Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
But also . . . not?
Oh, god. When he jumped on the keyboard last night, he must have fired off my email to McGee Whitney Books—the one I was saving to re-read in the morning. “Why are you such a cat?” I ask, annoyed at the critter.
But immediately, I feel terrible for lashing out at him. I reach down and haul his burly body into my lap. It’s not his fault. I foolishly pasted the wrong contents. He just pulled the trigger with his big paws.
Shame engulfs me as I peer at the damage. Email after email from colleagues, from graphic designers, and from my boss asking me to meet her at eight-thirty in her office, even though we don’t open till nine, then one from Twitter.
Why is Twitter emailing me?
The only reason is a possible alert. I set some up to track if my authors trend.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
No. Say it isn’t so.
Agnes Millicent’s post—the one Hazel spotted this morning—is now trending on Twitter. I want to crawl under the covers for the rest of time. But I have to look at the ten-car pileup that’s my career.
I click over to the Internet’s roasting pit, and I recoil as my career goes up in flames.
A lady never names names, so I won’t divulge the perpetrator, but I cannot fathom why I received a tawdry letter this morning from McGee Whitney Books. A lewd, crude, and filthy email about sex and sandwiches. I am so very triggered. Might there be any other publishing house looking for an author who’s sold millions of books for innocent children?
“There’s nothing wrong with sex and sandwiches,” I shout into the void. But there’s no way to make lemonade of these lemons.
A few minutes later, I’ve taken the first step to fixing my error—I’ve sent the correct editorial letter to Blanche. Then I get dressed quickly, swipe on blush and lip gloss, and bang on Ellie’s door. I warned her via text I was coming. No way am I heading into the lion’s den of the office without her eyes checking me out from stem to stern. My judgment is a snake, and I don’t trust it.
When she swings open the door, I gesture to my black slacks and black blouse. This close to hyperventilating, I blurt out: “Does this outfit say fire me on sight, or slap me on the wrist and let me off with a reprimand because I’m such an amazing editor and you can’t bear to let me go?”
I press my palms together in prayer as Ellie gives me a serious once-over, then renders the verdict: “It says I’m dressed for my own funeral.”
Ugh. “I don’t want to give them ideas.” I lean my forehead against the doorjamb and moan into the wood. “Why can’t she just fire me over email like a normal person who hates conflict would do?”
“Or via a text,” Ellie says sympathetically.
“Maybe it’s a good sign she called me in before the office opens—the perfect time for a reprimand and a talking-to before I go about my day?” I ask, my voice pitching up with hope.
“Yes! So put on your hot pink cap-sleeve blouse rather than your widow garb. Think positive thoughts,” Ellie says, shooing me back to my apartment. She’s such an upbeat person. Maybe some of it will rub off on me. “Do you want me to watch StudMuffin? I have a table read this afternoon for Unfinished Business, but that’s it. He can hang out with Gigi McDoodle and me till then, and maybe it’ll just be a normal day at work for you.”
I adore her optimism. No matter what happens in the office, at least I have good friends. “I would love that.”
I pop back into my place to change my shirt and grab my little love. Back at Ellie’s door, I give StudMuffin a firm squeeze, then hand him over and head out.
For the first time in a long time, I send a wish to the universe that I don’t run into Mister Sexy Pants on the way to the office.
The universe delivers that small blessing.
6
The Perpetrator
Veronica
* * *
Twenty minutes and one subway ride later, I arrive at the towering building in Midtown. Above the big brass doors is an illustration of a child reading a book while sitting on the moon, and I stare at it a moment while I gather my nerve.
You can do this.
My shirt’s buttoned, pants are smoothed out after the subway ride, and nothing’s stuck to the bottom of my shoes.
Check. So I swallow some courage and go inside, prepared to apologize profusely then take my punishment.
When I reach the eighth floor, it’s church quiet, but it’s early. The receptionist isn’t even here yet. Swiping my card key, I push open the glass doors, and weave through mostly empty cubicles.