Page 19 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“No, wait,” Thalia says, grabbing my arm. Her lovely face is stricken. “Sorry, it’s not that I don’t want you there; it’s just—Ani wanted to talk about some stuff I think? Buuut!” She brightens up. “Tonight, we’re going to hit a few of the local pubs, and you’re very welcome to join. The more the merrier!”

Why do people say that when it’s so often untrue? It’s only ever said when you’re lobbing out a half-hearted invitation, when you can’t think of a better reason why you’re asking someone along aside from that you want more warm bodies to bulk up the group. To make it look more merry.

And what’s worse is that Thalia hasn’t just made lunch plans with Ani, but lunch AND drinking plans. The kind of thing that best friends do. A girls’ night out. I picture myself with the two of them—Thalia all shiny, her stunning face practically a beacon of light, starkly contrasted by Ani’s model-sleek black hair. They’d be a hit, two girls straight out of a modeling shoot. And then me, trailing after them, skulking like a forlorn goblin, surly-faced and dowdy in my thrift store clothes. Not vintage, just thrift store. Or maybe Thalia would take pity on me and offer to lend me another outfit, and I’d be squeezed into yet another dress too tight for me to breathe in.

It’s unthinkable. The night out from hell. She’d end up resenting me for glomming on to her light, clinging like a barnacle. Nobody likes barnacles.

I shake my head. “No. Thank you,” I remember to add. And I hurry off before she can say anything more.

10

Present Day

New York City

New York City! If ever there was a place that’s the antithesis of Northern California, this is surely it. I wish I could slip into a movie montage as we walk out of the airport and into a train station. Imagine some sprightly music playing, the breeze blowing ever so slightly, just enough to give my hair that windswept look and catch a corner of my coat as though the city itself is nudging me.Hey, you’re in New York fucking City! You made it, Jane!

Instead, what there is, is a long train ride from JFK to the city of Manhattan, where we are jostled continuously and sworn at for bringing our bags into the subway, and I’m pretty sure the guy sitting in the far corner of the subway car is dead. When we finally climb out of the dank station, we’re panting and sweaty because of course these stations don’t have escalators or elevators or anything that would make life slightly easier—New York isn’t into easy; it loves to remind you that it’s tough, and if you’renot tough then you don’t belong. Into the sunlight, I am done. But I can’t be done because it’s ten more blocks of walking, dragging our luggage with us, and once again getting cussed at—“Fucking tourists”—until we get to our hotel.

Without Ted, I would’ve booked the cheapest little motel I could find, squirreling away as much money as I can for a rainy day. But because he has insisted on coming along and because I have claimed that my publisher is paying for it, we have to stay somewhere mildly acceptable. A three-star hotel, he pointed out, is reasonable. Something my publisher would be okay with reimbursing. Can’t argue with that, so here we are. I’ve charged everything to my card and told Ted that Harvest would reimburse me later.

It’s way past lunchtime, and after we’re done checking in and going to the bathroom, Ted says, “Shall we?”

I look at him like he’s just started speaking Russian.

“Lunch?” he says. “I’ve been dying to try all of these places in New York, and you said meals are included as part of the trip, right?”

God, he’s going to make me burn through the ring money. “Actually, I have a meeting with Toni.”

Ted frowns. “Now? She set up a meeting with you for today? She knows you just got off a long flight, right?”

I hate to admit it, but now that he’s saying these words out loud, they do actually make some sense. Why didn’t I think of it? But it’s too late now. I can hardly be like, oh yeah, you’re right, it wasn’t today after all, silly me! Gotta dig my heels in and keep shoveling away at that grave. “Yeah, she’s really busy and she can slot me in today, so...” I grab my purse, put my phone and a key card inside, and give Ted a bright smile. “I’ll see you later.”

Ted’s still staring at me like he’s a kid and I’m his mom and I’ve just told him that he’s adopted. “So we’re not lunching together? What about dinner?”

My god, Ted. It takes a lot not to scream at him. He’s doing this on purpose, I know he is. He’s never ever this clingy, but now, when it actually matters, he’s pulling this shit on me. Trying to distract me from following my true calling.

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to sound apologetic. “Toni might want to have dinner together?”

His face softens. “Yeah, of course.”

I turn to leave.

“Hey, before you go...”

Don’t scream. Do not scream. I turn around and raise my eyebrows.

“Don’t like—don’t set your expectations too high. I mean, I know it’s exciting, meeting your agent for the first time and all, but you know, she’s probably really busy and stuff, so...”

He can’t stand that it’s my success we’re celebrating for once. Well, my pretend success, but he doesn’t know it’s pretend. He’s got to shit all over it, to remind me not to have hope because all I deserve is mediocrity. I don’t bother giving him a reply before I stalk out the door, slamming it shut behind me. I half hope he’d come out and ask if I’m angry because,Wow, you slammed the door really hard, Jane. Then I’d give an extra sweet smile and say,Oops, it just slipped from my hand!But he doesn’t come out. I practically run down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street. Holy shit, I did it. I’m in New York City, sans Ted, and I’m about to meet my agent.

The problem is, Toni doesn’t actually know I’m here. In all the rush to book tickets for this and that and reminding myself about what lies I’d told Ted, I’d forgotten to email her. And nowit’s kind of late to do so. Another shitty realization: I don’t actually have a ticket to SusPens Con. But, I comfort myself, Toni probably does. And she’ll be so happy to see me. She’s always been so bubbly and enthusiastic, all of her emails generously sprinkled with “!!!” She adores me as a client, she’s told me so many times. And given she works at one of the biggest literary agencies in the city, she’ll have all the connections. Right, good plan.

I look up the address to her agency and burrow my way into the subway yet again.

Matterson and Cable Literary Agency is on 42nd Street, a street flanked by skyscrapers on both sides, so close that I get dizzy looking all the way up. All of New York is like that, designed to give you a sense of vertigo so that it can feel satisfied, like a school bully. I find the building, a behemoth of yellow brick and glass, and walk inside. Immediately, I feel all sorts of wrong. Everyone is impeccably dressed, and I do mean everyone. Suits and pencil skirts, and here I am, wearing a knee-length denim skirt and an ill-fitting cardigan, my hair messy and limp.

But that’s probably to be expected from writers, right? There’s a reason why we’re writers and not actors. We’re better on paper than in person. Toni’s probably got a whole stable full of writers with sweat stains, hunched backs, and skin that’s sallow and greasy from too much time spent poring over their manuscripts. I probably look better than most authors. Probably. Maybe.

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