Book Lovers(16)

Instead, I write, What page are you on?

Three, he says. And I already need an exorcism.

Yes, but that has nothing to do with the book. Again, as soon as I’ve sent it, I have to marvel-slash-panic at my own unprofessionalism. Over the years, I’ve developed a finely tuned filter—with pretty much everyone except Libby—but Charlie always manages to disarm it, to press the exact right button to open the gate and let my thoughts charge out like velociraptors.

For example, when Charlie replies, I’ll admit it’s a master class in pacing. Otherwise I remain unimpressed, my instant reaction is to type, “Otherwise I remain unimpressed” is what they’ll put on your headstone.

I don’t even have the thought I shouldn’t send this until I already have.

On yours, he replies, they’ll put “Here lies Nora Stephens, whose taste was often exceptional and occasionally disturbing.”

Don’t judge me based on the Christmas novella, I reply. I haven’t read it.

Would never judge you on Bigfoot porn, Charlie says. Would entirely judge you for preferring Once in a Lifetime to The Glory of Small Things.

The wine has slipped one Jenga piece too many loose from my brain: I write, IT’S NOT A BAD BOOK!

“IT’S NOT A BAD BOOK.” —Nora Stephens, Charlie replies. I think I remember seeing that endorsement on the cover.

Admit you don’t think it’s bad, I demand.

Only if you admit you don’t think it’s her best either, he says.

I stare at the screen’s harsh glow. Moths keep darting in front of it, and in the woods, I can hear cicadas humming, an owl hooting. The air is sticky and hot, even this long after the sun has sunk behind the trees.

Dusty is so ridiculously talented, I type. She’s incapable of writing a bad book. I think for a moment before continuing: I’ve worked with her for years, and she does best with positive reinforcement. I don’t concern myself with what’s not working in her books. I focus on what she’s great at. Which is how Dusty’s editor was able to take Once from good to outrageously unputdownable. That’s the thing that makes working on a book exciting: seeing its raw potential, knowing what it’s trying to become.

Charlie replies, Says the woman they call the Shark.

I scoff. No one calls me that. I don’t think.

Says the man they call the Storm Cloud.

Do they? he asks.

Sometimes, I write. Of course, I would never. I’m far too polite.

Of course, he says. That’s what sharks are known for: manners.

I’m too curious to let it go. Do they really call me that?

Editors, he writes back, are terrified of you.

Not so scared they won’t buy my authors’ books, I counter.

So scared they wouldn’t if the books were any less fucking fantastic.

My cheeks warm with pride. It’s not like I wrote the books he’s talking about—all I do is recognize them. And make editorial suggestions. And figure out which editors to send them to. And negotiate the contract so the author gets the best deal possible. And hold the author’s hand when they get edit letters the size of Tolstoy novels, and talk them down when they call me crying. Et cetera.

Do you think, I type back, it has anything to do with my tiny eyes and gigantic gray head? Then I shoot off another email clarifying, The nickname, I mean.

Pretty sure it’s your bloodlust, he says.

I huff. I wouldn’t call it bloodlust. I don’t revel in exsanguination. I do it for my clients.

Sure, I have some clients who are sharks themselves—eager to fire off accusatory emails when they feel neglected by their publishers— but most of them are more likely to get steamrolled, or to keep their complaints to themselves until their resentment boils over and they self-destruct in spectacular fashion.

This might be the first I’m hearing of my nickname, but Amy, my boss, calls my agenting approach smiling with knives, so it’s not a total shock.

They’re lucky to have you, Charlie writes. Dusty especially. Anyone who’d go to bat for a “not bad” book is a saint.

Indignation flames through me. And anyone who’d miss that book’s obvious potential is arguably incompetent.

For the first time, he doesn’t respond right away. I tip my head back, groaning at the (alarmingly starry; is this the first time I’ve looked up?) sky as I try to figure out how—or whether—to backtrack.

A prick draws my gaze to my thigh, and I slap away a mosquito, only to catch two more landing on my arm. Gross. I fold up my laptop and carry it inside, along with my books, phone, and mostly empty wineglass.

As I’m tidying up, my phone pings with Charlie’s reply.

It wasn’t personal, he says, then another message comes in. I’ve been known to be too blunt. Apparently I don’t make the best first impression.

And I, I reply, am actually known to be very punctual. You caught me on a bad day.

What do you mean? he asks.

That lunch, I say. That was how it all started, wasn’t it? I was late, so he was rude, so I was rude back, so he hated me, so I hated him, and so on and so forth.

He doesn’t need to know I’d just gotten dumped in a four-minute phone call, but it seems worth mentioning those were extenuating circumstances. I’d just gotten some bad news. That’s why I was late.

He doesn’t reply for a full five minutes. Which is annoying, because I’m not in the habit of having real-time conversations over email, and of course he could just stop replying at any moment and go to bed, while I’ll still be here, staring at a wall, wide awake.