Page 46 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

If I ran now, no one would be the wiser. Or maybe I could drive the car back to the city. Thalia wouldn’t mind. Or shewould, but she wouldn’t hold a grudge. She’s not the type to. I could make something up, send her a text about a “family emergency” halfway back to Manhattan. But then I’d be going back to Ted, and on his face I’d see—what? Relief? A knowing smirk.I knew you’d come back, Jane. You don’t belong with those hoity-toity writers. Come back to our comfortable, safe lives.Our lives of mediocrity, where we did the same, mediocre things every day and got paid a mediocre amount for it and then had mediocre meals over mediocre conversation.

The thought of going back to my old life, after just one evening spent with Thalia, is unbearable. It makes my jaw clench. I make myself take a deep inhale. It comes in shaky and releases in an audible gasp. God, I’m so nervous. But these things are always worse in my mind than they are in reality. Yeah. I always build them up in my head and then it turns out to be okay. I watch as the clock on my phone ticks away. When it’s been exactly nine minutes, I get out of the car and grab my bags, then walk toward the house.

Ten minutes.

I raise my hand and ring the doorbell.

It is as bad as I thought. Worse, actually. Everyone here is either aNew York Timesbestselling author or a prize winner. I recognize Rebecca Young, a Hugo Award winner who recently sold the rights to her books to HBO. They’d called her series “a feminist take onGame of Thrones.” Then there’s Kurt Fenton,New York Timesdarling whose love stories (not romance; when men write romance, it’s classified as “love stories” so they’re taken much more seriously than those silly things womenwrite) always, always top the lists. Basically, everybody here is Somebody, and I’m the only Nobody, and they all know and act like it.

Even Thalia.

When she opened the door and let me in, I thought I sensed something off about her, something stiff about her smile, but I’d shrugged it off as my own nerves. But now I’m in the stunning living room with everyone else, and I think it’s pretty clear that Thalia doesn’t want me here. She’s introduced me in the most awkward way possible, taking me to the living room and saying in a falsely cheerful voice: “Everyone, this is Jane, the woman I was telling you about.” A couple of the writers barely glanced up before continuing their whispered conversation, while the rest looked at me warily. Why had she said “woman” and not “friend”? Maybe I’m just reading too much into it. She’d led me to a seat at the farthest end from everyone else and told me to sit before leaving the room.

And so here I am, looking around awkwardly and picking furiously at my fingernails. Nobody is even looking my way, so I can’t really catch anyone’s eye to make small talk. Kurt glances at me and I quickly smile, but it only seems to offend him. A crease appears between his eyebrows and he looks away. My stomach drops. I want to disappear. The fact that everyone here is very, very white does not escape me. Ani would relish that she’s the only Asian in the room, revel in her difference and use it to stand out, but all I want to do is blend in, to pretend that I belong.

Thalia comes back, wheeling a drinks cart. Eyebrows are raised, but she grins at everyone and they can’t help but smile at her.

“Hello, everyone! I’m your server for the day.” The others laugh. “A bit early, I know,” Thalia says, “but you know what they say—write drunk, edit sober.”

One of the women, a thriller author named Siobhan, laughs and says, “Hey, I’m not complaining. The last retreat I went to was a dry retreat.” She rolls her eyes and everybody groans along with her.

“God, was it the agency retreat?” someone else says.

She nods. “Yep.”

The others groan again. “I hate those things.”

Toni’s agency holds a yearly retreat, but I’ve never been invited. Of course not; not I, sad little midlister. Such retreats are only for their biggest clients. Here I’ve been lusting after these retreats, and here are the big clients, grousing about them like they’re a chore.

“Honestly, if they’re going to hold a yearly agency retreat for all their agents and clients, they should at least ply us with alcohol.”

“You need to fire them,” Rebecca says. “If they’re not even sensible enough to provide alcohol, you don’t want them representing you. I’ll call my agent; she’s great. She’ll represent you no problem.”

Siobhan shrugs like switching agents is no biggie. Is this how they move in these circles? I live in fear of Toni dropping me as a client. Before signing with her, I’d been stuck for years in the query trenches, collecting hundreds—literally hundreds—of rejections. When Toni offered, she wasn’t as successful an agent as she is now. She still had room on her list for writers like me. I’d gotten so lucky. If she fired me, it would end me. But I guess these writers can afford to agent-hop, firing their agents over the most frivolous reasons.

Thalia goes around, taking drink orders. Of course, she makes the drinks with perfect precision. She even shakes the shaker like a professional bartender. With each drink she serves, she does so with exaggerated flourish, saying things like, “Enjoy, madame.” Everyone’s gaze is riveted on her, the way she moves with such grace and confidence. She trundles the cart to me last.

“And what will it be for you?” she says.

“Um, it’s a bit early to start drinking—” I check my phone and hold it up to show her it’s not even noon yet.

Thalia gives me a concerned smile. “You okay? Come on, this will help you loosen up a little.”

My cheeks burn. She’s right. She’s trying to help me fit in. I shouldn’t have questioned her. I give her a small smile and say, “Just the white wine, please.”

“Great choice.” She pours heavily, filling my glass to the brim, before pushing the cart to one side of the room.

Please sit next to me. Please, please—

She goes over and joins Siobhan and Rebecca. I hear her say, “Ladies, what are we talking about?” and a wave of anger rushes over me. Why did she invite me here if she’s just going to ignore me? And what am I supposed to do, just sit here sipping my wine?

“So what do you write?” someone says.

I look up to see Kurt towering over me. I shift in my seat, making room for him on the couch, and he sits down next to me. “Um, lit fic.” It comes out apologetic, somehow, like I’m a hack trying to write highbrow novels.

Kurt nods and takes a mouthful of his drink. “Anything I might’ve heard of?”

I tell him my book title, the words feeling small, like grit, in my mouth.

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