Page 6 of Such a Good Wife

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I ARRIVE AT THE café inside the bookstore, feeling completely out of my depth. It’s my first writers’ meeting, and there are seven of us, plus the group leader, Jonathan—a scruffy-haired man in his fifties who looks like someone who would go by Jonathan rather than simply John, or maybe Johnny, the sexy, bad-boy version of the name. I guess I think of it that way because I had a high school crush named Johnny who rode a motorcycle. I guess I’m thinking of high school because that’s exactly where I feel like I am. Over the last few days, I’ve sat out on the patio after the house was dark and tried writing. I ended up with a few pages of scribbles, what can only be described as adolescent “poetry” inside my spiral notebook, which I now clutch to my chest as I walk to the writers’ table. I know I won’t share it with anyone, but I’m still embarrassed when I sit down.

Everyone else has laptops or tablets, and one guy is handing out bound copies of something that looks gigantic—a whole novel it appears. They’re all very serious. A couple of them introduce themselves. Vanessa, a young hipster-looking woman with dirty fingernails, asks me what genre I am. Before I have to decide on how to answer her, another man introduces himself as CJ and welcomes me, announcing to the group that “we have new blood.” Apparently they have all been in groups together before and I’m the only newbie. CJ is a tubby guy with a checkered, short-sleeved shirt buttoned up too high. Chest hair and neck fat protrude above his tight collar line. He shoves an open hand at me, and I shake it; he introduces me as if he’s the one who brought me into the group.

I thought it would be more like a classroom setting in school, but it’s just a few of us at a café table. Coffee beans grinding and milk steamers hissing interrupt Jonathan’s opening statements; he’s easily annoyed. He rolls his eyes a lot at the patrons who talk too loudly, and he makes a lot of literary references I don’t get. Some I do. When he refers to his own new short story he hands out as “Kerouac-ian,” I glance around to see if anyone else found his remark to be a bit self-congratulatory, but no one seems to notice, so I just nod, taking a copy: “The Toughest Journey” by Jonathan Wilderman. I skim the first page. “What is Art?” it begins. Jesus. I have a feeling the toughest journey is going to be sitting through a reading of this existential mind-number.

I was hoping for some, I don’t know, relatable, gritty fiction, maybe a little sex or murder. I do not care “how we measure life” or “why we exist” right now. People take down careful notes as he reads his story out loud. I try really hard to think of something to say about it. The less friendly members of the group, Mia and Steve, speak first. Mia says it could use more conflict. Jonathan argues that it was intentional to leave the conflict to the mind of the reader. Steve seems to have developed a more subtle way to critique Jonathan, saying something about how naming his character Jean-Paul Sartre is being a little heavy-handed. I don’t really listen. I’ve zoned out a bit because I notice that, across the store on the other side of the café, people are gathering. There are refreshments out and folding chairs set up. I squint to see what sort of event it is.

When they finish discussing the next couple of stories and get to me, I say I’m still working on mine. I expect them to coax me into reading, and my confidence is actually up a little after hearing Jonathan’s story, but they tell me it’s not required to share if I don’t want. They’re very gracious, and I’m grateful for it.

People begin to filter in and sit in the chairs across the bookstore. A few people are standing in the back. A man walks out to the small music stand and sets an open book on it, greeting everyone using the fuzzy mic. Jonathan slams his pages into an old-timey leather briefcase.

“That’s it, I guess.” He shakes his head.

“We haven’t heard Steve’s work yet,” CJ says.

Steve says he’s happy to go next week, and I look to Vanessa, wondering about the sudden mood change in the group.

“That’s Luke Ellison doing a reading over there. Jonathan hates him,” she whispers loudly.

“Thank you, Vanessa, for sharing that with our new recruit. For the record, I do not hate Mr. Ellison...”

“Sorry,” she starts to say, but he just speaks over her, louder.

“EVEN THOUGH he stole my book idea and made it his own. I am adjourning because it will soon be too loud to focus on our own very important work over the sound of Luke Ellison making money off of stolen intellectual property. Thank you and good night.” Jonathan closes his briefcase and walks pointedly toward the front door in large, awkward steps.

“Wow,” I say, as everyone gathers their things. Vanessa just shakes her head no, and makes a little gesture indicating drinking, like Jonathan’s accusations are because he’s drunk or not right in the head. I smirk, understanding what she’s saying.

“He’s jealous of anyone published. Luke’s not a bad egg. He writes steamy romance stuff which, shocker, has a bigger market than philosophical stories with no conflict.”

“Did Jonathan write romance? I can’t see that?”

“God no, I think Luke’s character had the same name as one of his or something ridiculous. Don’t name one of your characters Bob. Jonathan will sue you.” She laughs and pulls her purse over her shoulder. “Anyhoo. See ya next week.”

“Yeah, great,” I say. When everyone in the group is gone, I pick up a plastic cup of wine at the folding table next to the small audience gathered in front of the romance writer, Luke Ellison. A real published writer, I think. Someone whom our writing group leader is jealous of. It’s exciting. It seems impossible and out of reach to ever imagine myself reading from a whole book I’ve written. He’s in the middle of an excerpt when I pick up a copy of his book from a stack next to the wine cups and settle in to listen.

“He parted her lips with his tongue, and slipped his hands down her trembling thighs, tearing at her clothes, pushing her to the bed.” My eyes are bulging out of my head and I’m sure my mouth is hanging open. What is he reading? I feel a strong instinct to cover the ears of nearby children. I look around in horror to make sure no kids heard that, since we’re only a few feet from the children’s reading area. Then I notice an “18 and Older/Adult Content” sign with a little velvet rope sectioning off the area. Okay. I relax a moment and close my mouth. God, this guy gets a velvet rope. Fancy. I flip his filthy book over and look at the book jacket. Who is this guy?

I read that this is his third novel. His last book, Dark Pleasures, was a New York Times bestseller. My, my. He’s originally from the Boston area, but has lived in Louisiana for a few years to be near family. His photo, next to his bio, looks like a wedding photo he cut someone out of. Not his own wedding, he’s not in a tux, but definitely not a professional photo. Maybe it’s the only one he could find with him in a suit so he photoshopped it. Not a bad picture, all in all. I’m probably the only one who would notice something like that anyway. I wonder why in the world he’s reading at this Podunk place if he’s so successful.

I feel the red blotches forming on my chest as he continues detailing the cunnilingus Dahlia and Xavier are engaging in. I keep my focus down on the book and sip my wine so no one sees how flushed I am. After he finishes reading he opens the floor for some questions. The front row of middle-aged women fall all over themselves trying to ask him smart questions about his “process” and “where he gets his ideas from.” He offers generic, tasteful answers; not what they were looking for, I think. They want something sordid, revealing, but he offers only just enough to satisfy them.

After the question period finishes up, he’s signing copies at the refreshment table. I want to go and get a signature. Even though it’s not the sort of stuff I read, I’ve never met a bestselling author before. I don’t want to put myself in the same company with these ridiculous women mauling him, so I move over to the café counter and buy a real glass of wine while I start to read the first chapter of Summer Heat by Luke Ellison.

Before I can get to the end of chapter one and learn why Xavier showed up to Dahlia’s house, shirtless, to fix the broken air conditioner, I’m startled by the sharp squeak of the stool next to me moving. When I instinctively jerk my head up with a start, I see Luke sitting down and ordering a glass of wine himself. He is sitting right next to me.

I close his book, and look the other direction. I didn’t pay for it. Oh my God, I just wandered off with it, and now they’ve closed the display table. I probably look like I stole this friggin’ book. He looks down and notices it.

“Oh, you’re reading it?”

“No, I’m not,” I blurt, and push it away. Oh my God, I’m a total moron.

“I saw you in the back, but I didn’t see you at the signing after, so I didn’t imagine you would be reading it—my book—is all I meant.”

“I’ll pay for it! I mean, I planned to pay for it. Of course. I know it looks like I’m some person who steals books, but that’s—I mean it’s not a library, right? I know that. I was waiting for the—you know—the mob to thin out. I’m sorry.”

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