The Writing Retreat(105)

“Hello,” Daphne said.

As if waiting for her permission, he bounded in front of her. Maybe he would be her new guide.

Perhaps he was her sister Grace incarnate, returning a second time to help.

Though… Grace had hated rodents. So perhaps not.

“Wait for me!” Daphne moved faster, pushing branches out of the way as she went deeper into the forest, towards a new life that was fast approaching.

The boughs swung as she passed them, then quivered, then were still.



I looked up, closing the book. “Thank you.”

The applause was thunderous. It startled me—all loud, unexpected sounds continued to startle me—but I forced a wide grin.

“Thank you, Alex!” Tonya, my interviewer and another up-and-coming novelist, clasped my book to her chest. Dozens of Post-its peeked from the pages.

From the rows of the audience, what looked like dozens of hands shot up.

“So we’re going to leave it at that.” Tonya ignored the crowd. I nodded, relieved. I’d told them—“the team”—that I’d only read an excerpt at my launch event. I wouldn’t answer questions from a moderator or audience members.

Because I knew they’d inevitably be about Roza.

“Enjoy the party, everyone!” Tonya cried.

As we stood, she pulled me into a hug.

“I loved the book,” she murmured into my ear.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I heard you already sold the film rights?” She pulled back. “That’s awesome. Now you can relax a little, huh?”

“I hope so.”

The last six months had passed in a blur. The editorial team had wanted to fast-track the book. So I’d written the last few scenes, edited, rewritten, checked the copyedits, and approved the cover in a matter of weeks. I’d done everything they’d asked.

Except for the press.

“So tell me.” Tonya took a step closer. “I heard you might be writing a book with the other two women about your experience. Is that true?”

Your experience. Such a delicate way to put it.

“Probably not.” I shrugged. “But some film studios are interested in our story.”

“Wow. That would make an amazing miniseries.” She pressed a card in my hand. “I do script work. If you want any help—you know, from someone you trust—call me.”

“Thanks.” I tucked the card into my pocket. I’d give it to Melody, my and Ursula’s agent. But if we sold the rights, I didn’t want anything to do with it. Whatever it turned into wouldn’t capture what had actually happened. That was my story, one I didn’t want to share with anyone.

Because, honestly, I was only just beginning to process it myself.

“Hey!” Ursula accosted me at the front of the room. “Our woman of the hour! Here.” She handed me a plastic cup of champagne. “Cheers, babe.”

“Cheers.” I raised the cup but only took a tiny sip. Alcohol had been appealing to me less and less these days. All it did was make me feel woozy and give me a sharp headache. Which was a disappointment: I’d really been counting on it to help blur some of the nightmares and flashbacks. They’d been disturbing, though talking to my new therapist was helping.

“How are you feeling?” Ursula sounded breezy enough, but I could sense it in her eyes: that quiet concern from almost everyone I interacted with. I didn’t know how to explain that I wasn’t some broken thing. Despite the lingering aftereffects, I was stronger than they’d ever know. I was just reacclimating. This new life, this new self—I was still figuring out who I’d become.

“I’m okay,” I said earnestly, and she smiled.

“Well, it looks great.” She held up the book. The simple cover showed the title in thick white letters over one of Daphne’s hall paintings. It had taken a lot of advocating on Melody’s part—the editors had wanted a sexy image of a woman’s naked back—but I liked how it had turned out.

Of course, I knew why it had been picked up and published so quickly. And that was the question: Would editors have been interested if not for the Roza-related backstory? I had no idea. Probably not.

But that was okay. It was good that people wanted to read my words, even if the interest didn’t last forever.

And the money, for now, helped immeasurably.

“Hey.”

I turned and there was Pete, my old colleague and friend and one-night stand, holding a glass of rosé. He held it out and we clinked.

“Classy, right?” I raised my eyebrows. “Free alcohol. Finally.”

Ursula smoothly moved away, shooting me a coy look.

“Very hip.” Pete gestured around the Brooklyn indie bookstore. It was one of the larger ones, though it still felt close and slightly too hot. Someone had just propped open the doors to let in the nighttime breeze.

“Thanks. You know me.” I rolled my eyes.

“How are you?” Pete’s brow wrinkled. He’d reached out via email once, I suddenly remembered, and I’d forgotten to respond. The shame began to creep up my spine. I hadn’t treated him well. Sure, we’d both made the drunken decision to sleep together. But I was the one who had then immediately dropped the friendship.

Like Wren, actually.