Page 17 of Writing Mr. Right

“Iamready to—”

Aashiq moves, grabbing the hand holding my coat closed. He pries it away from my body to reveal my first book clutched between my fingers and the material of the inner jacket. “What’s this, then?”

I stare down at it, my mouth opening and closing but no words coming out. Aashiq pries the book out of my hand, then holds it up in front of me. “This is the first book you ever wrote. If you’ve given up, if you don’t care about writing anymore, why did you take this? It could have sat in your parents’ files for the rest of their lives, tucked between other projects you left in your childhood, but you took this. Why?”

When I still don’t respond, Aashiq gently takes my hand. “I don’t want you to do this because of me,” he begins, his voice as soft but as powerful as the rain around us. “And I don’t want you to do this because you think it’s the only way to get rid of me.” He carefully slips the book into my fingers. “I want you to do this for the writer in you whoknowsshe’s not done yet. I want you to do this foryou.” He covers my fingers with his own. “And you don’t have to do this alone. I am here for you.”

My eyes burn, and I lower my gaze to the front cover. The book may be about a white girl, but my very Pakistani Muslim name—Ziya Khan—graces the bottom. Memories of moments in bookstores drift into my head, times I spent staring at names on the shelves and vowing to myself I’d see mine there someday. I think back to my epiphany when I found this book, and after a long earthy wet breath, I lift my eyes back up to meet Aashiq’s. “Okay.”

A sparkle glimmers in his eyes. “Okay?” he repeats, hope lining his tone.

When I smile, the intensity mimics his. “Okay, I’ll give it another try.”

“Yes!” Aashiq cheers, pumping his fist in the air, and it’s such an unexpected reaction I can’t help but laugh.

When Aashiq lowers his arm, he gets right to business. “Okay, now, I know you’ve been querying a novel, so we can work with that. See if we need to adjust your query and first ten pages, or if something about the manuscript itself isn’t working. The best part about having me around is having someone to bounce ideas off who understands your work and can help and… Why are you making that face?”

During Aashiq’s entire excited speech, my expression has slowly turned to horror. Because the manuscript he’s talking so enthusiastically about? The one he thinks is the perfect place to start?

I completely wiped all traces of it. It’s gone.

8

“Well.” Aashiq stares at the demolished remains of my USB drive in a small plastic bag. “I see you really wanted this thing dead.”

We’re back in my apartment, and I’m at my desk with my laptop, desperately trying to recover the files ofThe Longest Goodbye. Unfortunately, it seems I wastoothorough, and it’s all gone. I can’t even use my querying email; I could have gotten the manuscript back as an attachment, but I deleted the entire account. I guess this is why they say never to act under extreme duress—which, in my case, was a combination sugar-and-sadness high exacerbated by a very shitty overall day.

I lean back in my chair and blow out an angry breath, then throw my hands in the air. “That’s it. The manuscript is gone.” I turn around, resting my arms on the back of the chair and settling on my knees. “Can’t you use your powers or whatever to save it from the computer?”

“I can try.” Aashiq sets the baggie on top of my desk, then hovers his hands in front of my laptop’s screen. He closes his eyes, and while nothing happens on my screen that I can see, his brows inch closer and closer to each other in concentration.After a couple of minutes, he drops his arms with a shake of his head. “It’s no good,” he says. “There’s some sort of block that’s restricting me from reaching it.”

I snort. “Let me guess—writer’s block?” I tease.

Aashiq nods thoughtfully. “Maybe so.”

“I was kidding.”

“I wasn’t.” He regards the computer. “Maybe the reason I can’t find it is because you subconsciously don’twantme to find it.”

“Why does it matter what my subconscious thinks?” I ask.

“Because it’s part of you,” he reasons. He runs his pointer finger along his upper lip. “And maybe because I’m part of you, too, I get affected by it as well.”

“Then why don’t you listen when I tell you to do something?” I ask.

He flashes me a cheeky grin. “Maybe that’s your subconscious, too.”

“Or maybe you’re just full of crap,” I retort.

“Wouldn’t that also makeyoufull of crap?”

I chew my tongue. “Touché.”

The sound of the front door opening echoes down the hall and through my open doorway. “Ziya?” I hear Emily call out as her footsteps make their way to my room. “Are you ready to karaoke it up?!”

My eyes widen, but just as I scramble out of my chair to shut my door, Emily stops in the doorway. “Let’s go sing ballads like someone broke our hearts—” she starts, but abruptly cuts herself off when she looks behind me, and I know right away she can see Aashiq. She blinks once. “Oh, hi,” she greets. She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “I didn’t know you had company.”

Emily’s tone radiates the ever-lovely host, though as someone who is well-versed in her voice, I can hear the hint of confusionunderlying her words. Still, she steps forward and holds her hand out to Aashiq. “I’m Emily, Ziya’s roommate.”

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