Page 3 of Tender Heart
Of all the insects that might scream “stalker”, a butterfly would have been my last guess. In other circumstances, a butterfly would be sweet. Almost quaint. But after the third dead blue insect found its way into my mailbox, each with cryptic andsomewhat concerning notes, they lost all appeal. That was over five years ago.
The number of butterflies that have had to die to feed his obsession...
I knew becoming an author would shove me into the public eye. But never in my wildest dreams did I think I, Eve Holland, would find myself on the receiving end of unsolicited, borderline terrifying letters from a fan. And, with my contract up for the second time in twelve months, I can’t bring myself to mention it to my editor. Livvy has enough on her plate. My tardiness has already stretched friendships.
I push on the glass door to the publishing house. Every inch of me relaxes as the warm air mills around inside. I pull my beanie from my head, shoving it into my bag. The front desk girl has her eyes locked on me already. I’m sure they have a most-wanted list in the staff room for less-than-ideal authors. If I’m not at the top of that list, I’m betting I’m in the top three at least.
“She’s waiting for you,” the young girl coos with a saccharine smile.
“Thanks,” I offer and make a beeline for the elevators.
As the confined ascending space slows at the fourth floor, the doors swoosh open on a ding. Hesitating, I grip the handles of my tote, willing my feet forward.
The doors start to close. I rush from the elevator and turn left. The welcoming balm of books, of print and paper pulp—despite the books not actually being produced here—makes me smile. It’s almost enough to quell the anxious knot in my stomach. I sit on a brightly colored seat outside my editor’s office, knowing all too well what she is about to say.
The staff of the fourth floor mill about their daily business, not paying me heed. Just as well; people have never been my strong suit. Unless they’re fictional, of course. My bag—no, my phone—buzzes. I dive a hand into the tote, hunting for it. When Iuntangle the phone from my mess of a handbag, I flip the device over to find a text from Allie.
“Good luck this morning. Remember, you’re a fantastic author! They should be grateful they still have you. Love you xx.”
Typical Allie, always rooting for me, ever since we met the first day of high school. She’s been my best friend for so long. I can’t imagine my life without her. Yet, I still haven’t found a way to tell her about the letters, either. I?—
“Evie! Morning. Come on in, love.” A soft, rolling accent, maybe Irish, finds me.
Livvy stands in her doorway wearing a knee-length wine-colored pencil skirt and a black top. Her short hair is neatly styled, her black-framed glasses propped on said styled hair, over a smile that’s wide and genuine. She has always had a way of setting me at ease. She rounds her desk as I stand and walk into her office, and we sit. Almost a decade and a half older than me, she’s been with the publishing house for twenty years.
“How have you been?” Livvy says, tapping something on her keyboard briefly before sitting back in her chair and pulling her glasses from her head to swing them around her fingers.
“Good, I’ve been good. Mostly.”
“How’s the writing coming along? Your draft was due last week.” Her R’s roll, and I smile.
“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry, I’ve been writing...”
The lie that rolled off my tongue much like her R’s sees my attention wane, and my gaze snags on the frames on her shelf across the room. Family photos. A few Livvy is in. Her and another woman around her age. Then one with her and a woman I assume is her mom. The last one is her and two other people. It’s the same woman from the first picture, but a guy a little older than the two women stands to one side, his face half hidden. Like he wasn’t totally on board with having his photo taken.
“. . . have you done, exactly?”
“Huh? Sorry, what?”
“I was asking, how much have you written?”
“I—um. I’ve written three chapters.” The words are weak.
Livvy’s face falls. The pit of my stomach flips. This is bad. I know it’s bad. It’s the third deadline I’ve missed in the last eighteen months. And it’s the second book in the series, so the house has already sunk money into the series, and me.
Livvy leans forward, setting her glasses on her desk. “Evie, fantasy is a hot genre, which is great. But that also means that we have hundreds of manuscripts coming in every month. Romantasy has been great for you, but it’s a highly sought-after niche. We turn writers away on the daily, some with work as good as yours.” She sighs. “What I mean is, your contract won’t last forever. Missing one deadline is one thing; three is a problem. For both of us.”
“I know, and I am trying, truly I am. I just . . . I can’t concentrate. The city is too noisy. Everything seems off, and after Joshua, I?—”
Livvy’s face softens. “Hon, it’s been five years. At some point, you need to start taking care of yourself and...” She shifts on her seat. “Living. You need to carry on living. You’re young; it breaks my heart to see you floundering.”
The stone that grew in my throat with her words refuses to budge.
“I know,” I choke out finally. “But I don’t know how.”
“Maybe this will help.” She pulls out a file stuffed with printouts. Communications between the two of us and the publishing contracts I’ve had with the house since my career began. “This, here, is the contract you have with the publishing house for the six-book series. And the original deadline for book two was over eighteen months ago. This is your last chance.”
Her face is empathetic but firm.
