Page 11 of The Loves We Lost
My phone screen lights up again. Another message.
Sophie:Does he know?
I snort. Miles Graydon does not read. Never has. Told me once he hated it, and I told him that might be my only reason to not fall in love with him. That was when he was just a mechanic at a garage across town in Bethlehem. Before he started prospecting to become an outlaw in every sense of the word.
I’d be willing to bet a lot of money that he hasn’t changed his mind and started reading.
Me:He does not. And it’s only pieces, obviously. Fortune and Jolie have a happy ending. We did not. And we haven’t spoken in a long time.
I take another gulp of the cosmo, savoring the tart cranberries and punchy vodka. Mama’s gonna sleep tonight. The drink makes me forget how lonely I actually am. I address a few more comments on other platforms. I cycle through them. Five minutes on one before moving on to another. When I return to the original one, I see another comment.
Sophie:Can I ask why?
I pause before responding. When I look at the notifications, I can see Sophie only followed me today. When I click on her account, there are a handful of photographs. A mug. The same mug that is her profile picture. A few book pictures, including one of mine, with little colorful notes. A field of buttercups.
Buttercups.
No selfies.
Accounts like this occasionally make me nervous.
Because I write steamy romance books, I get plenty of dick pics. Many of the senders assume that because of what I write, I must be ... what did the last guy say? Oh, that’s right, he figured I must be “gagging for it.”
Accounts that are light on images are usually new or scams. But this one does have romance books in it.
I also get my fair share of people posing as sugar daddies who want to spoil me or promising millions from dead relatives’ estates. But the dick pics are an invasion of a space I try to keep safe. I have an amazing moderator who cleans out trashy comments that violate what I’m trying to build. They delete the mid-level marketing scammers trying to sell their candles and leggings and non-FDA approved skin care. They delete offensive messages and turn off commenting if posts get out of hand. And as much as I love a great picture of an attractive man’s physique, I can’t have nudes on my pages because we live in prudish times where books are banned and a happy trail down to an unzipped pair of jeans is sending us all to hell in a hand basket. Any one of these things could bring about the closure of author accounts I’ve spent five years building without any real way of appealing.
Sometimes my gut yells loud and clear to back away from messages like Sophie’s. But something tells me this one might be okay, and I always fear alienating a new reader more than I fear getting spammed.
Me:Did you read Fortune’s book?
I know it’s not answering the question directly, but I’ve found that true readers just want to talk with me. There are days when I crave genuine engagement. Writing can be solitary. I’ve made some amazing online friends who started off as readers and authors I interacted with. I’ve also met people who just want to have something they can screenshot and share with friends.
Social media is the weirdest thing I have to deal with. At home, I run out of toothpaste, collect my mail in my pajamas, and only just manage to function when I’m on a deadline. Then I slap on makeup, show up at a signing, and people treat me like a rock star, which feels incredible and uncomfortable because I’m just Vi, and it’s all overwhelming.
Sophie:I’m on page 230. They just had their first argument after he called her to bail him out.
Me:Are you enjoying it?
Sophie:How did you decide to have Jolie not bail him out?
Hmm. She didn’t answer my question as to whether she’s enjoying it or not. But I’ve avoided questions of hers, so I guess we’re equal.
Me:For me it was about Jolie’s boundaries. This is a frightening world to her. Fortune is desperate to be more than who he is, even though for Jolie he’s enough. She’s happy with what the two of them are. But Fortune is ... restless. He wants a life less ordinary. He wants high-octane and violence and respect, which he feels he doesn’t get doing his job as a mechanic and being who he is. So, the MC life is something he’s utterly ready for. But Jolie doesn’t want any of that. She wants to feel safe. Protected. Like she’s the most important thing in his life. But she’s none of those things. Him getting arrested just proves her point. I felt she needed that boundary. But trust me, they manage to work things out. I promise a HEA.
There’s the bounce of dots, the promise of an incoming message. While I wait for a reply, I finish my drink.
“Can I get you another?” the bartender asks.
“No, thanks. I’m good. Waiting for a friend.”
He nods and steps away.
Louise bustles in through the door across the restaurant, and I catch her attention with a small wave, just as the greeter speaks to her. There are hand gestures, and Louise points in the direction of a table for two by the window. I nod and slip down off my stool. My denim jacket, unused, is over the back of the chair, and I grab it.
As I move toward Louise, my phone vibrates in my hands. I look down at the message.
Sophie:No. You don’t.
