Page 53 of Role Play
Forrest is quiet for a moment, his eyes uncharacteristically serious. “That sounds…real.”
“Too real, maybe. Romance readers want escape, not uncomfortable truths about how much work relationships are.” I shake my head, trying to dispel the cloud of doubt that’s beenhanging over me since I finished writingLonely. “I don’t think people want what I’m peddling. I’m too much fact, not enough fantasy.”
“I’d prefer the substance,” Forrest says softly. “I like to see the messy things people have to overcome to get from the start to the end. Real love isn’t a destination. It’s a journey.”
I blink at him, startled by the insight. “Exactly.”
He sets the book down, his fingertips lingering on the cover. “So why are you thinking of pulling it?”
“I don’t know if I want to put my heart out there again just to have it stomped on,” I admit. “Reviews forLovelywere…mixed at best. And it’s exhausting to keep pouring everything into something that feels like shouting into the void.”
“Can I ask you something?” His voice is gentle, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes my pulse quicken. “Do you write because you love it, or do you write to be loved?”
The question lands like a punch to the solar plexus, stealing my breath. No one has ever cut so cleanly to the heart of my insecurity before. Not even Daphne, who knows me better than anyone.
“I…” My voice falters. How do I answer that when I’m not sure I know the difference anymore? When the line between creating art and seeking validation has become so blurred, I can’t see where one ends and the other begins?
Sensing my discomfort, Forrest reaches across the table and briefly squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to answer that. But maybe it’s something to think about.”
I nod, grateful for the reprieve but unsettled by how easily he peeled back my defenses. There’s something unnerving about the way he sees me—not the carefully constructed version I present to the world, but the messy reality underneath.
“These are really good,” he says, mercifully changing the subject as he picks up one of my flower-filled bookmarks, theroses in tight bouquets, lining the corners. “Did you design them yourself?”
“Daphne did,” I reply, delivering her a grateful smile. “She’s the creative one.”
“Not true,” Daphne chimes in, materializing at my side with a stack of promotional postcards. “I just know how to use basic designer software. Sora’s the one who creates entire worlds out of nothing but her imagination.”
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes that makes my stomach flip.
“Who’s taking the table next to you? It’s still empty,” Forrest asks, nodding toward the vacant space to my right, distinguished by a star on its placard.
“No idea. The email just said it was reserved for a special guest author,” Daphne informs us.
Forrest glances around the now-bustling ballroom. “Must be someone important. Everyone else is already set up.”
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “Probably some bestseller who can waltz in whenever they want.”
“Speaking of bestsellers,” Forrest says casually, leaning against the table. “Your dad’s work is pretty different from yours, isn’t it? Fantasy versus romance?”
I tense involuntarily. “My dad writes literary epics with fantasy elements, yes.”
“That’s got to be…interesting. Growing up with a famous author.”
“Interesting is one word for it.” I arrange and rearrange the same stack of bookmarks, avoiding his gaze.
“Was he thrilled when you decided to follow in his footsteps?”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Not exactly. He recently told me to quit, actually.”
His eyebrows go skyward. “Seriously? Why?”
I hesitate, unsure why I’m even sharing this with him. Maybe because he’s looking at me with genuine curiosity rather than the usual pity or judgment I get when people learn who my father is.
“He thinks I’m torturing myself for nothing. That I’m destined to…fail.” The words are glass in my throat. “But mostly, I think he doesn’t want me to make the same mistakes he did.”
“Which were?”
“Sacrificing a real life for the fantasy of one on the page.” I straighten a book that doesn’t need straightening. “My parents’ marriage fell apart because my dad was always lost in his imaginary worlds instead of participating in ours. He regrets that now, I think.”
