First Draft Romance

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Roz leans her head against my shoulder. The ends of her vanilla-scented curls tickle my nose; her cheek is warm against my skin.

"Come on, Marcie," she says. "You can do it."

"Roz...." My hand hesitates. "I—"

"I don't bite," she teases, turning her head so it's now her chin on my shoulder. "Well, much." I glance down at her to see her staring expectantly up at me. She grabs my arm—lightly enough, sure, but it still manages to send tingles down my spine.

I sigh, looking up at the ceiling. I feel so hot and sweaty and terrified. This isn't what I pictured this moment would be like. My face, the back of my neck, and my ears are probably a bright crimson; my palms, beyond just "sweaty."

"You don't have to be shy," she mutters.

"Oh my god, fine. There."

I press 'send' on the email.

"Ah!" she says, squeezing and shaking my arm excitedly. "Ahhh! You did it!"

"I diiid iiiiiit," I tell her, wishing I could sink into the couch cushions. "Yay for me."

I was up late last night, implementing the last of the character arc fixes Roz and I talked about at Bee-Yell-Tee. The chemistry feels stronger now—also, Isabella feels like more of a real person. I decided to give Isabella her own version of my grandpa, a grandmother who dies right before Telma's first cheating experience. Once I did that, it was crazy how quickly came together.

She frowns at me, sitting up slightly. "Oh, come on," she says. "It's a good thing! Are you scared of me reading your book, Marcella?"

"I think I'd be stupid not to be scared, Roz." I shift my laptop onto the other lumpy cushion of the Deja Brew couch. This is our first time coming here together—ever since she kind of maybe freaked out about spotting Maybe-Mr.-Grim-Tie, she's insisted upon trying out new coffee shops. When she'd asked me for suggestions, I'd blanked and suggested the Brew before I even knew what I was doing.

Daniel has been silently freaking out the whole time, of course. I keep locking eyes with him behind the counter—which is so distracting, because he's making the most insane of faces right now. Wide eyes, mouth ajar, eyebrows shot up straight to the ceiling. He keeps mouthing, "ROSALIND! LINDBERGH!" from across the coffee shop. There's no noise, but I know he means it in all caps.

"Oh, come on, Marcie," Roz says, her hand moving from my arm to my hand. Her soft fingers tickle mine before they grip lightly. Her thumb brushes against the back of my hand. "It'll be great. And did you look into Catalina's recommendations?"

I tilt my head and try to ignore Daniel's frantic silent, spastic movements from behind the bar. I know what he's thinking: I'm holding Roz's hand. In public. And she doesn't even seem to mind my disgracefully sweaty palms.

She gives it another supportive squeeze, and somehow, I'm able to find it within me to squeeze her hand back. Like she's saying, I'm here, and I'm saying, Me too.

Yeah. So. I would also be freaking out if I were watching us right now.

"I did," I tell her slowly. Catalina heard a pitch of my book from Roz—the one I've been working on since I graduated, the one that I'd considered a total failure. But, after she gave Roz a few names of agents she knows who would probably love it, I ballsed up, and spent the weekend looking over my query package and scheduling out emails. "I sent them out this morning."

"You could have sent me your query letter," Roz says. "I wouldn't have minded looking it over. Your initial chapters, too."

I try to smile. "That's okay," I promise meekly. "It's ... as good as it can get." I don't mention that my manuscript has obviously derived a lot of inspiration from the vibes of Roz's. It would be embarrassing to have her read it. I don't want to see her spot all the little ways her influence has leaked onto my pages. It's not like I copied anything from her—but I use her book, The Wonderful Ellie Latimer, as a comparison title, because there are some obvious, marketable similarities.