One Year Later
“I’M NOT GOING TO LIE,” my coworker Lori said over morning coffee. “I’ve read it three times. Four if you count the skimming I’ve done over the more scandalous parts!”
The five women sitting around me all laughed in unison while I pretended to be super interested in my coffee cup.
“I read it at Devon’s soccer game,” Sabrina confessed before taking a sip of coffee. “I mean, it’s not like anyone noticed. It was on my e-reader. But I will say this; half of the moms there all had their heads hunched over a device, and it wasn’t hard to guess what they were doing. Heck, even my minister’s wife admitted to buying it the other day!”
Oh my God, I am going to hell for sure.
Several of the women reacted, their laughter rising.
This was our morning routine. Well, the gathering was. The current conversation? Totally new.
We’d been talking around our joined cubicles for years, gabbing over coffee. Sometimes, we’d bring in breakfast, and for a few moments, we’d huddle in close and talk.
Usually, it was fun.
A chance to catch up.
Today? Not so much.
“How about you, Kate? Surely, you’ve read it. You read everything.” Sabrina asked.
I shook my head. “Not everything.”
“Oh, come on,” Ruby said. “You once told me you had read over a thousand or so books on your Kindle.”
It was two thousand, but who’s counting?
“I honestly haven’t been reading that much lately.”
That wasn’t a lie. Since I’d started writing, my reading time had dwindled to almost nothing.
At that exact moment, the nervous, about-to-throw-up feeling I’d been dealing with since the day it released decided to rear its ugly head.
It was the book—my book.
The one no one in the country could stop talking about.
The one I hadn’t wanted to show to a single soul, but someone had managed to convince me into doing the exact opposite.
“Looks like I’m out of coffee!” I announced. “I’ll be right back!”
I headed for the break room, as I listened to them quickly move on to another topic—something to do with Sabrina’s son and his incompetent soccer coach—and everyone was weighing in. I was glad for the chance to get away.
Opening the door to the break room, I discreetly dumped the half cup of coffee I’d covered up in my attempt to flee the incessant book chatter and began the unnecessary process of refilling my cup.
I wasn’t going to drink it. When your stomach had turned to a queasy, churning pile of nerves, dumping coffee on top of it wasn’t the best idea.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure when I’d eaten last, let alone been able to enjoy a decent cup of coffee.
Since the release of my debut novel, Scandal, over a month ago, I’d been a ping-pong ball of emotions—from riding high on life when sales soared into the tens of thousands, making the book an instant best seller within days, to crying tears of joy when my name topped the New York Times and Wall Street Journal to disbelief when my agent and best friend called with offers for film rights and a TV series.
And then there was the ultimate low when word had gotten out that the book had been written under a pen name. People became instantly consumed with suspicion on why such secrecy was needed over an author.
Who is this person?
Why is he or she so afraid to come out?
Maybe it’s a publicity stunt to garner more attention.
My name—or my pen name rather—had been through the wringer. Everyone had an opinion on why I’d opted for such anonymity. And some weren’t very nice. Even my coworkers had their own beliefs on who the mysterious Laura Stone was. Little did they know, they’d been working alongside her for years.
Jane had begged me to stop watching the coverage on TV and reading the articles online.
“It won’t do you any good,” she’d advised.
I knew she was right, but I couldn’t stop.
I had to know what they thought.
I had to know what everyone thought.
Jane had said it was normal. Most debut authors obsessed over reviews and opinions on their book.
“It’s a part of you after all,” she’d said. “Very typical.”
But none of this felt normal or typical at all.
As I made my way back to my desk, grateful the morning chat had ended while I was away, I caught the last few rings from my cell phone that was vibrating across my desk. As I reached to grab it, placing my cup of coffee down on the desk, I saw Jane’s name flashing across the screen.
I’d been avoiding her calls for days, so what was one more?
She’d emailed me about making decisions on foreign contracts and film rights. I’d responded and said I needed more time.
A couple of decades should be enough.
I sat down at my desk, feeling slightly helpless in front of my computer screen, as my phone rang again. I let out an audible huff, the air from my lungs venting my frustration. It was Jane again. I let it go to voice mail.
I understood I was the lucky one. Most authors—even though I was still finding it hard to consider myself as one—would jump at the chances I’d been offered so far.
I was humbled and honored.
I really was.
But, honestly, the fame and fortune had never been part of the plan. None of this had.
“Did you know anyone could just walk right into this building? Has it always been like that?”
I looked up to find Jane standing by the entrance to my cubicle, looking as sophisticated as ever in a stylish blazer and slim jeans that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
“It’s the Student Services building; it’s kind of the point,” I responded, dumbfounded by the fact that my best friend was standing before me.
“Well, it’s weird. If that many people had access to me at any given time of the day, I’d never get any work done. Do you mean to tell me that students can walk right in here and see you?”
I nodded. “If they want. Although I prefer they make appointments. And, before you ask again, yes, it’s always been like this, even when we were here.”
She shook her head. “Barbaric. No wonder this generation thinks they deserve everything.”
I snorted, leaning forward. “This generation? Have you aged significantly since we last saw each other? Are you into knitting and crossword puzzles now? How is the early-bird special these days?”
She rolled her eyes, taking a seat in one of the chairs students usually occupied when they came to see me. It was weird to see her in here. So polished and poised, she’d never been one to step foot in the financial aid department when she’d been a student here. Coming from a family that had more money than I could possibly fathom, she’d been raised on fine dining and luxury accommodations. But she’d never let it get in the way of her own lofty ambitions. And now here she was.
Agent to the infamous Laura Stone.
I sighed, watching her set a large handbag in the seat next to her, not risking the floor. Knowing her love of designer accessories, I wouldn’t have chanced it either.
“You know what I mean. But it does feel like it was a long time ago, doesn’t it? All this?” She waved her hands to illustrate her meaning.
“I guess so.” I shrugged. “But I really never left.”
She smiled. “But you could—you know, leave.”
I held out my hand like a giant stop stop sign between us. “No! Not here. If that’s why you flew all the way across the country, then you’re just going to have to wait until I get off work.”
“But—”
I shook my head as my arms stretched tightly across my chest. “No.”
She sulked back in her chair. “Fine. I’ll be at the same hotel I always stay at. Come find me—”
“At the bar. Got it.”
I watched her stand, admiring how sleek and cultured she was. I never understood how we’d become friends. The sheltered only child and the refined city girl. Who could have known she’d take me under her wing?
“You know, I called you twice before I waltzed in here,” she whispered, leaning down to reach my ear. “I was actually trying to be professional and uphold your wishes about secrecy, but you forced my hand.”
“And was it professionalism that made you board that plane this morning? Do all your clients get the same treatment?” I hissed back.
She grinned. “No, that was just for fun. Getting to see your face when I walked in? Priceless. Tonight though, I’m making you pay for all those missed calls and forgotten emails. Be prepared to work.”
I groaned.
I thought I liked her better before our new partnership.
“I should have known,” I said, my voice a mix of a whine and a shout.
“Known what?” Jane asked, her body bouncing up and down to the beat of the music as we settled into our booth.
The fact that we were seated never seemed to stop Jane from dancing. If there was music, her body always responded.
“That, when you said we would be working tonight, what you really meant was, we would be partying tonight,” I replied, taking another look around the joint she’d chosen, as I tried not to laugh at the way she continued to shake her shoulders to the popular song that was playing.
She obviously didn’t miss the wide, open spaces of Oregon like she had the last time around when she demanded we spend an entire evening at a mom-and-pop restaurant after hiking every trail she could find.
Nope. Tonight was all about opulence and glitz.
As soon as I’d arrived at her five-star hotel, dressed in the same boring suit I’d worn to work, she’d whisked us downtown, ready to have fun.
Well, as much fun as this town could provide.
Fremont, Oregon, was a small coastal town that had kind of become my hometown by accident. After taking a job I never intended to keep for very long, I’d found myself falling more and more in love with this place. Its natural beauty aside, the people I worked with really treated me like family.
And I was in desperate need of some.
“Oh, we’ll be working!” she yelled over the loud music. “We’re just warming up right now.” She held up her double martini with a satisfied smile, proving her point.
Shaking my head, I joined her, raising my glass to hers.
It had been ages since I went out—unless you counted ladies’ night with my coworkers. But that always ended early, so the rest of them could get home to their families.
I had no one to rush home to.
Well, except for my cat, but I was beginning to think he hated me a little.
The waiter came around, and we ordered several hors d’oeuvres to serve as a light dinner, leaving plenty of room for dessert. It was something we’d been doing since college after discovering we were both huge chocolate addicts.
“So, tell me how you’re doing,” Jane said, scooting closer to me.
“I’m fine,” I said, staring into the amber-colored beer that filled my glass.
“Liar. Try again.”
I sighed. It was heavy and almost hurt as the air vacated my lungs. I’d been carrying the weight of this confession too long.
“I’m exhausted,” I finally admitted. “And guilty. Excited, terrified, and probably a hundred other emotions in between.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay? Okay? That’s all you have to say?” I exclaimed, turning to her with surprise. “Please tell me you didn’t come all the way out here to simply say okay. You did all this. Now, make it better!”
She smiled, holding on to the stem of her glass. It was the same smile I’d seen for years, and I was suddenly glad she was here with me.
Even if she was giving me bogus advice.
“You didn’t let me finish. What I was going to say was, okay, that’s normal.”
“Here we go with the normal bit again. It’s normal, is it? Do you think, when Stephen King had his first big hit, he hid in his closet and rocked back and forth like a scared little kid?”
She snorted, and I could almost see the wheels in her head turning, like she was genuinely trying to picture it.
“No, but then again, I don’t know the guy, so I couldn’t really say. And, if he did, do you think his agent would have told me? No! Just like I won’t tell anyone that you hide in your closet.”
“I didn’t say I actually hid in the closet.”
She gave me a hard stare.
“Maybe only once.”
She leaned forward, a blonde lock of hair falling forward in front of her face. She instantly swept it back. “This happens often with those who experience instant fame. They feel they didn’t work hard enough for it, aren’t worthy of the affection and praise.”
“Exactly! I keep thinking I’ll wake up, and this will all be over,” I explained.
“But you won’t, Kate. This is your life now.”
I huffed, slumping back against the booth. “But what if this isn’t what I wanted?”
“Tell me, what did you want? Why did you write Scandal? Why did you send it to me? What was your ultimate goal?”
Her questions were honest, and when I looked up at her, I saw nothing but warmth in her eyes. This was Jane, my best friend, not Jane, the money-hungry agent.
She was indeed trying to help.
The least I could do was meet her halfway.
“I don’t know. I just had to, you know? It was never about proving anything to anyone else.. I guess, in a way, I wanted to see if I was more than ordinary.”
Her expression softened. “You have always been more than ordinary, Kate. Why don’t you see that?”
“Growing up, I was average Kate. Adequate grades, pretty but not a knockout. I never excelled at anything until I stepped into that writing class. When my teacher took me aside after we got our first assignment back, he said he saw something in me. And do you know what I felt?”
“What?” she replied.
“I felt relief, like I’d finally found it—that one thing that separated me from the crowd. Eventually, that relief blossomed into something more, something real, and it only continued every time I sat down to create more of Sandal. I felt like I was doing something rare and unique with my life.”
She nodded. “And that is why you should celebrate it, Kate. You know you can’t keep living like this. You are trying to live two separate lives. It’s never going to work Kate. You can’t continue to ignore this.”
I shook my head, my expression turning grim. “I can,” I replied. “And I will because it’s better if the world only ever knows me as Laura Stone.”
“You mean, it’s better if they never get to know the real you.”
I shrugged, looking off into the distance. “It’s better this way. Safer.”
She hated that word.
Safe.
But she knew I wouldn’t budge.
Not on this.
Jane wasn’t lying about putting me to work. After our food arrived and we were happily on our second drinks of the night, she brought out my file.
“I have a file?” I said between bites.
“You have a big file,” she corrected, plopping it on the table.
“Is this okay?” I asked, looking around. “I mean, will someone see?”
She scooted closer to me. “As much as I don’t understand your overwhelming desire to stay incognito, I respect it. It’s why we are in the corner booth, away from everyone else in the restaurant, and why I picked a place so loud, not even God himself could hear us.”
“We could have done this at your hotel,” I reminded her.
“And wasted a perfectly good reason to get you on the dance floor?”
I frowned. “I am not dancing.”
“We’ll see. Now, huddle close, so I don’t have to shout. You know how horrible my voice sounds when it goes hoarse.”
“It’s kind of sexy,” I countered. “If you ever needed work, you could totally moonlight as a phone-sex operator. Wait, do they still have those?” I asked, remembering those late-night commercials for 900 numbers that destroyed my innocence as a kid.
“Phone-sex operators? Why wouldn’t they?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess I just figured they’d be obsolete with the availability of online porn.”
“And what do you know about online porn?” she asked, her eyebrows rising with interest.
“Nothing. I mean, a little. I had to do a bit of looking around—you know, for book research. So, I know some, but not a lot.”
She just smiled.
“But I don’t think they’re called phone-sex operators anymore,” she added. “You know, in case you need more ‘research.’” She held her hands up, drawing little air quotes as she spoke the last word.
I huffed dramatically. “It really was research.”
“Well, if you have any expenses from your, um, research—site memberships, et cetera—we can reimburse you.”
“What? No! I didn’t pay for anything,” I admitted, feeling highly uncomfortable.
“Ah, a freebie kind of girl. Nice.”
“Oh my God, can we please discuss something else?” I begged, pushing my small, half-eaten plate of hors d’oeuvres away. All this talk of porn at a public restaurant had me feeling slightly queasy.
“Sure. How about film rights? You’ve gotten quite a lot of offers.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “But I still don’t understand why they want to make a movie out of my book.”
“Not one movie. Three. They want to make a movie for each book in the series.”
My stomach lurched. “But I haven’t even finished the series. I just turned in the final draft for the second book, and I’ve barely outlined the third!”
“It doesn’t matter, Kate. Everyone knows this is a gold mine, and they all want a piece.”
The idea of my characters coming to life on-screen sent a sharp thrill up my spine. So far, I’d only pictured vague images of them in my head. But, to see them, flesh and bones, speaking my words, that would be something beyond measure.
Was I ready to take that step?
“How do I know which deal to take?” I asked, “Quite honestly, they’re all more than I can fathom at this point.”
“Well, that’s why I suggest we get a film agent to help us. I don’t know Kate, I’m not sure I’m exactly qualified, and as much as it pains me to admit that, I think it would benefit you to sit down with someone who is. I know an amazing film agent we can contact.”
“No,” I said adamantly. “You know I won’t meet with anyone.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“What if I was seen walking into the office? Or a secretary ratted me out?” I explained.
“I could fly someone in,” she suggested.
I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Jane. I know this is difficult. If you want to speak to someone about the contracts, I give you permission to do whatever you need to, just please, don’t ask me to meet with anyone else.”
I could see the disappointment written all over her face, but she agreed anyway. Watching her fold the cover back on top of the massive folder, she quietly put it in her briefcase and locked it up safe.
“Enough of work for tonight, okay?” she finally said. “What do you say to some dancing?”
My eyes widened with fear.
Perhaps those contracts weren’t so bad after all.