Page 70 of How to Write a Rom-Com

Elle says it’s the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done.

When Anne walks into work that morning, I immediately drag her into a conference room.

“Please tell me you’re pregnant with the chef guy’s baby. That would be the best plot twist ever,” she says as I lead her by the arm through the glass door. I slide it closed behind me.

“What? No. And no it wouldn’t.” I look down at myself. “Do I look pregnant?”

“Of course not, but a little excitement around here wouldn’t hurt,” she says, rolling her eyes.

I shake my head. “Anne, I have to tell you something, and I don’t know how you’re going to react, or even if it’s something I’m allowed to do. But here it is,” I say, my mind working faster than my words. “I wrote the book.”

“What book?” she replies immediately.

“The Hudson Hollow book. I’ve been working on it all summer. And I know it might be a legal problem because technically I was taking notes and working for the imprint, but I just felt like it was my story to tell. I’ve always wanted to write; I’ve tried in the past. And after Ruby said no to it, I just, it just came flowing out of me.” I try to gauge Anne’s reaction on her face, but she’s neutral. This feels like the biggest news I’ve ever shared in my life, and she hasn’t even batted an eye.

“The first 200 pages are in your inbox, and I would love it if you would read it, but I understand if it’s a conflict of interest.”

Anne doesn’t say anything for a solid minute.

Seriously, sixty seconds never passed so slowly.

The whole time, she stares at me, squinting one eye like she’s trying to evaluate my credibility. She purses her lips to one side, holding her chin between her fingers.

Ninety seconds.

“Anne—”

“Lucy,” she finally starts. “Please stop being in such knots about this. I think it’s great. It’s a little unorthodox, sure, but unorthodox is kind of my style. Before we talk about conflicts of interest, let me at least take a look and see if it’s any good.”

Blunt, but okay.

I nod, exhaling for the first time in what feels like all morning.

Anne takes all week to read it.

Yes, I understand that it’s not a one-chapter sample, but we’re editors, folks, we’re inherently fast readers. If we read something we like, we can have it done in a day. Two maximum.

But no. Anne waits until Thursday, a whole four days after I sent her the partial to tell me to schedule a meeting for us the following day. Making it Friday before she plans on even discussing it with me. Five. Days. Later.

I am in agony for those five days. Well, to be fair, Elle is probably in more agony because she has to put up with me. I pace. I snap. I groan. I barely sleep which just makes me crankier. I seriously reconsider my dream of being a writer, because I may not be able to handle the anticipation of critique all that well.

I may have been drinking too much coffee this week as well. My intake might have increased to compensate for the lack of sleep. Whoops.

By the time I make it to the small conference room with Anne on Friday morning, I’m ready to burst. Knowing myself and my inability to keep my mouth shut when it should be, I start talking before my butt even hits the chair. “It’s just a first draft,” I start, wringing my hands like a wet towel. “I can change and move things around—”

Anne raises a finger at me.

I close my mouth and clench my teeth. She takes her seat and calmly places her notebook down in front of her. Maybe she only looks so calm because I am so visibly not. I take a deep breath to try to still my internal vibration that is out of control. I place my hands on my lap and try to appear much cooler than I am.

“I really like it so far,” she says, placing her hands on the table to mimic my position.

“Really?” I say in disbelief. Anne nods and opens her notebook.

“It’s lovely. The characters are well-developed, it’s steamy but not too much to be in keeping with the small-town audience that we usually have. I like the backstories and the setting is just perfect. You clearly took your time writing down everything you saw while you were there. It shows.” I smile proudly. There is truly nothing better than working hard and being recognized for it. “But—”

Whoop, there it is.

I give Anne a weak smile and nod, urging her to go on. In my wildest dreams I didn’t imagine walking into this meeting to no criticism, so a “but” at the end of the compliment is more than palatable.

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