Chapter 44

Elle

“Elle? Elle Dunning?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Jacinda Walters at Book Smith Literary Agency.”

All the blood goes out of my extremities and I have to sit down at the kitchen table. Jacinda Walters is one of the agents I sent my book to—and not just one of the agents, but the one whose description I loved the most, the one who I’ve most let myself fantasize might be my agent.

“I read your proposal for Splitsville, and I absolutely loved it. I thought we could talk a little bit about what you’re looking for in an agent, and if it seems like we’re a good match, we could talk about the possibility of me offering you representation.”

I open and close my mouth several times, but nothing comes out.

“Elle?”

“I’m just—shocked. In the best possible way.”

Jacinda laughs. “Most people are. I rarely call someone and have them say, ‘I’ve been expecting your call.’ ”

That makes me laugh, and immediately, my nervousness and shock abate. “No, not at all. But I’m exceptionally glad to receive it.”

“Well, and I’m equally happy to make it. Splitsville is terrific. Are you working on anything else at the moment?”

I manage to pull myself together to tell her about myself—that I’ve been a freelance journalist for years; that I would love to see Splitsville find a home with a traditional publisher and be brought out in hardcover and paperback; that I’m not working on any long projects at the moment but that I have, in the course of my journalism work, stumbled over plenty of things I think would make great books; and that Jacinda is, in fact, my first-choice agent. At the end of the conversation, Jacinda offers me representation. She wants me to write longer chapter-by-chapter summaries, but once that’s done (and I’ve signed an agency contract with her), she’ll be ready to send the proposal out on submission to publishers.

“And they’ll want it?” I blurt, then instantly regret it. Jacinda’s being incredibly nice, but she’s still vetting me for things like professionalism and confidence—the traits that would make a writer successful in the world—right? I don’t need to let her know about my self-doubts.

Jacinda laughs, a long, delighted chuckle. “Absolutely. Why, don’t you think they should?”

“Well, I love it,” I say. “But I wasn’t sure—do you think there’s room for another post-marital-disaster memoir after Eat Pray Love?”

She makes a derisive noise. “Oh, sister, there is plenty of room. I was one of those people who just didn’t get the Eat Pray Love thing. It left me cold, you know? I could see what she was getting at, and I know there are women who say that book saved their lives, and I don’t begrudge it, but there are plenty of women ready for a book like yours. Charming, self-deprecating, funny…”

I blush, even though she can’t see me. Charming! Self-deprecating! Funny!

“I almost didn’t send it,” I blurt out.

Apparently my filter is broken. Or maybe I just like Jacinda that much. The last time I opened my mouth and so much stuff fell out was the night I met Sawyer.

But far from hanging up, Jacinda makes a noise of assent. “Writers tell me that a lot. I think sometimes the scariest ones to send out are the best. Can I tell you something kind of personal?” She laughs, almost nervously, which calms my own nerves, oddly. “I feel like I’ve known you for years, not like I just met you over the phone twenty minutes ago. Maybe it’s reading your chapters. You build trust with the reader exceptionally well.”

“Of course!” I tell her, meaning it. “I feel like I’ve known you for a long time, too.” Which is absolutely true. If—as Jacinda says—I build trust with the reader, Jacinda’s got a gift for building trust with the writer.

She draws an audible breath. “I’m eight months off a brutal divorce, and it was really healing to read your chapters.”

Oh. Of all the things I was expecting, somehow this was not it. I’ve helped someone. And it means something to me that Jacinda wants Splitsville not just because she thinks a publisher will want to buy it or she’ll make money if readers flock to it, but because she has a personal connection to it. To me. The realization comes with a wash of warmth. “I’m, um, glad to hear it,” I say. “I’m really glad to hear it.”

“I think your book is going to help a lot of women. Maybe even on the same scale as Eat Pray Love.”

Holy. Shit.

“But you said you almost didn’t send it,” Jacinda says. “What changed your mind?”

“My friends. My BFF kept harassing me, and then—this guy I was dating—”

It doesn’t seem to properly sum Sawyer up, in any way, shape, or form. We were never really dating. And he was never just “this guy.” But whatever. I plunge onward. “I was telling him all the reasons I didn’t think anyone would be interested in the book, and he convinced me not to let that stop me.”

“Smart man,” Jacinda says.

I flash back to that night: the two of us, together at Il Capriccio. I can feel the strength of his interest in what I’m telling him and the depth of his faith in me. I can see his strong, rugged features, his broad shoulders, and when he leans in to earnestly address me, I can even smell his cologne.

I can hear his voice, too, the low rumble of it.

I miss him. I hate that it’s true, but I miss him so much.

“He said, ‘You can talk yourself out of anything.’ And I realized that’s what I was doing.”

“You were shooting yourself down before you could get rejected,” Jacinda says knowingly. “Happens all the time. In fact, it’s one of my jobs not to let authors do that.”

Authors. If my book gets published, I’ll be an author, not just a writer.

“Well,” says Jacinda. “Whatever chain of events led to your sending Splitsville to me, I’m grateful for it. You take your time thinking about my offer of representation. As much as I hate to give you this advice, you might want to check in with some of the other agents you sent it out to, because sometimes if they know someone’s made an offer of representation, that will prompt them to at least read it. But obviously I very much hope you’ll choose me.”

Of course, I’ll do what she’s suggested, but in my heart I know someone else would have to really blow me away for me to choose that person over Jacinda. I don’t say that, though. I just say, “You’ve been really wonderful. I’ll think it over, and I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

And then I hang up and dance like a lunatic around the kitchen.

When I’ve calmed down, I review the conversation in my head. It was so much goodness at once, I’m completely overwhelmed. I dwell first on the things she said about Splitsville—that she loved it, that it had helped heal her, that it would help other women. That it was charming, self-deprecating, and funny.

Whatever chain of events led to your sending Splitsville to me, I’m grateful for it.

Hattie! I had to tell her.

And Sawyer. I wanted, desperately, to tell him. You can talk yourself out of anything. It’s not talking yourself out of the stuff that matters that’s the tough part. He was part of the chain of events that had led me to Jacinda…

What had Jacinda said?

You were shooting yourself down before you could get rejected.

I freeze, and my hands feel suddenly cold.

You can talk yourself out of anything.

You were shooting yourself down before you could get rejected.

I mentally travel back to that night, trying to see the scene through objective eyes. The journal on the floor, the journal in my hands. My words, and his. What had I said?

You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to apologize. You were honest with me the whole way. I just thought—

When you love someone the way you loved Lucy, you don’t just—two years isn’t very long, is it?

I think it might be too soon. For both of us. You still love Lucy, and that’s okay.

The thing is, Sawyer, I just don’t think I can do it again—be with someone who wishes he were with someone else.

And what had he said?

Almost nothing. He’d answered “no” to my question about two years. And he’d told me he cared about me—even after I told him I didn’t think I could be with him.

He’d told me he’d miss me.

And that expression had flashed across his face, which I hadn’t recognized at the time but which could have—easily—been hurt.

Oh. God.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God.