First Draft Romance

CHAPTER FIVE

So, like, saying that I feel like I'm going to shit my pants is probably an understatement.

I stare blankly at Mr. Grim-Tie-Sad-Jowls, frozen in time.

He glares at me a moment still, then turns right back around, as if he never said a fucking thing. But my mind is reeling. My heart is thumping away in my chest, and ugh, I feel like I'm going to puke? Is that normal? Also, crying. I could totally go for a nice cry right about now.

The barista smiles reassuringly as she hands me Roz's card, and I try to smile back. My brain is on fucking fire though.

My gaze follows Mr. Grim-Tie-Sad-Jowls out the door and down the sidewalk, his gait as slow as it is lifeless, as if he didn't just drop an audacious dick-bomb on me.

I'm awkward and stiff and gawky the whole way back to the table, and when I sit back down, I stumble. When I look up, Catalina and Roz both glance away quickly, but I know: they most definitely saw that.

I am going to perish. Fucking. Perish.

One of the baristas—a peppy, pretty girl with twinkling eyes and cute jeans and the ability to at least pass as normal—brings our items over one by one, and I drink my matcha latte in sullen silence, my shoulders hunched forward. I should have said yes when she asked if I wanted a sweetener with my matcha. Hindsight is twenty-fucking-twenty.

Just, "glum." Glum is probably how I look right now, which is at least better than a snotty, soaked mess.

Honestly, I'm not entirely sure why I'm even here. Catalina and Roz continue to go over contract stuff and book stuff and gossip stuff (Jay Kristoff is apparently back at it again), and I so badly want to listen, but I just, I can't. Brain. Fire. Sweaty eyes. My eyes are sweaty. Not casually brimming with tears, no ma'am. Sweaty, sweaty eyes.

Okay but, what a fucking asshole was that guy? Like, the audacity to just say that to someone? I'm sorry, but who asked? No one. That's right.

I was having an okay time before. I was mc'chillin' with my very-good-very-great friends Rosalind Lindbergh and Catalina Matamba. I was gonna ignore this morning with Gina by learning everything there is to fucking know about Roz's upcoming writing business stuff and about her newest book and about her, and it was going to rock, but no. Now, I'm too busy feeling like I've been socked in the face.

Not a great feeling, honestly.

Roz keeps glancing over at me, and I hate everything, because I know I'm not subtle with my facial expressions. I probably look like I've just eaten a deep-fried dog turd and can't decide exactly how shittily I feel about it. She has yet to actually say anything, though, which is good.

Was that guy right? Do I need to be careful with her?

She is rich. And wildly successful. And wildly beautiful. Seemingly, very, very wildly awesome. But to be that wildly rich and wildly successful, she and Catalina might be a lot more cutthroat than they let on.

Maybe this is one of those "never meet your heroes" instances. Ugh. But, like, I'm working for my hero. Flarp.

What if Gina was right? This job? You only took it because it's with your fucking idol.

I don't think I did. It was just a good opportunity. The best fit for me, and the best option I had with my fucking creative writing degree. Right?

Now I'm second-guessing everything. Roz, Catalina, Gina, me. Myself. I. What if Gina is right? What if I'm just a useless, selfish fuck-up? What if—

"Um, Marcie? Marcie." I don't register Roz's voice at first, not until she's leaning in close to me, and she gently lays her hand atop my own.

I glance over at her, startled. Our faces are immeasurably close. I blink at her and feel a heavy tear fall from my lashes. My free hand flies to my cheek. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.