Page 29 of Role Play
Me.I’m the problem. Always the architect of my own fashion disasters.
Daphne aggressively underestimated how much downtime she’d have, working this wedding. Over the past three hours, I’ve glimpsed her in passing maybe four times. Every single time she was scurrying past the bar with a tray in her hand, mouthing an apology to me, her eyes wide with the stress of serving Manhattan’s elite.
Since I’m not an actual guest at this wedding, just a suckerfish that latched on to my best friend looking for a free fancy meal on my birthday, there was no seat assignment for me. I had to eat my chicken standing up, balancing my weight from one aching foot to the other. When I got my food, I waited for a spot to clear at the bar. I threw my plate down on the flat surface and used my knife like a katana, rapidly chopping my beautiful herb-crusted chicken into bite-sized pieces. Then, to make room for inebriated wedding guests who wanted to get more drunk in a hurry, I abandoned my small square of bartop and melted back into the wallpaper. With my fork in one hand and my plate in the other, I resigned to people-watching for the evening.
Had I worn my flip-flops, my feet probably wouldn’t be throbbing at the moment, each pulse of pain a reminder of how out of place I am here. Had I not come at all, I might not have been so bored and uncomfortable that I decided to log into my secret Instagram account and watch RoxyReadz’s video about my book—a decision that ranks somewhere between “cutting my own bangs” and “sending a text to my ex” on the scale of self-sabotage.
I always believe some criticism can be helpful. But there was nothing remotely constructive about Roxy’s review. It was the most vague roast I’ve ever endured, each casual dismissal landing like a dart in my writer’s heart. She didn’t connect to the characters, she thought the spicy scenes were weird, and she even hated the nickname my hero called my heroine. And this is a content creator Iaskedto read my book, after sending a very expensive PR package. So, essentially, I bent over and begged this reader to wedge her foot so far up my ass I can taste it in my throat. It wasn’t even my first time doing that. Hadn’t I learned my lesson before?
But Roxy’s entitled to her opinion. I try my best not to take it personally, even though it feels very, very personal, like she’scritiquing not just my writing but the very essence of my creative soul. I try to find gratitude for the fact she even gave me the time of day. There has to be some sort of silver lining to this whole debacle I’m just not yet privy to. After watching her review, I gave myself a little pep talk and forced myself to shake it off, mentally dusting the negativity from my shoulders.
Now, had I stopped there, I might not have fallen victim to hysteric tears. Except here’s the real kicker—the cat called curiosity is a real bitch, one with sharp claws and a taste for writer’s blood. I know Roxy thought my book sucked, but I got to wondering…
Who else agreed?
The descent into madness was swift and merciless, like sliding down a waterslide greased with butter. I’m convinced that as an author, reading your bad reviews is just as addictive and destructive as a meth habit.
One by one, I read the mockery and ridicule, paired with endless thumbs-down and vomit emojis, each one a tiny knife slicing away at my confidence. One girl even one-starred me because she thought my pen name was stupid. Sora Cho isn’t a pen name, it’s my real name, so she can take that concern up with my parents.
A better author…no…a stronger woman, would laugh at the ridiculousness. She would choose to give her haters the amount of attention they deserve—none. She would stand tall, shoulders back, and march forward toward her next masterpiece.
I guess I’m not a strong woman or a good author, because it hurts.Miserably.The pain is an actual, physical sensation in my chest. I find nothing amusing about the teasing reviews, or the page-long dissertations picking my story apart piece by piece. They had so much to complain about, they could’ve pieced together their own novel. Working title:Sora’s Career EndsHere, subtitle:How One Romance Writer’s Dreams Died in the Bathroom of The Plaza.
The cruel comments swim laps around my brain as I reach into my clutch and pull out the contents one by one—travel-sized eyeliner with a cap that’s seen better days; the lipstick in the wrong shade, clashing even worse under the bathroom’s harsh lighting; blotting sheets for my oily skin that have begun to stick together from the humidity; and cream blush that’s beginning to cake.This’ll have to do.
My dress, thanks to hot dad, went from elegant to slutty with one tug from his mammoth paw.The jerk.Although, I don’t think I’m agitated that he clumsily tried to save me from landing backward on an ice sculpture in the shape of a lotus flower. That was quite chivalrous because there’s a ten percent chance that thing could’ve impaled me with its petals, turning this disaster of a birthday into a freak-accident headline: “Local Author Meets Frosty End at Stranger’s Wedding (That She Wasn’t Invited To).”
No, what’s annoying is that he’s here at this wedding with a woman who, based on the gossip I overheard from wedding guests, is a fashion designer who has enough money to make Bruce Wayne look like a penniless pauper. His eyes were glued to her eyes all night.Her eyes.Not her body. That’s a man in love, not in lust. And I can’t blame him. She’s a bit older, stunning, and all-around regal.
What’s further annoying is that the excited flutter in my chest when I first spotted hot dad at the wedding, paired with the guttural churn in my stomach when I realized he wasn’t alone, can only mean one thing…
“Fine. I thought he was kind of cute,” I mutter at myself in the mirror, knowing full well by “cute” I mean inferno-level, panty-dropping sexy, the kind of man who could play the leadin any romance novel and have readers burning through pages with feverish intensity.
To make matters worse, he’s so good with his daughter. I might have let myself fantasize for a nanosecond, making plans to casually pop by Papa Beans a few more times in the next week for another chance encounter. But that’s over now.
I got it so wrong, but in my defense, he wasn’t wearing a ring. He mentioned a woman in his life as his daughter’s mom, not his wife. The way he was smiling at me seemed flirty, the corner of his mouth lifting in that telltale way that makes your insides melt like chocolate left in a hot car. I thought…
Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. There’s nothing less attractive to me than a taken man. I don’t know what the opposite of a homewrecker is, but that’s my lane. Call me paranoid, but I’ll fetch a broomstick in a grocery store to reach something off a high shelf before asking a married man for help. There’s too much girl-on-girl crime in this day and age. I can’t stop the trolls from ripping me a new asshole online; that’s out of my control. But I can continue to be a woman who respects a relationship.
So sorry, “hot dad.” You just got demoted to “someone’s dad.”
There’s a chime from my clutch, the sound cutting through my internal pity party. Welcoming a distraction, I lunge for my phone, causing my small tin of breath mints and Daphne’s gifted gummy bears to topple from my bag and spill onto the floor.
“Dammit,” I grumble, as I squat down to retrieve them, momentarily ignoring the succession of chimes coming from my phone, the alerts playing like an impatient, digital symphony.
The mints are a goner. The tin broke open, little white discs rolling underneath the stalls. This place is clean, but notthatclean. I’m not eating Altoids off the bathroom tile, not even for fresh breath. My gummy bears are safe in their sealed package.I tell people I might be borderline hypoglycemic which is why I’m always armed with candy. The truth is I might be severely addicted to sugar. But once you acknowledge a problem, there’s all this pressure to “fix it,” and I’d rather glue corn kernels on my naked body and run right through a chicken coop than commit to a diet.
Daphne:
Babes, I’m so sorry.
We’re about to start cleaning up.
They aren’t going to let me go for another two hours at least.
I ruined your birthday.
I’m fired from my job as your best friend.
