Behind the Scenes

Chapter One

If you'd told me my book would be turned into a movie back when I was struggling to put the first words on paper, I'd have laughed until I peed my pants.

Which is why I still can't believe that's what happened.

Through all my sleepless nights pounding on the backspace button, through every well-intentioned speech about how I could do so well at a normal job if only I applied myself, and through every mental breakdown spent sobbing into my best friend Millie's t-shirt, there was one thing I held onto, and that was this: that if and when I failed, I wasn't letting down anyone but myself.

It was immensely gratifying.

Back when I was still in school, my mom used to wield that against me like some sort of moral weapon. Ha! If only she knew what little faith I had in my writing abilities, perhaps she'd have tried a different tact. You know, something like "believe in yourself," or some other life advice you'd find inside a graduation card.

Following that display of grandiose self-confidence, you're probably wondering how we got here in the first place. For starters, I love torturing myself.

I'm kidding...sort of.

When I finally held my novel, published and bound, in my hands, Mom said, "I guess living with your head in the clouds finally paid off." It turns out, dreams are surprisingly tough to give up on. That, and I've only ever been good at one thing, so I'll be damned if I don't do everything in my power to make a living off it.

Which is not something I'd recommend to anyone else.

Make a living, she said?

Some days I survive solely on bread. BUT I wrote a BOOK!

Speaking of which...

The blare of the taxi's horn forces me from my reverie as the driver slams his palm on the centre of the wheel and yells curses in Armenian. My publicist-on-loan, Deandra, doesn't even flinch as she taps away with manicured nails at lightning speed on her smartphone.

I glance at my own fresh nail job where there are already chips in the shellac. Being able to function with fake nails is a superpower I do not possess.

"Reader's Digest is a go," Deandra says over the click-clacking of her nails on her phone's screen. "I just got an email confirming your telephone interview tomorrow at eleven."

"I thought The Talk was tomorrow at one?" I ask. Deandra nods her head in confirmation.

"You'd better talk fast," she adds.

"No pressure," I murmur. Deandra keeps tap-tap-tapping away as New York City skyscrapers zip past us outside the taxi's windows. I press my forehead against the glass to try to get a better look. From this angle, I can barely see the sky, a sliver of pale late-summer blue behind the city smog.

My own phone pings amidst the sounds of Deandra typing, our driver muttering angrily over the traffic, and car horns blaring all around us as cars try to squeeze their way through the city. It's the first notification I've gotten since taking my phone off airplane mode over an hour ago.

New Message, it reads. I double tap the icon and the WhatsApp conversation with Joe opens up.

Just landed. Excited we'll all be together again. See you tomorrow. xoxo

My stomach does a little flip-flop and a silly smile spreads across my face. I tap my thumb against the reply box and watch the cursor blink in and out of existence a couple times before starting to type out a response.

Rest well, I type. Jet lag sucks!

As soon as it's typed, I shake my head and delete it. Way to almost completely blow your cool, I think. Instead, I hold down on his message until the reactions pop up, then I click on the heart.

There, I think satisfactorily, and put my phone back to sleep. That's the way any totally platonic colleague-slash-friend would reply. Nothing weird at all.

I bite my lip and stare at the reflection of the taxi in the sleek black glass of an office building while we wait at a red light. Now if only I didn't turn into a puddle of mush every time I'm near him, everything would be Gucci.

Unfortunately, when it comes to my crush on rising British superstar and the lead in the film adaptation of my novel, Joseph King, I have very little chill.