Page 70 of Rivals to Lovers
Most mornings, they were up together a few hours after that. Sunrise was Wes’s new favorite hour. For the past few months, they’d agreed to wake up at fiveAMto write together before the day really began. Morning pages for two. This promise held true even on mornings when she woke up in her own apartment.Good morning, babe, he would text her.
Good morning, honey, she would text back. They were completely, disgustingly in love, and so happy to be that way.
Writing in the mornings had been the only way he’d finished his adaptation ofThe Proud and The Lost, and it would be how he finished this new romance novel. He’d found that after exploring Clive and Perkins’s tragedy of a love story, he wanted to write the happy ending he wanted to see for queer characters. Logically, he knew that being in a heterosexual relationship didn’t diminish his bisexuality, and the energy he had for this project had only confirmed that fact.
Mo was equally driven to work, mostly because the contract she was ironing out was a three-book deal. He liked mornings like this one, where they woke up in the same bed, bleary eyed and partially clothed, her hair rumpled from whatever they’d done the night before. She would slip on his robe, and he would turn on the fireplace in the living room, and they worked in the early stillness. He believed in her when the words weren’t coming, like this morning. She stared at the computer, and he freshened her cup of coffee wordlessly, not wanting to break her concentration.
At six, they would make breakfast together, and by seven, he was checking emails and she was sitting down with her laptop again. In their coworking space, coffee breaks were sometimes forgone for quickies, and Wes had never been so grateful to be working from home.
On the day of her first editorial meeting after Elena’s maternity leave ended, Jacob had invited Wes to sit in on the call as a former member of the estate’s representation. Yuri would be there, and so would some other members of Elena’s imprint. Mo wore the dress she had bought in Greenwich, the one that she had written a check to Ulla for to stubbornly reimburse her. This Mo, the one he deemed themeet-the-parents version of her, looked ready for her literary headshot. Still, despite the makeup, he noticed her hands shaking before the call began.
He snagged her fingers and kissed those hands—first the right, then the left—and looked at her. “You already know they love you. You already know they love the book. This is the day you get to start making it real for the world.”
She took a deep breath and smiled at him. She seemed steadier. “Will it be weird if they notice we have the same Zoom background?”
“No, but we should probably save telling our love story until we get a film rights offer for it.”
She smacked him with a pillow, laughing, then logged on to the meeting.
To Mo and Wes,
This letter was a difficult one to write, not only because I am not able to write it by hand, as is my wont, but because reading your books has been the ultimate lovely distraction for me these past few months—for me and for Gary both. As my health has suffered, he’s taken to reading them aloud, continuing the tradition you began while you were here. He may say differently, but I think he’s even come to appreciate the original book through reading your work.
By the time you get this letter, I will be unable to answer your questions anymore, and I’m sure you have many of them. I could say, “Add those to the long list that my children have.” I have left them a much longer letter, that one written by my own hand last year whenmy health began to fail. I wouldn’t make Gary write his own praises, like that letter is rife with.
What I’ve learned in my life is that love can drive our work, but it can change it, too. Many people asked me how it was to be born to a famous mother. I often responded, tongue in cheek, I didn’t know what it was like to be born otherwise. What I knew they were really asking was, “Do you think your mother regretted having you, and did becoming your mother stifle her career?” In short, the answer to these questions is “no” and “I don’t think so.” My mother’s love and care for me may have been the reason she didn’t write a second full-length novel, but she might have said what she needed to say withThe Proud and the Lost. More than motherhood, I think fame changed her. It made her feel watched, too observed. She told me once that she liked being my mother because children are the ones who watch their parents least carefully, forgiving them most faults and forgetting most errors.
When I started reading your projects, my heart wasn’t set on selecting either one for publication. By the end of reading both, I knew both must see the world someday, and I hope that this comes to pass. Maureen, I ultimately went with your work because of your tender dedication to dismantling the power structures which have always divided society—now, as much as then, these barriers exist. I also think that my mother would have liked your spirit and sense of humor. She had a way of taking women writers under her wing. While I never inherited her talent, I did inherit her passion for mentorship, and I hope this issomething that you, too, carry into your no-doubt long future career in writing.
To Wes, thank you for bringing me your book, your passion, and your perspective. Thank you for taking the trust I placed in you seriously during your work for the Estate. Know that I’m proud of you, whatever comes next.
Be gentle to one another. Gary told me you are friends now, and I’m glad. God only gives us few equals in this life, and rivals which we respect—even fewer.
Yours,
Estelle Morgan
EPILOGUE
The Adaptation
The Hill had sold out of tickets in less than twenty minutes. The event wasn’t to raise money for the Hill’s upkeep—the estate’s 5 percent of profits from Mo’s book did that work—but to go toward the charity for LGBTQIA+ youth that Estelle had supported in her later years. Even a year after the release ofProud, Mo found herself stunned by its success. Wes, on the other hand, was completely nonchalant. He sat in the front row of the audience as she took questions, arms crossed in the folding chair and glancing up at her with a devilish grin.
“What’s something that surprised you about the release ofProud?” a young woman in the crowd asked.
Mo paused, considering the wide range of answers. “I’m always amazed at the hunger that we have to reimagine familiar stories. Look at how many books and movies we have every year that are remakes, or even retellings of folktales. We have an endless need to know again and again that happyendings are possible or that we really shouldn’t trust wolves we meet in the woods. But I am most happy that my ending, my open-ended version, has been accepted so much by the public. I think having a happy ending doesn’t mean that a book doesn’t have literary merit. If fiction is meant to explore the human condition, which I think is its purpose, it’s okay to tell a story that ends with joy. We experience joy too. We experience freedom from bad relationships and the hope for better ones.”
There was some applause in the audience, and Mo smiled, then continued. “And I can’t promise that every book I’ll write will be joyful. Or a retelling. But I believe readers latch on to books they love and make them a success. I am so grateful to all of you for helping to do that forProud.”
More applause, then another hand in the audience. She pointed at the man, who cleared his throat and asked. “And what do you say about the rumors that the estate is allowing another adaptation to move forward?”
“Oh, well, I cannot comment on news that hasn’t yet been made official, but if there were to be another adaptation, I would fully welcome it. Morgan’s work is resilient, and I can’t see it being dimmed by more retellings.”
The same man spoke again, adjusting his glasses. “And your work? You’re not worried about the direct competition of your book against another adaptation?”
“A little competition never hurt anyone,” she said, eyes twinkling.
After the event, Wes took Mo’s hand and they walked through the outer gardens of the Hill. It was their first time returning to the estate since their weekend together. In the meantime, the peonies had been manicured into a moreformal garden and the fenced-in hot tub had been removed from the property. They walked past the place where it formerly had been, hand in hand.
