Chapter 22

Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at Bridget’s building. I waved to the doorman, Joseph, and proceeded to the elevator. Once inside, I sent Bridget a text letting her know I was on my way up. Since I’d lived with Bridget and Jonathan for a week the previous year during my break from Nicholas and had spent so much time there over the years, the doormen rarely bothered to inform Bridget I was there. I wanted to give her a chance to warn me if I needed to arm myself before entering. As the elevator doors opened on her floor, she texted me back. “The door is unlocked.”

I took a deep breath and stepped into the apartment. My eyes immediately latched onto Bridget, where she sat on her purple couch. At the sight of Caroline sitting next to her, my muscles relaxed marginally. If she wasn’t such a whiz in business, Caroline would have made a stellar psychologist and could probably tame a lion. She was a welcome addition to our line of defense.

When I reached the couch, Caroline stood up and gave me a hug. During our embrace, I whispered, “I’m so glad to see you.”

We separated and I turned to Bridget, who was still seated. “Did I miss anything?”

Bridget shook her head and bounced her knee. “We were waiting for you to start.”

“Where is he?” I whispered.

“I’m right behind you,” Jonathan said.

I whipped my head around and faced him. It was hard to reconcile that the man standing before me with a can of PBR in his hand was the same boy I loved in high school. As his hazel eyes did a sweep of my face, he looked sad and I wondered if he knew what I was thinking. I frowned, torn between a desire to hug the insanity out of him and an urge to kick him in the nuts.

He took a gulp of beer and motioned to the couch. “You should sit down.”

Taken aback by his cocky attitude, I put my hands on my hips and turned to Bridget with a questioning gaze. “Who’s running this show anyway?”

Jutting her chin toward the computer in front of Caroline, Bridget said, “You still there, Pia?”

“My Pia?” Why would my associate reviewer be involved in a heated discussion about Jonathan and Bridget?” A chill ran through my body. “What’s going on?”

Bridget chewed on her lip. “I lied to you before.”

My mouth fell open.

“I didn’t call you over to discuss…” She darted a look toward Jonathan. “We’re all here for you. This is an intervention.”

My breath hitched. “A what?”

“We’re worried about you,” Caroline said. She pointed at the couch. “Come sit.”

I backed up a step. “You guys are crazy. I’m going home.”

Caroline stood up and approached me. “Please, Kim. Hear us out.” She reached out her hand to mine.

My eyes watered, but I took her hand and allowed her to lead me to the couch. I couldn’t make eye contact with any of them. I was too hurt. And I was angry. I paid twenty dollars to get here as fast as possible because I feared what Jonathan might do to his lover and unborn baby. Had I known it was a fabrication, I would have taken the subway and paid $2.75. Better yet, I wouldn’t have come at all.

Caroline placed a hand on my thigh. “We know you’re worried about your father.”

I twiddled a strand of hair around my finger, pulling until it hurt. Without looking at her, I said, “Who told you that?”

“Nicholas,” Bridget said. She drew me into a hug. “Your dad will be fine. I’m sure of it.”

My lips trembled. “What if he’s not?”

“Don’t go there yet. You’ll make yourself sick,” Caroline said. “Nicholas also said you don’t want to write anymore. Is it because of your writer’s block? I’m sure it happens to all authors.”

“I hope this isn’t about what happened at Stony Brook. Even my mom said the lackluster response to A Blogger’s Life had nothing to do with your books and everything to do with the snooty attendees,” Bridget said.

“You’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You can’t give up when you’re so close to becoming the next Sophie Kinsella,” Pia said.

I kneeled in front of the computer and gave Pia a timid smile. “I’m afraid I’m more cut out for reading than writing.”

“And what’s this about calling off the wedding?” Bridget asked, her eyes wide.

Jonathan stood before me. “What’s wrong with you, Long? Nicholas is total husband material.”

Bridget giggled and we shared a smile. Apparently, Jonathan’s bro-crush on Nicholas was capable of amusing me even in the throes of an intervention. “I still want to marry him. It’s the wedding I can’t handle. Not in three months, at least.”

Bridget and Jonathan’s buzzer rang from the lobby.

“I’ll get it,” Jonathan said.

Bridget and Caroline exchanged a look. “Once we’re all here, we’ll get started,” Bridget said.

“Who else is coming? Nicholas?” I suspected he’d spent the prior afternoon talking about me to my friends and hoping I’d be more open to discussion with them than I was with him. I was certain there was nothing they could say to change my mind, but I was trapped.

“It’s not Nicholas,” Bridget said.

The doorbell rang and Jonathan went to let in whoever it was.

Something pungent curdled in my core like spoiled milk. “Please don’t tell me it’s Natalie and Tiffany.” I had a feeling Tiffany would actually encourage me to call it quits with Nicholas—return the ring, move out of our apartment, the works—so she could have him to herself. She was the last person I wanted to see.

Or so I thought until Hannah Marshak strutted into the living room and stood before me with her hands on her slender hips. Before I knew what was happening, she leaned down and kissed me on both cheeks. I inhaled her orchid-scented perfume as she wagged a forest green-painted finger at me. “For someone so little, you sure know how to make big trouble, don’t you, Kimmie?” She was wearing black shorts that flattered her long tan legs, a red top, and Tory Burch black classic ankle-strap sandals. Her raven hair was held back in a smooth long ponytail and with just a touch of makeup on her large hazel eyes, she looked prettier than I’d ever seen her. At least writing professionally was good for someone’s appearance. I could swear the dark spots under my own eyes had become more prominent in the last six months.

My jaw dropped. “What are you doing here?” I turned to Bridget and whispered, “What is she doing here?”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “I can hear you.”

“I called her,” Bridget said.

I continued to gape at Bridget, silently willing her to explain herself.

She shrugged. “I’m afraid she’s the only one who can talk sense into you on the writing front.”

“Me and your ginger-haired sister from another mother can finally agree on something.” Hannah smirked at Bridget and acknowledged Jonathan with a jut of her chin. Then she noticed Caroline, who was still sitting on the couch, seemingly entranced by the production playing out in front of her. Extending a hand, she said, “I’m Hannah Marshak, although you might recognize me from the picture on the back of my books. I write the Paris Couture series.”

Caroline introduced herself and stood up. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Hannah flipped her ponytail. “Thanks.” She looked up at Caroline and blinked. “You’re tall.”

Caroline scrunched up her face. “I’m five foot eight.”

Hannah turned to me with a prominent wrinkle in her forehead. “I didn’t know you had any tall friends.”

Jonathan groaned. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

“Fine.” Hannah waved her hand. “Strawberry Shortcake called me yesterday, told me about your voice going on strike, and I’ve come to save the day—again.”

I frowned at her. Again?

Hannah sighed dramatically. “Must I remind you of all the times I swooped in and saved your ass? Does ‘The Shitter’ ring any bells? Or how about when I singlehandedly got your book off the slush pile by personally handing it to Felicia? And let’s not forget, you never would have dated Jonathan back in high school if I hadn’t played matchmaker.” She gave Bridget a once-over. “And if Kim hadn’t dated him then, you probably wouldn’t be with him now and pregnant.” Her eyes bugged out. “You’re pregnant!” She wiggled her nose. “Either that or you’re in desperate need of a better core workout. I know some ace trainers if you want a referral.”

Her atrocious bedside manner aside, there was more than a morsel of truth in what Hannah said, at least the part about giving me the goods on Daneen and making the intro to Felicia. Still, I didn’t see a point in baring my soul to her. Even the girl who managed to out the brightest student in our sophomore class as a kleptomaniac couldn’t help me now. She’d probably laugh and tell me I was “cute” for trying to be an author, but I should go back to writing my little blog and give A-line in the Sand a five-pink-champagne-flutes review while I was at it.

“I don’t have all day, Long,” Hannah said while examining her nail beds.

“Tell her,” Caroline urged.

When I met Bridget’s eyes, she gave the slightest nod of encouragement. In a split second, I saw a montage of all the times the two of us had gone head to head with Hannah when we were kids. For Bridget to call upon the mean girl now meant she was desperate to help me. Considering the embarrassment I already felt over Hannah being witness to my “intervention,” I didn’t have much more to lose.

I told her everything, from the multiple reviews citing A Blogger’s Life as cavity-inducing in its sweetness, to my unsuccessful attempts to avoid the same in Love on Stone Street, to the death of my writing mojo even after a visit to a bookstore, and finally to the two hours on a spin bike that resulted in an overabundance of ideas and a paralyzing fear they all sucked. I even admitted to the lackluster response to my participation at the Stony Brook Book Fair. I left out the part about the publisher cutting my print orders in half. Even in my vulnerable state, I wasn’t comfortable sharing less than mind-blowing sales numbers with Hannah. When I was finished, I channeled my inner tall girl and forced myself to take whatever ridicule Hannah threw my way.

“You want to quit writing all because some troll called your book ‘vapid and boring’?” She shook her head back and forth. “I’m disappointed in you.”

I knew this was a mistake. I’d confided in her and all she took from it was “vapid and boring.” “Were you even listening to me?”

“I was, and I have flawless auditory skills, but I still call bullshit.” She gawked at me. “I’ve known you a very long time and I can’t remember ever seeing you without either a book or a pen and notebook attached to your miniature body. I used to tease you about preferring a made-up world to your real one.”

I pouted. “I remember.”

“So do I,” Bridget and Jonathan said in unison.

Hannah glared from one to the other before turning back to me. “And now you’re going to give it all up because of a few bad reviews? As a book blogger, you’re a hypocrite, as a writer, you’re a traitor to your craft, and as your mentor, I’m at a loss.”

My body shook. “But…” I stood up to defend myself. “Wait. My mentor?”

She took a step closer to me. “I might enjoy teasing you about your height, but you’re acting seriously small right now. You’re a grown woman, Kim. Stop acting like a child.”

“Hey, leave her alone,” Pia said.

Hannah made a sour face. “Where is that noise coming from?” She motioned toward Caroline, Bridget, and Jonathan. “I need a few minutes alone with your friend. Can you guys take it somewhere else and bring the girl in the computer with you?”

Jonathan opened his mouth to object, but Bridget nudged him in the side. “As long as Kim says it’s okay.” She looked at me. “Will you be all right alone with Hannah?”

“Do I have a choice?” My bones already ached like I’d been through a beating.

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you ever done an intervention before? Kim has no say in the matter. But if you’re worried I’m going to throw her in my purse and make a quick getaway, rest easy. Small doses are all I can handle.”

“The feeling is mutual,” I muttered.

Caroline picked up Pia and followed Bridget and Jonathan into the bedroom. I heard Pia say, “I’ll remember your snotty comments next time I review one of your books.”

When they were gone, Hannah turned to me. “Alone at last.”

Sitting next to Hannah on Bridget’s suede couch, my palms were sweating, my knees were weak, and my chest was tight. I never cared about being popular, so being on the outside of her exclusive clique in school didn’t even register to me. Writing, however, was my life and this knowledge in Hannah’s hands was dangerous. She could hit me where it hurt and we both knew it, but I was trapped.

“I’m going to tell you something I don’t admit to many people.”

I was staring down at my wobbling knees, but applied my brave face and looked up.

Her expression was grave, like she was about to tell me my grandmother passed away. “There are actually a few people who don’t like my writing.”

I knew this already, having stalked her reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, and waited for her to continue.

“Nineteen agents passed on Cut on the Bias before Felicia signed me.”

My eyes bugged out.

She nodded. “Hard to believe, right?”

I gave her a closed-lip smile. “Totally.” My rejection count was about the same, but I’d assumed representation came easier to Hannah.

“Here’s the clincher.” Her cheeks reddened. “I was also rejected by Fifth Avenue Press.”

I blanched. “What?”

“You heard me. Too many romantic comedies on their list. The same reason Three Monkeys passed on you.” She shrugged. “Ironic, right?”

My mouth opened, but words wouldn’t form.

She swiped her palm against the back of her ponytail. “I spoke at a high school in Long Island last month. Since I was the most popular girl in my high school, I was positive the students would drool over me like they did at Liberty High. Guess what?”

“What?” I leaned forward.

“The kids wanted to know if any of my characters were vampires or saving the universe from imminent destruction. When I said ‘no,’ the questions dried up. I was out of there twenty minutes early. It was a bad match—just like you and the MFA wannabes from Stony Brook.”

“Thank you for telling me—”

Hannah raised her hand. “I’m not done yet. Last week, I received an email from a reader telling me as an American, I had no business writing about Paris. I was desperate to tell her I was an American who lived in Paris my junior year of college and for a year following graduation and was therefore the ideal person to write my story.”

I whispered, “Did you?” Engaging with critical readers was a well-known no-no in the industry and could destroy her career.

Hannah shook her head softly. “Fred wouldn’t let me. You remember Fred Gordon, right?”

Fred was a nerdy but loveable brainiac from our high school. In one of our many futile attempts to take Hannah down a notch, Bridget and I had led Hannah to believe Fred was secretly the heir to the throne of Denmark by planting the juicy gossip in a fake diary. We’d hoped she’d make a fool of herself, but the plan backfired when Hannah not only became genuine friends with Fred, but came out looking like Mother Teresa for befriending someone of much lower social status. My cheeks flushed in shame at the memory of my deception even as my heart warmed at what a good friend Fred was to her. I couldn’t hold back my grin. “Smart guy.”

“The smartest,” she said, her cheeks dimpling. “So, yes, that bitch of a reader didn’t think I was the appropriate author to write the Paris Couture series, but did I change my setting to Paris, Illinois because of it?” Answering her own question, she said, “Of course not.” She cocked her head at me. “I teased you relentlessly about your writing in high school and I’m positive it never even crossed your mind to toss your journal in the garbage can because of it. I was way more influential than an anonymous reviewer on Amazon, so why would you stand up to me yet give them so much power?” Hannah stared me down, but all I could do was shrug helplessly.

She let out a loud breath. “The point I’m trying to make is being a published author isn’t always glamourous. As artists, we often have to face rejection, floundering sales, unsuccessful events, diminishing buzz, constructive criticism from your editor, and hurtful reviews. Negative feedback stings and probably always will, even after ten books under your belt. But if you’re a real writer, which I thought you were, you dust yourself off and keep penning those stories. Of course, you should work on your craft and keep trying to improve your skills, but you also follow your gut and don’t bend to the whim of every single reader out there. It’s a fruitless exercise.” She paused for a beat and studied me. “Am I making any sense?”

I wiped away tears I didn’t realize I was shedding. “Yes.”

She groaned. “Stop blubbering. Just remember, you’re the writer and they’re not. You’ll never be able to please them all, but if you can appeal to enough of them to build a loyal and growing fan base, it’s pretty wonderful.” She glanced at her Tiffany East West watch. “Is my job done here? I’ve got things to do.” She stood up.

“Thank you, Hannah.” I lifted myself to a standing position and resisted the urge to pull her into an embrace. For one, she’d probably push me away and for another, hugging Hannah was way too weird.

“Don’t mention it.” She stared me down. “I mean it. Everything I said today stays in the vault. Or else.”

I flinched. “Got it.”

“You can come back now,” Hannah called out.

A moment later, we were joined by the remaining members of my intervention team. They eyed us with nervous expressions.

“Mission accomplished,” Hannah said.

Bridget raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to quit writing?”

“Definitely not.” Somehow, I knew the words would flow again and I felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought of going back to Ground Support, this time to write. Thank goodness I hadn’t sent my Dear John email to Felicia.

Bridget’s face broke out in a huge grin and she threw herself into my arms. I squeezed her hard to express my thanks for her calling on Hannah despite our past and her misgivings as to whether the mean girl had really changed her stripes. It must have taken a will of steel, but my BFFAEUDDUP put aside her pride for me.

“When Topanga and Angela hug, it’s my cue to leave,” Hannah said.

Bridget removed herself from my embrace. “Thank you, Hannah.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said with a wink in my direction before heading to the front door.

“Does this mean the wedding is back on too?” Pia asked. “I was excited to finally meet you in person.”

Hannah stopped walking and turned around. “You called off your wedding?”

I nodded meekly.

The setting sun coming through the window reflected on Hannah’s face, making her teeth glow when she smiled. “Strawberry Shortcake is unmarried and knocked up and Little Kim is a runaway bride. Too bad you two weren’t remotely as interesting in high school. We could have been friends.”