In Case You Didn't Know

Chapter 3

When the sunbeams sneaking through the window start dancing on my face, pulling me awake, I can't help groaning, almost produce a childlike groan, covering my face with both of my hands. It takes me a few minutes to pry the sleep away, and more than a few minutes to convince myself to get off the shower. 

I wrap a towel around my body as I blow-dry my hair, which surprisingly takes less than half of the time that it usually does— the hairstylist wasn't wrong, I am finding this haircut rather practical.

I have a book signing in a couple of hours. As in I am the person signing the books. Holy mother of God. It's been a little over six months since my book, my first book ever, was published and if I'm being quite frankly, I am still waiting to wake up. One day I was an overworked and underpaid intern and the next I was signing a publishing contract; widely gratifying if you ask me but just as frightening. Alexia M. Saunders, Author. Fiction Translator. 250,000 copies sold. Everything happened so fast, that now I'm unable to wave off the feeling that the bubble is going to burst at any second if I slow down; if I don't work twice as hard people will think that I don't deserve it, and therefore judge my work as frivolous. Because that's always a possibility, isn't it?

My muted rambling gets interrupted by an incoming message. I pick my phone from the vanity and see that it is my publicist.

Good morning, Lex. Are you sure you don't want a pick-up?

I quickly type my response, insisting once more that I'll drive myself to the bookstore that the signing is being held at, assuring her that I'm not that kind of famous —I'm not even famous to begin with— for anything weird to happen, and that I, most certainly, don't need to be pampered.

I opt for a simple yet classy white cotton top, paired with mustard-yellow high raise pants and backless loafers. There's still an hour to go when I check the clock, but deciding that I prefer waiting there than here, alone, I grab my car keys and head to the door.

⚜⚜⚜

"Someone's early." Charlotte greets me when I walk inside Volumes Bookcafe, handing me a coffee.

"Thanks."

"Wait," she takes back the cup before I can swirl my fingers around it, "should we be monitoring your caffeine intake?"

"I'm fine!" We both laugh as we approach the back of the room, my hands pressing firmly around my cup to prevent me to fidget. There's a dark-wooden table with a stack of shiny new books atop of it, my framed picture next to them.

"Was the picture necessary?"

"Formalities."

"It would be really weird if they came here for another writer, you know."

"And awkward."

"This isn't going to take long, right?" Although I'm beyond thrilled about this, I'm not sure how long I can stand meeting strangers and receive compliments from them. Charlotte tried to push for a signing as soon as the book was published, but I insisted that I wasn't quite ready for that yet.

"Remember that acting thing we practiced?" I nod my head, taking a big gulp of my steaming beverage. "Pick one."

"Zadie Smith."

"Good choice."

Charlotte and I have developed a good friendship over the past year. I felt intimidated at first when I met her, considering she is a few years older than I am, but with time, over meals, drinks and literature talks we bonded beyond the employer-employee relationship. It was during one of those occasions that she suggested the 'acting game' to calm my anxiety towards public relations, which basically consists on me pretending to be any author of my preference and kick ass in their place.