1:00 a.m. only to wake up to Amazon boxes on her doorstep she couldn’t recall ordering? Sleep?

No. What Olivia did was use the time stuck in bed as a springboard to brainstorm, figure out the logistics, secure the money, build the app, and ultimately put the stamp on Steps-4-Life, her own nonprofit organization dedicated to conquering seasonal depression by encouraging togetherness, healthy weight loss, and self-esteem. To Olivia, every problem can be cured with exercise. And as people weren’t exactly stampeding with enthusiasm over her first idea, Ultra-Marathons-4-Life, she eventually whittled down her expectations to “meet the lower people [aka normal humans] where they are” and settled on walking.

In three years Steps-4-Life has raised over three million dollars and has become a yearly tradition in over thirty-six states across America.

I, too, had the flu that week three years ago. I ended up with a humidifier in the shape of an elephant, three shirts from Aerie, and a crate of dark chocolate from a fair-trade organization in Ghana.

Oh, geez. Now she’s looking down on me as if I’ve enlisted for war, arrived at the front lines, and am considering hightailing it for the woods.

I don’t have time for this.

I’m just about to open my mouth to tell her I’m sorry that I was stuck in a sensory float pod with an author, trying not to hyperventilate, and I’m sorry about the banquet afterward—all the while knowing she still won’t be able to fathom why I didn’t just run in place at dinner while chewing my asparagus—when a voice speaks up from behind.

I stiffen as I feel his breath so close it lifts the hairs on my neck. He must’ve come from the hall bathroom, but to me, who didn’t hear him over the whizzing of the Peloton bike, he might as well have emerged from thin air. My reaction would’ve been the same either way.

I feel the lightest touch of his fingers on my hip, and it takes everything in me not to jump a foot. Do not move, I tell myself firmly. Do not react.

But despite myself, my heart thuds against my chest as he begins to move past me in the slim hallway.

As if in slow motion, Ferris turns his head and looks down at me. His long, careless brown locks drift into his equally brown eyes. His lips turn up slightly. “And by the way, hi.”

No.

I ball my hands into fists at my sides and try again. I’d take one giant step back, but my back is against the wall, and he seems in no hurry. “I didn’t know you were here, Ferris.”

Bringing people together, yeah, right. If I didn’t know the creator of Steps-4-Life myself, I’d say it was designed by desperate family therapists and divorce lawyers needing to drum up business.

I take a breath and exhale and, after a second’s hesitation, turn the lock.

Ferris is my ex-boyfriend.

Ferris is Olivia’s fiancé.

I try very, very hard to be an adult about it.

And while I would typically spend the next two hours on the couch downing extra-buttered popcorn while the whizzing of Pelotons goes on behind me and calories sweat off the two of them like raindrops, proving I really am com-plete-ly fine in the company of the man who has consumed all my firsts—first date, first kiss, first love—I have more pressing issues to attend to.

Like this.

Gingerly I take the manuscript out of my messenger bag.

Set it on the bed.

Press my finger to my lips.

Stare.

Well, as I see it, I have three options.

One. I can take in the full fact that someone (a) was in my little sparrow room today, and (b) read my manuscript. But that would lead to a nervous breakdown, and I’m too pinched for time for that.

Two. I can table the issue that my beloved room is now compromised for a later date (say, 3:00 a.m., when I’m staring at the ceiling) and instead look at this from the angle that is most natural to me. This is just someone’s edit. Someone’s typical edit for a manuscript I’m looking at. I’m an editor. I do this for a living. This is not a big deal. All I need to do is read through as many comments along the margins as I can in the short span of time I have, find what comments I align with, and edit the manuscript accordingly.

Three. Ignore the crazy bat who dared touch my manuscript and send it on to Claire.

I inch toward the manuscript and play with the rubber band.

The handwriting looks pretty pretentious, doesn’t it? Cursive and short in width yet still making a show of all the t’s and d’s and b’s. All in a bold black ink. The dot of each i is missing, as if the writer was too busy and important to worry about such insignificant details. Pretty annoying, actually. I have a sudden itch to dot each one.

My eyes, having squinted to avoid reading any of the actual words, widen slowly, taking the sentence in.

Start is weak.

I stare. Start. Is. Weak.

What does that mean, the start is weak?

This is the first page, practically the first paragraph! The mystery editor hasn’t even gotten to the good part where they meet.

My eyes drop to the bottom of the next page, and I read the note there: Unoriginal meet.

Unoriginal? The pair of them getting their drinks mixed up at a coffee shop is wildly original. And what makes it particularly cute is that they order the same drink. Not some “Oh, dear me. Here’s your black coffee. I don’t know how I mistook it for my venti Frappuccino with extra whip” nonsense you see in some romances. What’s so cute and, most important, realistic is that they both mistook the barista calling out their double Americano with pumpkin spice as their own! It was a natural mistake, given the order was identical. And only when they see the other person’s name on the cups they’re holding do they make this really adorable remark to each other.

I was actually so proud when I thought of it—

Nauseating and directly plagiarized from every Hallmark movie in the last ten years.

Okay, that’s it.

I flip through the pages, cheeks growing hotter as I read each word along the margins.

Slow beginning. Get to the meat. Give readers a reason to stay. If you bore them, you lose them.

Awkward word choice?

Drop this paragraph.

We don’t need this character.

Rabbit trail, stick to the point.

Change of POV.

Have you considered shifting the manuscript to present tense?

Alright. That’s enough.

I slam down the pages I hold, my whole body flaming. Only as I see myself in the mirror opposite do I realize I’m panting as if I’ve sprinted a mile. But, honestly, who is this person?

Deluded, that’s what they are. Deluded and haughty and a hater of all things happy. And most significant of all, dead wrong. Dead wrong. The person probably doesn’t even like romance. They’re probably like every other editor at Pennington, poring over books about existentialism and the history of dog shows like it’s the most riveting stuff in the world.

On impulse, I pull open my closet door. The metal rail screeches as I push the overstuffed mass of sweaters, shirts, and dresses to the right, revealing a large cardboard box on the floor. With one hand pressed to my clothes, holding them back, I open the crisscrossed top of the box and throw the manuscript inside.

There. Discarded like all the other pieces of junk in my life.

In one seamless move, I slide the closet door shut and slip into my desk chair. Click on the mouse as the desktop screen comes to life. Tap swiftly on the keyboard to draft an email.

Realistically, there’s no way I can get to all the little markups I made today anyway. Most of what I noted was just second-guessing actions and word choices. Phrasing. It’s better to just follow my gut and send it. Better not to make any hasty moves. Better to trust the writer I was when I was working slowly and clearheadedly without a deadline instead of the one now exhausted and confused and feeling pressured to change it all in the last second of the game. And really, this is exactly how my authors say they feel before they turn in their manuscripts to me. I should pat myself on the back. I’m doubting myself, ergo I must be a real writer after all.

Clinging to that short and momentary encouragement, I press Send and hear the email zoom off toward its final destination before I can backpedal.

For a long moment, I stare at the computer, hardly able to believe what has just happened.

Such a small act, just one little button pressed, and yet . . .

Done.

No turning back now. No regrets whatsoever. What-so-ever.

It’s an unsteadying feeling. A feeling I wasn’t expecting.

I stand up from my chair, and as I do so, my eyes are drawn toward the closet door. The bitterness is starting to settle in. Whoever took my manuscript not only read it without permission but stole my moment too. I’m supposed to feel elated right now. I’m supposed to feel like a load has finally been lifted off my shoulders. I’ve been dreaming of this particular moment for months now. No, years. But now? Now all I feel is a growing sense of panic.

So much for my celebratory day.

I hear a light knock on the door. “Sav?” Ferris’s voice is gentle on the other side. “Sav, you sure you don’t want to come watch the movie? I’m about to start some popcorn. If you come, I promise I’ll keep her from making you do steps.”

I take a breath. Turn my eyes from the closet door and rise up from my bed, hauling along all the emotions of the day as I drag my feet toward the door.

I’ve done it.

I’ve sent my manuscript, and that’s the thought I’m going to choose to hang on to, no matter what.

Celebration.