Page 39 of Is This for Real?
“Hmm . . . there is that,” Maria says. “There’s my Lyft. See you at the next meeting.”
I’m not sure I want to explore all my feelings about being rejected—at least not publicly.
It’s too cold to bike without gloves, so I hurry down the subway stairs.
As I wait on the crowded subway platform for the 2 train to head back Uptown, I feel like I’ve just been through the wringer. Usually, I walk out of our critique meetings all inspired, and I can’t wait to get home to write another scene or revise the one we just discussed. I pull out my little, black notebook and write down what I’m feeling. Maybe Maria does have that secret publishing insight, and our novels will all be the stronger for it. But I miss our lost supportive dynamic.
Chapter twelve
Eventhoughtheplatformis crowded, it’s another five minutes until the express subway will arrive. I text Rory that Maria criticized my chapter as being just banter and not moving the plot along.
Rory:Consider her advice, but don’t follow it if you don’t agree with it.
Me:Can I come over?
I should talk to him about us. But I need to do it in person.
Rory:I’m out with Callie.
I stare at the text. Aargh. I messed up last night. Rory is a serial serious dater. Our fake dating arrangement is just a temporary stop gap. Maybe I missed my chance. But being Rory’s girlfriend for a year and then being his friend wouldn’t work, either. I’d be heartbroken. And I don’t want to watch him with another girlfriend. It was hard seeing Jamie with another woman, and I’m not as close to him as Rory. I bite my lip as I realize what I’m admitting. I really do like Rory.
I hesitate over what to write back. My usual response would be “have fun.” But I don’t want him to have fun with Callie. And I definitely don’t want him to get back together with her.
The subway pulls into the station, and I board. I don’t have to reply, and I can’t now anyway because my phone has no connection.
I take the romcom I’m reading out of my backpack, but I don’t open it. What I want to write back is “Darling Callie.” In other words, keep your hands off her.
It’s just as well he can’t meet up. I should revise this chapter while the critique is still fresh in my mind.
I get off at my subway stop and walk home to our apartment. Zelda is hanging out on our big, blue couch reading a book, with Gilda next to her, her head in Zelda’s lap. Zelda puts down her book.
“How was the meeting? How was the new woman?” Zelda asks.
First, I tell her about theMini Manialetter and Esther’s offer to pitch her publisher, and then I tell her what Maria said about my chapter.
Zelda says, “Well, you can add more emotion into that chapter, then. Explain why she doesn’t want to just tell him that she likes him.”
I stare at our framed poster of Robert Doisneau’s photograph, “Le Baiser de l’Hôtel de Ville,” left over from our college dorm days. The couple kissing look like Rory and me. “Because she doesn’t want to mess up their fake dating relationship. She still needs him as a date for her ex’s wedding. And if she tells him and he doesn’t like her, that makes it awkward between them.”
“Anything more you could add to increase the stakes?”
I squirm. Next to the kiss poster is another framed poster—this one is a Faith Ringgold painting of a woman singing, giving it her all, in front of a jazz band. “I could change it so that they are best friends before this, and she doesn’t want to lose their friendship.”
Zelda’s eyes narrow. “Yes, add that. And then I think you should ignore the rest, which just sounds like a bit of critique gobbledygook that has no meaning.”
“This is why I worry I can’t meet this deadline to pitch the book to Esther’s publisher. I’m still in the middle of figuring it out. I could easily spend two months revising and polishing a finished draft. I don’t evenhavea finished draft.”
“You can do it,” Zelda says.
“Rory is out with Callie tonight.” I can’t tell her that Rory asked to kiss me last night, and I turned him down. My stomach clenches.
“Oh no, not Callie. She’s so awful,” Zelda says.
“She’s not awful. She’s bright and very with it,” I say.
“Yes, but she chooses friends as if she’s padding her resume. She was nice to me when she found out I was a lawyer, and she was dismissive to you, an unpublished writer.”
I laugh. “That’s true. The best was when she asked how I made money and I said I was a dog walker.”
