Ottilie continues to ask Ada questions throughout filming—What do you think my motivation is here? (Revenge, Ottilie.) Do you think Mary would look sad here, maybe contemplative? (Go for it. Just don't cry again.) This line doesn't feel right to the character. Can I.... (Yes, fuck, try it your way. Fuck.)—and Roz and I are able to stay largely out of the way. We have chairs set up behind Ada and Dr. Charm, alongside Mauro, who's all by his lonesome after Catalina had to go home and look over some contracts.

Occasionally, I notice Roz texting Ada different notes. She's unwilling to walk up to her and voice her opinion, maybe out of fear that she's going to ruin the shot, or because she doesn't want to be too close to Ottilie.

Call me fucked up, but I really, really hope that it's the latter.

I've got my laptop out, situated awkwardly on my lap in the uncomfortable chair, staring at a blank page with a blank cursor. I give in and jot down a few nondescript ideas, ones that feel like lit fic: two magical sisters are separated by fantastical circumstances and, over the course of several years, begin to reconnect; a recovering alcoholic has to plan her best friend's bachelorette party, and also get over the recent death of her father; a woman who allowed her toxic ex-girlfriend to drive a wedge between her and her parents must try to mend ties. 

The last one feels personal. I know it does. But I don't think that'll be one they want. And, honestly, the way I see it, I can write whatever they want me to. They just have to tell me what they want. I wouldn't be burnt out or blocked if this was like an assignment.

I send off the document to Cassidy so she can make edits or send it forward to my editor, Ilan. There's a small amount of tension that leaves my shoulders, sure—that's one deadline met. But I totally cashed that in just now. Let's just hope no one calls me out on it.

After Dr. Charm comes over and talks to Roz about set rules—mainly just a once-a-week COVID and flu test, since crew members have apparently been dropping like flies—and promises to get us both big, fancy chairs for the next day, I notice Roz's sudden, inexplicable tiredness set in. She doesn't say anything, but I can tell. Her shoulders sag, and her attention is anywhere but on the set.

So, it's really not much of a surprise to me when Roz decides not to stay for the whole day of filming, telling Catalina and Mauro that she has some work on her rom-com for her editor. There's this little, unignorable pang of something akin to jealousy in my chest. Roz's rom-com took a fair amount (or more) inspiration from her relationship and breakup with Ottilie, a second chance romance between an executive producer and a Hollywood starlet. I don't necessarily think that Roz enjoyed her interactions with Ottilie, but the thought that she really is racing home to write about her has me feeling some sort of way, to put it lightly.

On the ride back home from the movie set, she's chatty with our driver, a guy who saw the equipment set up and was all too happy to tell her about his script-writing. Then his eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror, and his next words take me aback.

"I saw you on the news, didn't I?"

I feel Roz looking at me. My face heats up. "Um, yes. On Great Morning America. Yeah."

"You were pretty awkward," he says, not as an insult, but more matter-of-factly. "Your book sounds good though."

"Oh, uh, thank you! Thank you." I try to smile at him in the rearview. Of course, his eyes are pinned forward, focused on the road, and on the grim electric fridge-car-thing in front of us.

"Do you have any copies on you?" he asks. "I'd love one."

"Um, no, sorry. ARCs—advanced reader copies, sorry—don't come out quite yet."

He passes the affront-to-God vehicle and asks, "So how long is a process like that? A book coming out?"

"It usually takes longer than mine." My face is tight from smiling. Roz is always the one who chats with drivers. How does she do it? Maybe she's just Minnesota nice, and I'm Iowa awkward. "We speedran my publication timeline, but I'm not mad about it."

"Sure. So, what do you get paid for something like that? A book."

I look at Roz now, my eyes wide. It's not like authors don't talk about our contracts—it's a great way to keep up to date on what's standard in the industry, although your agent should really be the one responsible for knowing that—but this is just some rando.

"It was a good deal," she says, leaning forward. "One we definitely can't complain about."

He laughs. "I hear that."

She takes over the rest of the conversation, and I find myself sighing in relief. This ... this talking, to complete strangers, is not my vibe.

I spend the rest of the drive nose-deep in Jane Eyre (Mr. Rochester is seriously creepy; are straight people okay?). I'm so focused that I barely register we're in the Heights until I look up and we're on the corner of the street where the Deja Brew sits. Through the window, I spot Nigel wiping down tables.

"Here is perfect, actually," Roz says. "You have a great day, Ron."

The traffic outside is light, but I slide along the backseat and follow Roz out through her door, onto the sidewalk. She adjusts her purse on her shoulder and waits for me in front of the cement steps up to the Brew's door.

"I thought we were going to your place," I tell her, dog-earing my worn book. "Are we working from here?"

She opens the door and glances at me over her shoulder. "Unless you'd rather do something else?" she asks. She's smiling, but her wink feels somewhat forced.

"No." I shake my head, probably a little too emphatically, and follow her inside—tripping on that step, as I always somehow manage to do. "That's alright. I have a shit-ton of work to get done, too."

That's actually a lie. My publisher might want to do one more minor pass depending on reviewers' reactions, but my ARCs will be sent out in the next week or so. The book is pretty much done, in large part thanks to my clean drafting. Ilan and Cassidy both agreed that it was one of the cleanest drafts they'd ever seen. I just had to add a little bit of content to better flesh out the main character, and we were done.

The only work I have to do? Planning out my second book.

Daniel is behind the counter, replenishing some of the pastries in the display case. He loves working the closing shift, he says, because he gets to give away (and steal) all the perishable goods that won't make it to the next day. "It's like playing favorites," he told me once. "And most of the time, I'm my favorite."

He waves emphatically when he sees us, his eyes going wide and a white-toothed grin splitting his face. "Well, well, well," he says as Roz struts over to the register and I follow behind dutifully. "If it isn't my favorite author. And my favorite author's girlfriend."

I sidle up alongside Roz. "That's really sweet, Daniel, but you haven't even read my book yet."

He pouts. "Because someone won't share their Word document."

"When my ARCs come in, you get first dibs. I promise."

"I can get behind that," he says, sliding the display case door shut. "What can I get started for you guys?"

"You know what I like," I tell him. "Matcha me the fuck up."

"Iced?"

"You're so hot when you know my preferences."

"Oookay." He rolls his eyes behind the register. "Roz?"

"That summer strawberry slush thing looks good," she says, pointing at the sign like he won't know what it is without help. I'm already pulling my wallet out, sliding out my nearly-expired debit card to pay for the both of us. "I'll do a large."

"That one slaps. You'll love it," he promises. "I'll get that right out to you guys."

I pause, my hand and card hovering right in front of the card reader. "Dude?"

He waves me off. "Don't even worry about it. You cleaned the bathroom when it wasn't your turn."

"Daniel. Let me—"

"You're paying me in friendship," he insists, batting his eyes. "Go sit down before I change my mind."

"Daniel. Change your mind." He has a bad habit of comping my and Roz's drinks. I don't know if it's because he loves Roz, or if he's really just too nice. Or if he's trying to vicariously mend things between me and Kirby.

"Nope," he says. "Go sit down before I don't change my mind."

I stare across the till at him, frowning, while Roz reaches into her pocket, pulls out her wallet, and drops a crisp twenty into the tip jar.

"Happy almost birthday," she says, and walks over to sit down at our usual table.

I feel a twist in my gut. Fuck. Fuck me.

I trail Roz to our table, thoughtlessly dropping my card into my tote bag, my mind reeling. How could I forget that Daniel's birthday is the day after tomorrow? Fuck. Fuck me. I'm a bad friend. I need to figure out what to get him as a present. What does Daniel like? Plants, but he always kills them. Roz's books, but it feels cheap and tacky to get him something from my girlfriend. Maybe I can go see if the Book Burrow has gift cards or something—he seemed to enjoy his time there when we went to my agent-signing party-thing. But I can't just get him a gift card. That would be—

"Marcie? Marcie? Can you hear me, Major Tom?"

I glance up. Roz already has her laptop out, but she's staring at me, her brow knit. "You alright there, lovely?"

"I'm fine," I tell her, my voice low. "I just realized I forgot about Daniel's birthday."

"Ahhh." She nods slowly. "That's okay. Shit happens. You've had a lot on your plate."

"Yeah." I swallow. "For sure."

I haven't actually had that much going on, let's be honest. Like, what am I doing with my life? My job for Roz is pretty lenient—I'm basically doing part-time work on my full-time salary—and my book stuff is in a bit of a lull right now. It might be taking up a lot of space mentally, I guess, but in terms of things I have to do, I'm lucky.

"What are you working on?" I ask her.

She shrugs noncommittally. "Chipping away at that rom-com. Trying to give it more of my 'signature flare,' as Catalina put it."

"Ahhh." I think back to Ottilie stepping in front of me, effectively pushing me out of the circle, earlier today. Was she trying to be antagonistic? I haven't talked to her since that night at Roz's party, when she totally violated her NDA (I had to sign one to get onto the movie set; I know she has one) and also somehow knew my name. Like a creep.

"What are you working on?" Roz asks, reaching back to tie her hair back in a messy bun. "Book one stuff? Or book two stuff?"

"Book two stuff." I'm already pulling my ancient laptop out of my bag. (I'll stop using it when it goes to computer heaven. I'm cheap, and I actually dislike supporting child labor, believe it or not.) "I sent in my little elevator pitches, so I'm going to try and write a few initial chapters for each idea, in case they ask to see more."

Roz slips her slim glasses back on, then smiles. "You're so smart."

"Thank you, thank you. I try."

"If you want me to read any of them, let me know, okay?"

I shift in my seat. "Thanks, Roz, but ... I think I'll be okay."

"Oh." She blinks. "Okay, that's no worries. Just, yeah. Let me know."

Silence nestles its way into the space between us; a slight air of awkwardness, its companion. Roz slips in her earbuds, plugging the chord into her platinum Macbook, and I pull my Bluetooth headphones out of my tote bag. It's hard to write without a specific playlist, so I put on my old writing playlist from a book I wrote junior year of high school and try to settle in.

None of the pitches on the sheet I submitted to Cassidy are speaking to me right now. Which is awesome. When Daniel brings our drinks over, I glance up to thank him, and even I can tell that my eyes and smile are borderline manic.

"You ... good?" he asks. Across from me, Roz leans over her laptop, so engrossed in her screen that she doesn't even seem to notice that Daniel is there.

"Peachy," I reply, trying to force my eyes not to be so wide and panicked. I squint up at him.

He pats me on the shoulder. "Godspeed, girl." He's about a foot away when he stops. "By the way, a giant box just came for you like an hour or so ago. Nigel—"

As if summoned, Nigel appears behind him, wearing a short-sleeved navy T-shirt and a black apron. His hair is mussed, and the stubble growing along his jawline comes in at varying degrees of patchiness.

"It was some good quality cardboard," he says. "From St. Puffin's Press. Or something."

I sit up so fast that my headphones fall off my head. I scramble to catch them—they fall to the floor, and I look up at my roommates, not even bothering to pick up the fallen goods. Finally distracted, Roz looks up from her laptop, pulling one earbud out and peering at me curiously, her brow scrunched.

"Was it big? Was it heavy?" I ask, shutting my laptop lid and standing.

Nigel just grunts. "Maybe heavy for you."

"'Maybe heavy for you,'" I mimic. "Is it upstairs?"

"Is what upstairs?" Roz asks, taking out her earbuds. I can hear Matt Maltese from all the way from across the little circular table.

"My ARCs," I tell her, already shutting my laptop lid and tossing it into my bag. "I think my ARCs are here."