Page 1 of Writing Mr. Right

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Dear Ziya,

Thank you for your patience as I took my time with THE LONGEST GOODBYE. There’s so much to love about this manuscript—Haniya and Arsal are such wonderful characters who have great chemistry, but unfortunately, I didn’t connect with them and the story quite enough, so I regretfully have to pass on this one. Don’t forget this is just one agent’s opinion…

My eyes glaze over the rest of the email. A sigh rips through my chest as I already know what it says—a whole lot of nothing. I swear, I might as well tattoo the literary agent’s words to my eyeballs with the number of times I’ve read them.

But at least this rejection on my book is better than the last one I had; that agent literally pulled an “it’s not you, it’s me” and that somehow was way worse than if he’d just ghosted me.

I slide my phone back into my pocket as I walk down the street on my way to work. I take a sip of my coffee, and the bitterness of the bean juice goes well with the bitterness strungthrough my body. I knew I shouldn’t have checked my email so early in the morning. I made it a rule not to check my query email—the account I use to send out pitches of my book and sample chapters—before 5 p.m. But I saw the notification on my phone as I exited the subway and climbed the stairs to the street, and I thought maybe, finally, after a year of sending my book out to agents, this would be the one who would offer me representation. I matched so perfectly with their wish list for a romance novel—fresh characters, distinct voice, and feel-good ending. I hoped this would be the agent who would gush about my characters and my writing. They’d tell me how excited they were to work with me, and I’d finally get my writing career started.

But no; it’s another cookie-cutter response:I couldn’t connect to the characters or the story.What didn’t they connect with? The small-town setting? The young woman returning home for the first time in years since she’d left to attend college? The guy she’d left behind and promised to come back for—who might have been her true love, had she decided he was worth staying for?

My plan in this latest round of queries was that each time I got a pass from an agent, I’d send out five more, but that sounds mentally exhausting, especially after the near year and a half I spent outlining, writing, and revising this novel.

Maybe I should hold off on sending it and see if there are some edits I can make to the book. Or maybe it’s actually fine and it really was just subject to the agent’s taste. Or maybe—

A giant truck zips past me, its tires way too close to the curb. The driver goes right through a huge muddy puddle, which shoots upward and splashes all over me.

My spine curls as the dirty rainwater splatters my clothes. The cold water mixed with the dropping temperature in the air immediately causes the warmth in my body to evaporate. Goose bumps erupt all over my skin as the now-wet fabric of my shirt clings to my waist. I glance down at the outfit I took so long to settle onthis morning—a brown pencil skirt with black pantyhose, and an orange sweater, which is now soaked and stained with watery mud that looks too close to something else I don’t want to think too much about. An earthy smell sticks to me, but not in a good way. If I were a male love interest in a book, I’d smell like the swirl of smoke from good firewood, or like I brushed my skin with a bristle of pine needles every morning. Instead, I smell like a bear who spent the afternoon rolling around in a patch of grass.

The short strands of my hair, previously carefully styled with a flat iron so they gently framed my cheekbones, now cling to my face in wet clumps. At least my mouth was spared; I don’t want to know what the combination of dirt and coffee tastes like.

“Damn it,” I hiss under my breath. I’m about a block away from my office building, and it’s way too far to go home and change. I pick up my pace, my heels clacking against the concrete. I swear each person I pass gives me the same grimace that says,Wow, sucks to be her.

Oh well. At least I’ll be behind a desk all day. I think getting splashed by a truck is actually better than running into street performers. Brooklyn, thankfully, doesn’t have its own version of the Naked Cowboy to terrorize tourists and commuters alike like in Times Square, so I can get to my office in relative peace.

I finally reach the building at the end of the street. Shivers rack my body as I pull the door open. I ignore the strange glances from the receptionist and head straight for the elevator. While inside it, I try my best to squeeze the water out of my hair, which isn’t easy because I have a bob cut and the ends fall to just below my chin. It’s already drying, the frizz adding a crunch to the consistency of the strands.

The elevator goes all the way up to the tenth floor, to the New Scope Law Office, where I’ve worked for the past six years. When the doors open, I carefully step out onto the sleek floors so I don’t slip in my wet heels. I tread cautiously, waterstill dripping from my body onto the floor. The last thing I need on top of everything else that’s happened this morning is to—

A shoulder bumps into mine as I round the corner, and it jostles the coffee in my hand. The hot liquid splashes onto my shirt, further staining my sweater and scalding the skin underneath. My arm rears back, a yelp caught in my windpipe at the stinging pain. I catch a glimpse of the person who ruined my outfit, but it’s one of the women who works in the doctor’s office next to ours. She doesn’t even bother to glance back as she makes it to the elevator and presses the button.

I huff, then examine the damage to my outfit. Blotches of brown leak through the material, and the scent of caffeine clinging to my skin is so strong it’s like I took a bath in a coffee maker, which I guess is better than smelling like a feral coyote, but there’s definitely no time to go home and get changed now.

Perfect. The one day Ireallyneed to look good, and I look like a drowned rat.

I trudge forward, pulling the glass door to the office open and stepping inside. My job as the legal secretary means I’m usually here earlier than anyone else so I can set up the office for the day. Flicking the lights on, I set my purse down on the long sleek-white front desk, then I sit in the large black chair and turn on the computer. As I wait for it to boot up, I try to do some damage control on my outfit. I duck into the private bathroom and blot some of the coffee stains out and stick my shirt under the hand dryer. It helps, but not by a lot.

I can’t do anything else, so I get to work. There’s a hall next to the desk that leads to the six offices set up for the lawyers and the other employees, plus one large conference room. The people who work in each office generally maintain their upkeep, but I still step into each one and straighten everything out, fixing papers and throwing away food wrappers, empty drink containers, and used napkins. I make sure the conference room is clean and presentable, and then I go back to my desk.

As I start opening programs for the day, the door opens. My boss, Colin Jones, strolls in.

Crap. He’s early today; he usually comes in during the midmorning. As the top senior litigation attorney, he basically runs the whole show, but the show at the office runs without him because 90 percent of the time, he’s in court.

He’s typing something on his phone when he comes in, but when he finally lifts his head, his eyes widen as he takes in my ragged appearance. He raises a gray brow. “Uhh, Ziya? Everything okay?”

Trying hard not to cry, I offer him my best smile. “Oh, I got splashed by a puddle,” I say as casually as possible. “And then I accidentally spilled coffee on myself. I know it’s not the most professional outfit, but I didn’t have the time to go home and change. I’ll stay behind the desk as much as I can today so clients don’t notice.”

Colin nods slowly. “Right. Do that. And maybe tie your hair back so it doesn’t appear so scraggly.”

I frown, peering down at the strands of my hair and toying with the ends. He heads for his office, but at the last second, he pivots, stopping in front of my desk. “Oh, by the way, have you rescheduled the court date for Lea Greene?” he asks. He readjusts the jet-black tie at his throat, which is the telltale sign he’s got a case that’s troubling him. He’s the “antsy when he gets frustrated” type.

“Yes,” I answer. “I applied for the movement of the date. I’m just waiting on the judge’s response.” I point in the direction of his office. “We’ve also gotten a few new cases—I took the liberty to go through the highest priority ones and left them on your desk for you last night.”

“Oh, thank you.” Colin sighs with relief. He rubs at his wrinkling forehead. “I swear, these days it feels like I’m being pulled in all kinds of directions.” He lowers his hand with ashake of his head. “That’s why I’m so glad you’re so good at your job. I wouldn’t have my head on straight if you weren’t here.”

I perk up at the praise. I can’t help it; I’m a daughter of immigrants, and we thrive on being told something we do is good. But also, this seems like the perfect segue for something I’ve been wanting to ask Colin for a long time. I stand up, running my fingers through the straggly strands of my puddle-soaked hair and holding in my sobs of despair. I subtly take in a steadying breath, then say, “You know, the yearly budget review is coming up for the firm.”

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