January 22, 2018
I tossed and turned all last night, debating on calling Eli. Dialed the number forty-eight times. Never hit Call. But I did get up and finish the manuscript for Bryce. I emailed it to her at 2:38 a.m.
It’s just after twelve in the afternoon, and I’m putting in my earrings as Bryce walks into her spacious bedroom, reading on her Kindle.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I pause. “What?”
Bryce looks up from her Kindle and tilts her head. “Peony Red. Are you fucking kidding me? Alex, you-you did it. This is the story. Raw and beautiful. Poignantly told.”
“You finished it already?”
“How could I not? Your words kept drawing me in.” Bryce comes over to me. “You know Eli is going to read this, right? Just hope he doesn’t turn into a big fucking blubbering mess.”
“How would you know?”
“Oh, love makes you do some pretty weird shit.”
Bryce knows this isn’t my deal—that I’d rather be wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt, tucked behind my computer—but I’m learning new things. Like I really like how this white linen suit fits. She made me go get my makeup done and my nails. The neutral color on acrylics did come out nicely. They’re short and simple.
I stand behind the curtain and watch the line grow to outside and around the block. My hands grow sweaty. I hate being the center of attention.
You’re doing this for Bryce, remember? I tell myself as I go to rub my hands on my pants but stop. White linen, I remind myself.
My lips are plumped with more gloss than color. The man who did my makeup reminded me of Clay.
“Gloss for the win!” he said as he strategically placed it across my lips.
“You ready, champ? Game time.” Bryce smacks me on the ass.
“There’s a lot of people here, B.” I look out to the crowd.
“This is your first signing in a long time. They’ve missed you, Alex. They’re your fans. They’ve been with you from the very beginning. Just think of it as a one-on-one conversation with each person who comes through.”
I nod, trying not to psych myself out. “Right. Just a conversation.”
“Think about Stephen Curry. He’s got to do this all the time. You’ve got this. You are Stephen Curry right now, Alex.” Bryce peers out from behind the curtain, too.
I look at her. My lip curls. “I can’t bite off on that one. No comparison with Curry.”
She shrugs. “Thought I had you.”
Mindy, the Barnes and Noble manager, pops out of nowhere with her shrill voice. “Hiya! Are you readyyy?”
A tiny microphone starts at her ear and ends at her lips. Mindy clicks it on. “Welcome, Alex Fisher fans!” She walks out among the crowd.
Whether I’m ready or not, I can walk through this.
“Game face,” Bryce whispers and pushes the small of my back toward the signing table.
An eruption of cheers and high-pitched squeals moves like a wave, starting at the beginning and moving outside.
I take my seat at the table. It’s beautiful. Fresh lilies. A deep purple linen tablecloth. My books neatly stacked.
Breathe, I tell myself. You can breathe.
“You all right?” I hear Bryce in my ear.
I nod.
I grab my pen, and the first person comes to the table.
I plaster a fake smile on my face. “Hi. What’s your name?”
“Katie.” She pushes the book toward me. “I’m so nervous. Congratulations on the Golden Globes. That’s so wonderful. My hands are sweaty. Do you think you’ll write a sequel to Cannot Bend? That is my all-time favorite book, Alex. Is it hot in here? My aunt Peggy and I flew in from South Dakota yesterday just to meet you. I heard you were spotted in Maine. Were you doing book research?” Katie seems nervous with her rapid-fire questioning.
“I’ve always wanted to go to South Dakota.”
She stops and stares. “What?”
“You said you’re from South Dakota?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit there.”
Her lip curls up. “Really? But there’s nothing there. I mean, unless you’re eighty-two or over and you enjoy rock structures and the Black Hills. I mean, don’t get me wrong, but Mount Rushmore is cool to see once. After that, total snoozefest.”
I laugh out loud.
She laughs, too.
“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Katie.”
“Can I take a picture with you?”
“Absolutely.” I lean over the table, and we pose.
“Thank you so much, Alex,” Katie says and steps to the side. “This is my aunt Peggy.”
She and Katie look identical, minus the twenty-five-year age difference. “Name’s Peggy Lee, Ms. Fisher. Nice to finally meet you.”
But Peggy’s more set in her ways, comfortable in her skin almost.
I sign and meet and sign and meet.
Shake hands.
Take pictures.
Sign.
Meet.
Take pictures.
Shake hands for two hours.
“Hi. What’s your name?” I say, and then I hear his voice.