Page 6 of The Write Off

The bar is quiet for a Saturday night. Aside from the stagette sisters tearing up the dancefloor, the place is almost empty. I assume the wintery weather is keeping people in.

As if making the same assessment, Phil nods towards the exit. “Why don’t you take off? Sarah and I have got this.” I spot the other waitress/bartender, Sarah, wiping an already clean table across the room.

I nod, a bit disappointed how the evening has turned out. I close out my cash and head toward the break room, patting Phil on the back as I go. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“It will be hard, but I think I’ll manage.”

I grab my coat and bag and bundle myself up for the cold. I didn’t need to ask Phil why he sent me home and not Sarah. She’s a few years older than me, but she’s got two kids so she needs the money. Thanks to a hefty inheritance left to my brother and me by our grandparents, I’ve never needed to work. I do it because I like it, because it gets me out of my head and makes me feel useful.

A woman can only spend so much time on her own with her fantasy manuscript. I need conversations. Connection. Distractions.

I’d bartended for years back in Maine and applied to Dive two weeks after settling in. I loved the vibe of the bar even more than I loved the name. Its patrons are mostly in their mid-twenties to early forties. Most people that come here are past their college days. They just want a place to grab a drink with friends and avoid their responsibilities for a while. And that’s exactly what we give them.

I push open the door and step into a winter wonderland. It’s still snowing steadily, but the wind has died down making it look like a scene from a Hallmark movie. Fresh white snow covers the sidewalks and streets making them almost glow in the darkness.

After a short and uneventful walk, I arrive without ceremony at my apartment. Slipping my feet from my boots, I cross the room and turn the television on even before I take off my coat. Not because I want to watch anything, I simply can’t take the quiet. Jimmy Fallon and Paul Rudd are recreating some music video from the 90s and I leave them to it, hanging my damp coat over the back of a chair in the kitchen.

I dig through my purse until I find my phone, intending to send Betty a text that I’m off early, but I think better of it. It’s almost eleven and she’s no doubt still out with my brother. I have three new voicemail notifications. Deciding I’ve got nothing better to do, I put the phone on speaker and press play, smiling to myself as my mother’s voice fills the small kitchen.

“Hello, Sweetheart! Just checking in. I know you’re probably at work. Your father says Boston is getting quite a bit of snow today.”

I snort at this. My father has semi-retired from his law firm after having a mild heart attack last year. Since he can’t golf in the winter, his new favorite hobby is monitoring the weather on various radar and satellite tracking sites.

“I hope you’re having a good weekend! I will try you again tomorrow. Much love. Oh! Sadie is expecting again! Francine says she’s much sicker this time than she was with Anabelle, so they think it might be a boy. I’ll talk to you soon, love!”

The way my mother’s voice went from happy to ecstatic when she brought up my cousin’s pregnancy was not lost on me. Lately anytime anyone pushes a new drain on Earth’s natural resources, my mother can’t seem to contain her glee. Last week she sent me a meme of a disgruntled looking newborn asking if it was Friday yet. I didn’t know what the appropriate response was, so I sent her a thumbs up emoji and hoped for the best.

I grab a beer from the fridge and wait for the next message to start.

“Riiiilllllla PIIIIIIIIINE!” Whether on the phone or in person my agent, Angie, always says my name the way Oprah introduced her guests. “I love you. You know that I love you and that I would give my life for you. But if you don’t set up an appointment with your editor, I’m going to have to fall out of love with you. JK, my love is eternal. But please, meet with the man. I don’t remember why you hate him. Regardless, I need you to get this done. Okay? Thanks! Byyyyyyeee!”

I don’t hate Logan. I simply dislike him more than anyone I’ve ever met before. When my previous editor left, I told myself to have an open mind. After all, she’d been wonderful and I was sure whoever they chose to replace her would be just as good. Maybe even better.

Instead, I got a narrow-minded hack who started tearing Of Cinder And Sand apart before we’d even exchanged pleasantries. In his first email to me the subject line read ISSUE and the contents focused on a minor timeline inconsistency in the second part of the book. It was minuscule and easily fixed. So minor that both Tanya and myself hadn’t noticed it before. While I’m grateful that he did point it out, he could have done it in a way that didn’t imply I was an idiot.

I delete Angie’s voicemail not wanting to spend another moment of my wasted evening thinking about Logan.

Alas, I’m not that lucky.

“Hello, Rilla.” The moment the deep voice of the caller reaches my ears, a blanket of goosebumps envelops my bare arms. I try to convince myself that it’s the cold beer in my hand and not the caller who caused them. “It’s Logan Carmichael. Again.”

My spine prickles at his use of my first name. It’s something about the way he says it. The extra emphasis on the “R” that sounds almost like a growl. He used to address me as “Ms. Pine” on his voicemails, but since our meeting two weeks ago, he’s used my first name exclusively every time he’s called. This is the fourth message he’s left.

“As I said in my last message, you still haven’t scheduled a meeting with me. I had to communicate this to Bryce Thompson today and he seemed…disappointed that we haven’t made more progress with your manuscript.”

“Shit,” I say aloud even though there is no one to hear it. Bryce is Logan’s boss. Or maybe his boss’ boss? The publisher with his name on the building. He can kill my book deal if he wants to.

“Bryce wants to meet with both of us on Thursday, March 7th at 2:00 p.m. I feel very strongly that it would be in both of our best interests to have a one-on-one meeting together prior to this. Name the time, Rilla. I will clear my schedule. Best.”

“Fucking hell.” I place the untouched beer on the counter and run my fingers through my hair. I hadn’t meant to put off meeting with Logan for this long. I’d only meant to screw with him a bit, to let him know that he can’t just summon me. But the irritation in his voice became stronger with every ignored voicemail and I was enjoying it a bit too much.

It’s not like I haven’t been working on the edits he’s requested. I spent the better part of several days wracking my brain on how to give the publishers what they want while still preserving the world I spent years building.

I’m still pissed at him for calling me a mess. I don’t even know who he said it to. Not only was it unprofessional, it’s simply untrue. Though he certainly isn’t the first to make the same false assumption of me. I’ve been hearing a similar rendition of the same song since I was in grade school.

I’m not a mess, I’m just messy. There’s a difference.

The seventh of March is twelve days away. As much as I’m not eager to see him again, I know that walking into a meeting with Bryce before the two of us have met again could potentially spell disaster. I pick up the beer and toss half of it back in one long pull before setting it back on the counter. I grab my phone and send Logan a text.

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